Codlins and Cream

SCREAMING LOUDLY

2009-08-22T15:45:00.003+01:00

I don't believe this - Google Blogger is giving me so much trouble accessing this account, and I STILL can't change my old e-mail addy to the new one as since I have had to start another blog - www.Codlinsandcream2.blogspot.com, it says my new e-mail addy is already taken.

Please, if you come here, follow the link above to my new blog as I don't know whether I will get back in here ever again! My apologies for being such an inept blogger . . .

The same applies to BB's Nature Notes, my other blog, which I have decided to amalgamate back into this one.

Today's car boot sale

2009-08-16T18:17:00.006+01:00

K and I went to the car boot sale this morning and struck lucky with several items. I found another copy of a book I already have, which worked out well as a gift for a friend and I found a seperate book for 50p which just HAD to come home with me. Reading it on the way home, I wanted to make just about every recipe in it, so I reckon it was a very good buy. I spent this afternoon baking and tried out the Carrot and Orange Cake from the new book (pictured below). I shall report back, with pics and the recipe.

K found these dinky little hand-turned salt and pepper pots for £1. He appreciates anything hand-made from wood and just had to have these - they must have been SO fiddly to make. The tops screw off and the salt and pepper can be shaken through the S and P letters. They are on a slanting base so they lean away a little.

The gorgeous basket was one I fell in love with. OK, I later found it had a Made in China sticker on it, but is craftsmanship all the same and it is JUST what I need for my overflow of sewing/crafting/knitting bits and pieces. We gave it a good scrub off with a very weak bleach solution, but the blue is paint and not mould I am glad to report.

I didn't get this little jug today, and can't remember if I have mentioned it. It cost £4 few weeks back, but was so unusual, with its lid like a wig with flowers on, and I reckon it dates from around the early Victorian period. It has a couple of chips, but I will forgive it those because it has such charm and character otherwise.

Llanfynydd Show

2009-08-14T19:28:00.021+01:00

This little steam engine was made from scratch by our neighbour. The next five tractors beyond it down the line also belong to him and have been/are being restored by him.
The top four are his . . .
I think I remember rightly being told that this green tractor was a 1940s vintage.

Entries in the local class (from the parish) under 13.2hh. This Section A foal not only won its class but I believe was the local champion too.

A magnificent set of horns on one of the Jacob rams.

I am so tempted to say that this is the sheep-wrestling class, but no, it is just a bevy of sheep being shown, for some reason, without halters . . . There was lots of fun when one took it into its head to run away!

The weather looked threatening, but the rain held off. Sheep pens and judging at the bottom of the pic. It's interesting to see our neighbouring parish from a different angle.

This was SOME bull. I'm not a bovine expert, but it looks well made to me and hey, he's got the red rosette!

This is my neighbour's lovely cob mare who won her class.

These love spoons are made by Mr Martin from Llanfynydd. I think they are absolutely superb.
A close-up of some of the spoons.

The lighter spoon on the left is all made from one piece of wood, carefully worked at until the balls in the handle run free and turn, and each link of the chain is carefully carved. I think I will have to do a special post about love-spoons when I have caught up with myself.

Some of the entries in the sewn handicrafts competitions.

Entries in the jewellery making class.

Some of the entries in the flower classes - this one must have been unusual container or something, hence the wellies.

Now that's what you CALL onions. I think the same chap got first, second AND third!, though that was hardly surprising.

This would be the Bara Brith end of the cake competitions. They look pretty good don't they? Just the thing to go down with a mug of tea though to be honest, there were a few interested flies about . . ..

These are the entries for the Longest Thistle competition, which always makes me smile. I could have easily won Longest Dock plant last year . . .

Viking Re-enactment Day

2009-08-09T08:39:00.000+01:00

This is a wonderful multi-period permanent site at Cranborne. There are wonderful houses from past period including an Iron Age Round House, a Roman building, a Grubenhaus (or SFB - Sunken Feature Building as they are spoken of in archaeological reports), and a wonderful turf-roofed Earth-house. Here is a link to a site about the entire project, including lots of photographs and better views than I could provide.

Technology as it used to be in the fork of a pole lathe. Here a piece of wood is being prepared for turning. My husband and dear friend Gay looking on.
Isn't this Earth-house wonderful? I can't pin it down to a particular period (their web page makes it a combination of Neolithic wood henge and Iron Age roundhouse), but I will say that the remains of circles of huge (tree-sized) post holes have been found across the country - the sites I remember, being Mount Pleasant in Dorset, and also the Greyhound Yard excavation in Dorchester - where post holes are painted on to the concrete in the Waitrose basement car park . . . BUT these were both henge monuments - rather than buildings with huge posts like this. It's an amazing place inside.

The lady is holding a "bull roarer" which makes one heck of a noise when swung round the head (as it is in the picture below). It is a means of communicating over long distances, and has a very venerable history, dating back to Paleolithic times. It is also known as a rhombus or turndun. Follow the link for the appropriate Wikipedia page and another link to the Pitt-Rivers museum.

The interior of the wonderful Earth House (very Lord of the Rings from the outside).

Above and below: A selection of the musical instruments being displayed. Some were for sale, but a tad expensive for our pockets!

Cooking was authentic and the lid looks as if it has seen much use, and over hotter fires than this one!

There were several staged battles during the day, then the children were invited in to have a go!

Flint nodules as they are when they are dug out of the ground. Useful for building (see Knowlton entry) as well
I think this wonderful wooden chest is going to be created by my husband over the winter months . . . We just need to get the hinges made up by a local blacksmith.

Tablet weaving - have put the feelers out for my husband to make me the tablets from leather, or else buy me some for Christmas. Meanwhile I have a very small loom which I fund at a car boot sale for £1, which I am going to learn to weave on.

The herb plot by the Roman house.

Net making. This man was very interesting to talk to and I came away thinking, I can make haynets now . . . ! (He was making fishing nets).

The SFB. That is, Sunken Feature Building or Grubenhaus. Very Anglo-Saxon and the sunken floor is usually considered a feature that enabled wool to be stored at ambient temperature so it didn't get too dry to spin. The two hammocks contain fleece . . .

Splitting chestnut logs for shingles for the roof of the latest building, the huge Viking longhouse.

You'd know her if you saw her!

2009-08-08T20:56:00.004+01:00

This has been copied from Genuki Devon's list of Absconders 1800 - 1821:

Caution
Whereas, Elizabeth, the Wife of Ambrose Shere, of Cullompton, Devon, did on the 29th day of August last, (being the Twentieth time), Elope from her said Husband without any other provocation than her own procuring, and that she thought her said Husband was too old to supply her desires (being 78) and she being lost to duty and virtue, and also insensible to shame and brutality, and her adviser hath occasioned her disgrace and ruin:- This is to caution all persons not to trust her on my account, as all such debt or debts will not be paid by me. And the said Elizabeth Shere may assume some other Name, it is therefore proper to observe that she is about 34 years of age, short in stature, thin in face, flattish nose, watery eyes, bad teeth, squints a little and cannot read or sew without spectacles; she continued about Cullompton until the 14th September, and then left the Town.
Witness my hand, Ambrose Shere.
Cullompton, 9th October, 1821.

I could make a wicked comment about women marrying men old enough to be their grandfather and expecting a good sex life, but I shall refrain . . .

or

Trewman's Exeter Flying Post, Thursday, August 5, 1813; Issue 2500 - Gale Document Number Y3200653002

Whereas, Susannah Huxtable, the wife of Anthony Huxtable, farmer of Instow, in the county of Devon, left her home and family on Wednesday the 14th instant, under the influence of a mental affection, and has not been since been heard of.
The said Susannah Huxtable is about 30 years of age, of a middle stature in height, thin habit; wore away a dark cloth pelisse, trimmed with black velvet and black silk bonnet. Has lately had all her hair cut off. It is hoped that all head borough and parish officers will cause such search to be made as will insure notice of her safety to her afflicted family, who will gladly pay all reasonable expenses attendant on her conveyance to the parish of Instow, or send for her upon receiving any information where she may be found.
Dated Instow, July 30th, 1813.

Do you think that they shaved her hair off in the vain hope of restoring her addled wits?

or him . . .

Trewman's Exeter Flying Post, Thursday, September 29, 1814; Issue 2560 - Gale Document Number Y3200653591

Whereas William Pittwood, of the parish of Ringsash, near Chulmleigh, Devon, did on Friday last, the 18th of this instant, September, leave his brother's house without any provocation, and has not since been heard of, this is to give notice, that whoever may have seen the said William Pittwood, or can give any information of him, so as he may be found, shall receive a handsome Reward, from his brother, John Pittwood, of Ringsash aforesaid.
William Pittwood is 49 years of age, light hair, fair complexion, about 5 feet 6 inches high, is lame in his left pinbone and limps in his walk. He wore a nankeen jacket, corduroy breeches and lightish colour waistcoat, laced shoes and worsted stockings. Is supposed by his friends to be a little touched in his mind.

Perhaps his friends were right!

Trewman's Exeter Flying Post, Thursday, July 4, 1811; Issue 2387 - Gale Document Number Y3200651949

To the Public
On June 29th, 1811, John, the Son of George Moase, Tanner, of the parish of Petrockstow, near Hatherleigh, Devon, went from his father's house, in a state of insanity, the cause of it is supposed to be an intense application to the study of mechanism. He is 19 years of age, about five feet eight inches high, dark hair, thin features and of a pale complexion. He wore off a light nankeen jacket, calf-skin waistcoat an old hat, a red silk handkerchief, dark corduroy breeches, worsted stockings, nailed shoes, and a canvas apron, dyed tan-colour. He is perfectly inoffensive to every one, and during the intervals of reason, remarkably pious and conscientious. It is therefore hoped, that all persons who shall meet with him, will treat him with kindness and compassion, and whoever will conduct him back to his father, or give information where he may be found, shall be handsomely rewarded.

I hope they found him, poor lad . . .

This is a rich source of information about ordinary people, who got fed up with their lot, or had breakdowns or whatever. Abandoned husbands lost no time in saying, she's nothing to do with me, I don't want her debts. Others were genuinely concerned about family members wandering off. Others sought to warn other people about debtors, horse-thieves or whoever, roaming the roads lest they pass themselves off as ordinary mortals . . . .

The full transcription can be read HERE.

Knowlton Church and Henge Monument

2009-08-06T08:48:00.014+01:00

Scabious dancing in the breeze on the banks of Knowlton henge monument.

We visited Knowlton church and henge on our way to the Viking Re-enactment at Cranborne on the first day of our recent holiday. The henge monument was brimming with beautiful wild flowers of the chalklands, and so I will catalogue those on BB's nature notes in due course.

Cue creepy music! I was just looking up information on the history of this site and came across a paranormal investigation by Southern Paranormal UK . . . I have to confess that in daylight I felt nothing at all, but was fascinated by the number of yew trees in the area, and also along the roadside between Knowlton and Cranborne (which is about 2 miles beyond Knowlton). I don't know what to make of the "mist" in their photographs or the feelings they felt in the church, so I shall leave you to make your own minds up.

The church in the centre of this wonderful henge monument was "added" in the 12th century and improved in the 15th. Obviously this "pagan" site had to have the Church's stamp upon it to legalize worship there. In Peter Knight's book "Ancient Stones of Dorset", he draws on other writings to suggest that there was once a circle of standing stones within the henge monument but that these were broken up and incorporated in the fabric of the church. It was also recorded that when the local hundreds estates met, it would be at Knowlton, so it has obviously been long associated with such gatherings.

However, the surveying and excavations carried out by Bournemouth University show that this henge was part of a much larger complex and one of three henge monuments in association with barrow cemeteries. How I wish I had known that before we stopped there, but it was rather a spur of the moment decision, taken when I realized we would be driving near it! Here is a link to the Bournemouth University's research pages, which may be of further interest.

The church itself is built incorporating flint nodules (see top of page) - a design familiar to Hampshire and Dorset folk. Charlton Marshall, I believe, has a particularly fine example, where there is a chequerboard pattern. Yet when we lived in Lytchett Matravers and used to drive past it regularly, we never stopped for a closer look!

Much of the tower still remains. I have been viewing the building with an eye to see which parts of it might be shattered standing stones . . . the doorways are possible candidates, though I suspect large lumps of stone would more likely be in the foundations of the church. I don't know if the brown sandstone type stone is what has been called "moorstone" by some. It appears to be rich in iron and possibly responsible for some of the local "energies"?

One of the earthen banks of the henge. There are three entrances, and at the Northern end, there are two yew trees forming a further "entrance". Other yew trees are nearby, and along the road northwards, and I wonder whether these were the remains of an ancient yew forest - bearing in mind how yew trees can regenerate from dieing remains of very aged trees - or perhaps a sacred grove? One never knows whether to think pagan or "romanticised" thoughts or scientific ones when considering the landscape, but the archaeologist in me insists "scientific" . . . I know that there is a good stand of yew trees on one side of Hambledon Hill and quite a prolific yew woodland at "Great Yews" near Bodenham/Nunton (just outside Salisbury).

The two yew trees at the North end of the monument. Note, however, that they do NOT align with any of the actual entrances through the henge banks, and my husband tells me that they are probably one and the same tree and one is literally an offshoot of the other's root system so they are not deliberately "paired" in any sense.

There was a village associated with the church in until Medieval times, when the Black Death wiped out the parishioners around 1485. Peter Knight records that earth energies are to be felt here, and that it is a complex site. Holding ones hands against the buttress has resulted in an off-balance feeling pulling the body to the left. I wish I had remembered this at the time (I thought it was the doorway where I picked up nothing).

Where's Snowy?

2009-08-05T15:07:00.008+01:00

I could hear him. He was in the kitchen somewhere. Was he in the cupboard? No. Was he on a chair? No. Was he under the sink? No. I knew he was there somewhere.

I hunted high and low, and then I found him . . .

Snug as a bug in a rug! As you can see, his ear is healing nicely, although the dissolving stitches seem to be taking their time as it's over three weeks since his operation now.

Yesterday was cool, wet and miserable. I made a lovely Cottage Loaf and some Spicy Bean soup. Today we are back to hot sunshine, so I had better freeze the rest of that soup . . .

Spicy Bean Soup

1 onion, chopped and fried gently in a little olive oil.
Cut 3 rashers bacon into small pieces and add to pan and fry gently.
Add a tin of chopped tomatoes, whatever vegetables you have about the place and a pint of stock (I used a good veggie stock cube and a heaped teaspoon of veggie Bouillon). Shake of salt and pepper and then add a tin of spicy mixed beans. I also added a good slosh of my home-made brown sauce. Simmer until veg cooked and then add a handful or two of pasta and cook till pasta done. YUMMY. You can stick a spoon upright in this soup!

The cottage loaf was 1lb of seeded wholewheat flour and 1/2 lb strong white mix. As my daughter said, one slice of that sees you through till lunchtime . . .

Farleigh Hungerford Castle

2009-08-04T06:08:00.016+01:00

As we were travelling down to Hampshire (via North Dorset), we came upon Farleigh Hungerford Castle, and of course, couldn't resist stopping to explore. It covers quite a considerable site, and the castle chapel was unsurprisingly incorporated within the castle walls. Because of this, much of the interior of the church is preserved to show how it would have looked when the castle was last inhabited. The castle has quite a colourful history. Originally a manor house of the Montfort family, the manor was known as Farleigh Montfort and in the hands of Reginald de Montfort until about 1350, when he sold it to one of Edward III's soldiers, and in turn it was sold a generation later to Sir Thomas de Hungerford, who promptly changed its name to Farleigh Hungerford.

Around 1370-80, the castle was fortified and crenellated (without licence - this being granted retrospectively by the King in 1381. Who says retrospective planning is a new thing?!) Some 50 years later, the barbican and polyganol outer ward were added by Sir Walter Hungerford, then Speaker of the House of Commons. In the early 15th century his son - another Walter - enclosed the parish church of St Leonard's to use as his chapel, building another church for the parishioners in the village.

Sadly, war did for the Hungerford family and the castle passed to Richard, Duke of Gloucester (later Richard III) and thence to the Duke of Clarence and here was born Margaret Pole, 8th Countess of Salisbury (whose mother was Isabella Neville, and whose grandfather was Warwick the Kingmaker). Unfortunately she was to be beheaded at the behest of Henry VIII . . . (Don't you just LOVE English history?!)

After the Battle of Bosworth, Henry VII gave Farleigh to Walter Hungerford, grandson of Robert. I think you could describe him as a complex personality. Although he married three times, it would seem he was more of a man's man, if you get my meaning, and kept his third wife under lock and key in one of the towers. Fortunately for her, Walter got his comeuppance and was accused of treason and "unnatural vice" and was consequently executed.

The Civil War had true meaning for Farleigh Hungerford, since two Hungerford brothers were fighting against one another, but the Royalist submitted the castle to his Parliamentarian brother without a fight. Much of the damage to the castle was carried out by a subsequent family, the Houltons, who decided they would take various fixtures and fittings (including the panelling and carved beams) off to their main residence in Trowbridge. Many thanks to the Wikipedia page where the above information was ruthlessly plundered.

The former Priest's house.

This building is completely unchanged, although internally it now houses an interesting little museum rather than a Priest!

This gargoyle on the right reminded me of one of the hounds in the heraldic shield - perhaps it's the hair which looks like ears!

If you double click on this picture you should be able to read it more easily. A fascinating little piece which was found in the Castle ditch - another victim of a Puritan mind and thrown out as being idolatorous . . .

I felt like we were stepping back in time here. Yet another example of how colourful churches once were, Before The War (Civil War that is), and then all those Puritan minds saw idolatory and shame in anything with a vestige of colour or design. In Salisbury Cathedral last week many of the effigies of past Lords and even Kings, had been brutilized and were sans noses or any projecting parts, or had initials dug into their faces. To think we complain about lack of respect these days - it would seem it was ever thus. There are some Hungerford lords interred at Salisbury too . . .

How vivid and colourful these tombs must have been when first erected.

I am not sure about that light - it was overall gloomy down there . . . Cue ghostly music! Note the two little babies in the tiny lead coffins . . .

The towers were pretty huge - it's amazing they're still standing.

Who am I? in 7 words tag . . .

2009-08-03T18:55:00.003+01:00

Mags over at Life in the Preseli Hills has tagged me t describe myself in just 7 words. I shall try and rise to the challenge . . .

1. Firstly how can I say 'Doesn't suffer fools gladly' in one word which doesn't make me sound sharp, condescending, judgemental or intolerant? Hmmm. Aries will have to do, as that is one of the Aries attributes, although my Scorpio husband has bucketfuls of it too.

2. Intuitive. I am lucky in that I can tell what a person is like instantly - they don't' have to say a word, I just KNOW. I have only been wrong twice in my life and they were both very very shy people who were literally unreadable. The big drawback to being so intuitive is that if I really take a dislike to someone, I find it very difficult hiding my dislike . . .

3. Honest. Brutally so on occasion. If you ask, "Does my bum look big in this?" well, I will just have to tell you, yes it does! But then, I don't ever try and curry flavour by flattering people and only rarely will I tell a lie, and then I tell myself it is a FIB. What you see is what you get with me. Another Aries trait I fear . . .

4. Creative. I love to write, draw, sew and make nice things. I love to bake and make jams and chutneys and try all sorts of obscure things that other people wouldn't waste their time on. It satisfies me, especially the writing. I suppose in a way it is trying to boost self-confidence, though not an intentional thought, but it IS nice when someone compliments you.

5. Country-loving. I used a hyphen, so hope that's not cheating! I have always loved anything connected with the countryside and nature. I was interested in wild flowers by the time I was 6 and got The Observer's Book of Wild Flowers. Others followed - Birds, Birds' Eggs, Butterflies and Moths, Pond Life, plus the inevitable Horses and Ponies, Dogs etc. I would rather be in the countryside than anywhere, preferably as far away from other people as possible, though there are times when I need people too. I am a sucker for anything (especially books) with "Country" in the title. If it's a recipe book then it can be "Country" or "Farmhouse".

6. Bibliophile. I simply CANNOT live without books. I have thousands. I've been like this all my life - ever since I learned to read in infant's school and actually STOLE a book because we didn't have books at home and I was SO desperate to read. I began collecting antiquarian books on horses when I started work at 16. I still collect them. And books on history. And Archaelogy. And the countryside. And natural history. And cookery. And literature. And literary biographies. And you should never start a sentence with And . . .

7. Finally, I am a Softee. I seem to attract and "collect" lame ducks. I don't like to hurt people's feelings. I hate to say "no". It's probably part and parcel of being intuitive (and more besides) because I can always pick up on other people's emotions and need for friendship.

I won't tag anyone, but if you want to join in, let me know that you have.

Take two little girls!

2009-08-03T14:14:00.004+01:00

I will go back a week or so and share with you a photo of two happy little girls demonstrating that churches are for playing hide and seek in. Honest! Keith and I had a lovely time at GTM's house, and were shown round the village. They, in turn, helped me have one box less of books in our house, so I hope they are enjoying them.

I am SO envious of her neat and tidy veg plot - I have returned home to green mayhem and a lawn that thinks it's a hay meadow!

My husband's dream house . . .

A Country Harvest

2009-08-01T11:40:00.003+01:00

I found this book in one of the Ringwood charity shops and the moment I set eyes on it, I knew it would be coming home with me. It is subtitled "An illustrated Guide to Herbs and Wild Plants, including delicious recipes, herbal remedies and beauty treatments", by Pamela Michael. Never was £2.50 better spent.

It's not quite time for Sloes just yet, but I loved the name of this recipe so I thought I would share it with you and you can make sure of locating the best sloe bushes in your area in good time to make this in early autumn. You can have a practice run with whatever soft fruits you have in the garden or freezer right now:

WILD KISSEL WITH SLOES

Early Autumn

Kissel is made with any red or dark red summer fruits - raspberries, cherries or blackcurrants, either mixed together or by themselves. The juice is always thickened with arrowroot and should be sweet and well-flavoured. The dark, strongly flavoured little hedgerow fruits make a very good version of this traditional Austrian dish. You can omit the red wine, but it does improve the flavour.

Serves 6

1/4 litre/ 1 1/4 cups / 1/2 pint sloes
Ditto amount of blackberries
1/2 litre / 2 1/2 cups / 1 pint elderberries
Ditto amount of water
300g / 1 1/2 cups / 3/4lb sugar, or 1/2lb honey
1 orange
1 level tablespoon arrowroot
3-4 tablespoons red wine
a little extra sugar

Wash the fruit and strip away all the stalks, put the mixed fruits into a large saucepan with water and sugar, or honey. Bring slowly to the boil and stir until the sugar or honey has melted, then cover and simmer gently for 10-15 mins. Pour into a basin and stand until cold.

Pare the rind from the orange and squeeze out the juice. Mix the arrowroot and strained orange juice together in a cup. Strain the juice from the stewed fruits into a saucepan, add the orange rind and wine and bring slowly to the boil. Add the slaked arrowroot and stir constantly while the juice thickens and clears, then draw off the heat. Add the stewed fruits and pour into a bowl. Serve cool, but not chilled.

Saying goodbye to my mum

2009-07-29T16:02:00.003+01:00

I think this is my 500th post, so it is only fitting that I write about something important to me, and very personal. This time when we came to the New Forest, I brought my mum's ashes with me. She died two years ago and was cremated. I wanted to find a special place where she could rest, and had originally determined upon Romsey, as that was where she was born and grew up, but I wanted absolute privacy and finally decided upon a favourite spot of ours in the New Forest. We used to go to the Forest most Sunday afternoons in the 1960s and had lots of favourite spots. I chose our "favouritest" today and Keith and I strolled through the heather, avoiding dog walkers in the distance, and were 'led' to a beautiful glade in a little stand of silver birches (my favourite tree). It was absolutely perfect, and although it was a grey day, threatening rain, there were birds twittering in the trees above us, and ponies nearby as I scattered her ashes. Mum would have loved that - she was always happier with animals than people because she was very deaf and had no confidence around people. I shed a few tears, mainly because of thinking of childhood days there and wishing I could turn the clock back for just a little while. But it is time to move on now.

We went to Salisbury Cathedral, and I said a little prayer and then we had a lovely afternoon walking round the Museum, which has an excellent Archaeology department and the biggest collection of prehistoric pots I've seen in many a long year - the Wessex chalk has protected them well.

Rainy days . . .

2009-07-29T06:53:00.003+01:00

Morning all from a wet New Forest. I wish I could include some photos with this but that will have to wait. So will this blog, as when I return home, BT have announced that the line won't be fixed "until the end of August". I have news for them - the Daily Mail will be getting a letter this week and then perhaps we will have some action, or perhaps their apathy and total lack of customer care knows no bounds?

We have been enjoying the wildlife here, looking out through the French windows and watching the rabbits, many wild birds and every evening, a young fox trotting across the lawn. Last night foxy had a shock as there was another fox, presumably higher in the pecking order, as our fox then scooted off and was seen trotting across the paddock a few minutes later.

As today is supposed to be all day rain, we will be relaxing with books and knitting/sewing . . . well, perhaps Keith will pass on the knitting/sewing!

If you ever drive across the New Forest, please remember the speed limits. My friend here has the skull of a New Forest pony in her barn - a young mare that was killed by a speeding van or lorry which took her head off it was going so fast. They found the mare's body, but it was months and months before her head was discovered . . .

Holiday Time

2009-07-27T08:33:00.004+01:00

Well, we had no internet at home last week again after we had torrential rain. I did some research before we lost it to find out about the BT complaints system, and found some very useful information (and 7 loooong pages of complaints). I phoned a "magic number" and actually spoke to someone who is now dealing efficiently with our case and not just talked us round in circles and passed us on to BT India . . . The long and the short of it is we are now a "priority case" and BT will keep working on our line until it is repaired, even on Sunday. Did the BT man turn up on Sunday . . . . well, no actually! My kids are on the case though! We have been told that the work sheduled to be done on 13th July was logged in as carried out, but of course, we know otherwise. . . heads are apparently going to roll.

Anyway, Keith and I are currently on holiday, house-sitting for friends in the New Forest. We are thoroughly relaxing and had planned to do nothing today, which is just as well as it is pouring with rain. Once we've been out to feed and check the horses we are going to tootle into Ringwood and have a wander round the shops and get the papers.

Yesterday we went to a Viking (well, multi-period really) re-enactment at Cranborne. It is a site which was originally established about 25 years ago and they have built a big Iron Age roundhouse, a Grubenhousen (sp?) or SFB as we called them at Uni - a Sunken Featured Building, a wonderful huge turf-covered roundhouse, and are working on a viking longhouse now. There were various people about the site giving demonstrations of various crafts - net-making, tablet weaving, drop spindle spinning, a couple of pole-lathes, and a group of people making chestnut shingles for the roof of the longhouse. Lots of battle re-enactments, authentic dress and cooking pots in use etc etc and an excellent day out, much-enjoyed. We know that our son would be very interested in this, but his nearest re-enactment group? Winchester. Ummm - a bit of a journey from Carmarthen!

On our way down to Hampshire, we went to visit GTM (here is a link to her excellent blog A Life Full of Blessings). We had a lovely time and had a guided tour of the "Doll's House" where she lives, and then were shown around the village and church. Some beautiful architecture and buildings, and my husband was led along by the twins, who grasped his hands and showed him round! It is so lovely to meet up properly with people you have known for a while through blogs and forums, made friends with, written to and spoken to on the phone. It's not like meeting them properly for the first time, but more like carrying on a conversation! I have also met Rowan several times this year as we can call when on our way to meet our eldest daughter up in Sheffield. I have met people on-line who share my interests and passions and whom I would probably never have known existed without the internet and I am truly grateful that I have met them. Where we are staying now is the house of an internet friend!

I have brought some of my waist-high pile of books-to-read with me, so I had better get stuck in once we have sorted the ponies out. Sorry there are no photos - they will have to wait until I get home next week.

Morning's Minion - now you know why you've not had updates from me!

"Old" things in the kitchen

2009-07-19T07:42:00.013+01:00

I have a lot of them. I've never been averse to second hand stuff - you have to cut your coat according to your cloth after all, though sadly, many young folk have never been taught this and think their credit card is the answer to everything.

I have a bit of a thing about big earthenware storage jars and use them to store things like dried fruit, lentils, home-made mincemeat, and the bigger ones hold oats, bread flour, plain flour and rice. When we lived in Dorset, we used to be able too get corks to fit the smaller sort, but now the big fat-bellied ones have wooden lids made for them by my husband out of bits of wood abandoned by others.

I store more of my flour for bread or baking in several old enamel flour or bread bins and always keep a good stock in. They live on the bottom of the old dairy table in the bay window. When you live a 20 mile round trip from the shops, you don't want to run out of things! I keep my Demerara sugar in an old glass sweetie jar but I am on the look-out for another big old earthenware jar for granulated sugar. The one below houses Basmati Rice. The terracotta crock will go when I find a likely replacement as my kids hate touching it! They say it puts their teeth on edge . . .

This glossy dark brown jar cost me £4 at the big Antiques Fair at Builth this year. It didn't have a lid, but Keith has since made me one. I use it to store plain baking flour in. (I think that's "all-purpose" flour in the States.)

I found this little enamel strainer in an the junky antique shop on the way to Brecon recently. It cost me £4 and I use it regularly. It "spoke" to me, somehow . . . I suppose I feel I am connecting with the past when I use these things, but they are also practical and have character. Other women buy handbags (I could never see the point of having more than one handbag - you only use one handbag at a time!) - I buy . . . old things . . . oh, and few books too!

BT - I'm giving up the will to live . . .

2009-07-18T06:41:00.008+01:00

I won't even go there. We lose Broadband every time it rains because BT have renagued on their closing the road/cutting back trees/replacing short telegraph poles and replacing the damaged length of circa 1955 cable promise. Apparently just bodging the line is more cost-effective . . . The story is just too depressing, especially if you mention you are having broadband problems as then it's an instant transfer to blardy India . . . You can see why they don't have a Complaints Department can't you?!

So we will have a wee "pome" instead:

In sleep of helpless infancy
Trees were the arms that cradled me;
On Tree my daily food is spread,
Tree is my chair and Tree my bed.
Fibre of Tree the books I con,
And Tree the shelves they stand upon.
Primeval Tree burns clear and bright
To warm me on a winter ight.
I hear, to wind in woods akin,
Tree-music of the violin;
And at the last, when I shall die,
My tired dust in Tree will lie.

Teresa Hooley (probably lieing in tree these many years as this was penned in a 1938 edition of The Countryman magazine . . .

Rain stopped play

2009-07-16T18:05:00.005+01:00

It has chucked it down nearly all day. I am bored so I thought I would do an extra blog post to make up for the lack of them in recent weeks (and in fear of losing broadband with such persistent rain).

Here are a couple of little pieces from my No. 1 Desert Island book Kilvert's Diary (though I would tough it out and demand the complete diaries of, including the ones his widow burned because they mentioned other women he had fallen in love with.) Here is as near as I can get to this date in his entries for 1871:

Tuesday 18th July: "I went to Wern Vawr. The sun burnt fiercely as I climbed the hills but a little breeze crept about the hill tops. Some barbarian - a dissenter no doubt - probably a Baptist, has cut down the beautiful silver birches on the little Mountain near Cefn y Fedwas."

I can sympathise. It has happened here in recent years. On the way to Ferryside, a hundred years almost exactly after Kilvert was writing, when I was holidaying with a penpal there, a chapel was pointed out to me, with a small enclosed burial ground beside it. Apparently this little plot once had beautiful trees surrounding it, but they were cut down under direction of the Elders as they made it look 'too pretty'. A bit like our local chapel which had half an acre of Aquilegias growing amongst the gravestones. Until last year that is, when they came in with a strimmer . . .

Saturday 22nd July 1871:

"Mrs Nott told me that Louie of the Cloggau was staying in Presteign with her aunt Miss Sylvester, the woman frog. This extraordinary being is partly a woman and partly a frog. Her head and face, her eyes and mouth are those of a frog, and she has a frog's legs and feet. She cannot walk but she hops. She wears very long dresses to cover and conceal her feet which are shod with something like a cow's hoof. She never goes out except to the Primitive Methodist Chapel. Mrs Nott said she had seen this person's frog feet and had seen her in Presteign hopping to and from the Chapel exactly like frog. She had never seen her hands. She is a very good person. The story about this unfortunate being is as follows. Shortly before she was born a woman came begging to her mother's door with two or three little children. Her mother was angry and ordered the woman away. 'Get away with your young frogs', she said. And the child she was expecting was born partly in the form of a frog, as a punishment and a curse upon her."

It just shows that even amongst educated people like Kilvert, they were very naive in their beliefs. Perhaps she had deformed or webbed feet, and that people resembling frogs do exist I can testify, as there used to be a man I knew in the West Country who looked remarkably like one.

OK, I'm well ahead of myself with this Autumnal post, but he wrote so beautifully I wuld like to share it:

Friday 13 October:

"After school about 12.20 I started to walk over the hills. The fern cutters were hard at work on the Vicar's Hill mowing the fern with a sharp ripping sound. The mountain and the great valley were blue with mist and the sun shone brilliantly upon the hill and the golden fern. I had put a flask of ginger wine in my pocket and a sandwich of bread and bacon which I ate by the Milw Bridge at the meeting of the three parishes and wished I had another for I was as hungry as a hunter.

Up the long Green Lane the heather bloom was long over and the heather was dark, speckled with the little round white bells. I looked for Abiasula along the green ride narrowing between the fern and heather, and looked for her again at the Fforest, but the great dark heather slopes were lonely, nothing was moving ,the cottage was silent and deerted, the dark beautiful face, the wild black hair and beautiful wild eyes of the mountain child were nowhere to be seen.

Round the great dark heather-clothed shoulder of the mountain swept the green ride descending steeply to the Fually frm and fold and the valley opened still more wide and fair. The beautiful Glasnant came leaping and rushing down its lovely dingle, a flood of molten silver and crystal fringed by groups of silver birches and alders, and here and there a solitary tree rising from the bright green sward along the banks of the brook and drooping over the stream which seemed to come out of a fairy land of blue valley depths and distances and tufted woods of green and gold and crimson and russet brown.

At last I found my way up a rich green orchard and through a gate into the fold sheltered by some noble sycamores. The farm house, long, low and yellow-washed, looked towards the N.E. The house is said to be the oldest inhabited building in these parts. It stands high above the Arrow on its green mount, embosomed and almost hidden by its sycamores and other trees. In a dark secluded recess of the wood near the river bank an ice-cold never-failing spring boils up out of the rock. Mrs Jones said it makes her arms ache to the shoulder to put her hand into the water from this spring in the hottest day of summer. In the hot summer days Louie and the other girls take the butter down the steep bank, across the Arrow and make up the butter in the wood by the icy spring. Then they bring the butter up and it remains as if it had been iced."

Sunday, Sunday . . .

2009-07-16T07:39:00.007+01:00

Backtracking a bit to last Sunday, when K and I did a car boot sale attached to a Vintage Car Show on the showground down in the village. A couple of showers came along to annoy, but overall it was dry. My "notes" of the day:

Grey clouds glower over the show site, but an opening of blue offers hope. "Enough blue to patch a sailor's trousers" mum always used to say and me, ever the optimist, hung onto that thought.

Welsh flags flap in the breeze: the red, green and white of Y ddraig goch - the Welsh dragon; the yellow cross on black of Dewi Sant (St David), and gone but never forgotten, Glyndwr's Banner with its lions rampant in red and yellow. Welsh memories are long and ever loyal.

At one end of the ringside, static engines set up a two-stroke chatter above Paul Anka singing "Diana". They are tended by men in overalls and caps and admired by enthusiasts. A bevy of old tractors form orderly lines nearby. Old grey Fergies, Fordsons, early Massey Fergusons, John Deeres, and many others which once worked the land.

Orderly lines of vintage and classic cars are also on display. Several minis, several Morris Minors, an E-type Jag, a scarlet and white South African Buick with "Please Don't Touch" on it, a blue Ford Popular, a Humber, and an absolutely splendid old Bugatti which looks fit for the London to Brighton race.

As we stand and watch the scene, swallows swoop low across the sward, little puffs of smoke from the statics spiral into the air and are whipped away by a strong breeze, the smell of frying onions and burgers wafts by, and the strains of "This Old House" and "In the Mood" set the tempo - for this IS a vintage show, with music to match. Better than the Welsh "pop" music playing first thing which, I must confess, always sounds very much the same (and rather boring) to my English ear!

A crow catches sight of itself in a mirror we have propped against a chair. It steps back in surprise, and so does the crow in the mirror. It squares its shoulders and marches forward - and so does its opposite until, thoroughly rattled, it flies off.

My photographs are from the Smallholders' Show up at Builth in 2007, as my camera wasn't working at the weekend (I'd pressed a wrong button!). Flags courtesy of the (Flags of the World) highlighted link for Glyndwr's Banner.

Home-made blanket box

2009-07-15T11:20:00.006+01:00

This is what my husband has been working on for several weeks now, and it has cost him virtually nothing apart from £10 to have the fretwork straps on the top cut out. The wood - it's made from solid oak - came from old bed ends which had been dumped at our local auction as they wouldn't sell. I think he's done a wonderful job on it and it looks just right on our top landing.

Fixing battens to hold the base of the chest.

Here it is being sanded at an earlier stage of creation. The design for the apron along the front was traced from a similar piece of furniture we have.

The pattern for these came from half of a very old and beautiful cast iron hinge he got from a junk place and he still has that hinge to use on another project.

One of my husband's old Windsor chairs keeps it company.

Warning: Proud Momma Alert!!!

2009-07-12T07:05:00.003+01:00

Tam on a Dig at a possible Roman site in the Deer Park at Dinefwr Castle.

Our eldest daughter Tamzin has just found that she has will be graduating from a BA in Archaeology with a First. It was a close run thing as her essays were 1/2 a mark off a first, but then her dissertation clinched it. We are SO pleased for her as we know how hard she worked - she is a slow but thorough reader, can't speed-read to save her life, so she always had to allow plenty of time for research. The last 6 months before her dissertation was finished was like hell on wheels.

Now we are looking forward to Graduation Day next Monday. It will be SO good to see her again.

Thoughts about moving

2009-07-10T12:59:00.004+01:00

I still have an internet connection - Amazing! I couldn't sleep the night before last and ended up house-hunting. It was to be this year that we downsized, but the state of the economy dictated otherwise. Now we are doing various jobs which needed doing so that when we come to market the house next year it is all tickety-boo. All except the grass growing in the top guttering that is. 3 1/2 floors up - no ladder will reach - and my efforts (though gung-ho!) with a trowel lashed to the end of a long piece of wood only worked on the bit of guttering directly below the Velux window in the roof which I was hanging out of. Hmmm. Suggestions on a postcard please.

When househunting, I have a mental list of what I want (as opposed to DH, who has slightly different requirements) WWD (When We Downsize). We want 3 or 4 bedrooms (rather than the 8 we have here!), a nice light house (this is very gloomy, even on a bright summer day), easy to heat, with a nice roomy kitchen as we have here but with lots of storage space and an Aga. A wood burning stove in the sitting room and a big inglenook again. Lots of character and preferably a few beams. A good-size garden which wanders rather than one which is just a square in front of the house as it is here. DH (darling husband) would settle for a small sun-trap yard with NO GRASS (and no room). I would like fruit trees, an established soft fruit garden and well-dug veg plot, a small polytunnel would be nice - or the room for one - and definitely a greenhouse. A conservatory wouldn't' go amiss either, oh and a workshop for my beloved. Not on a busy road - set away on a no through road preferably because of the cats - but not too far from a town which would provide job possibilities for our younger son and daughter who will be moving with us. Possibly with an annexe for holiday letting or for one of our offspring to set up home in later (or us "olds" to move into in our dotage. Not too far from a shop, so OH can have his daily paper (he's such a newshound), and preferably on the edge of Dartmoor or on the Devon coast. I can see us going on Escape to the Country - or should that be, Escape From the Country to the Country?

Devon does offer a good selection of the sort of house/cottage we are seeking, but gosh, what an eye-opener some of them are. One place - I only looked at it because it had a lovely view - was NOT our sort of house, and inside it looked like something out of Footballer's Wives - everything pale and insipid and "dressy" with a pure white sitting room. Everything in it, from the carpet to the mirror and even the tv I think, was pure white. I couldn't help thinking, "no pets, no kids and I bet she doesn't make jam either . . ." It was so unwelcoming and unhomely. You'd be frightened to sit down, and your shoes would definitely be off at the front door . . . Not like my mish-mash of "collectibles", millions of books and lots of clutter and untidiness. I will have to tidy so much away before we have people to view next year, but I am NOT going to do the "everything beige and no personal belongings (pictures, photos, china, CLUTTER) etc. NO WAY. If people haven't the imagination to see beyond our colour scheme (largely soft yellow in the hallways etc to bring in as much light as possible) and can't imagine a wall without a picture on it, they're not the sort of people for our house.

So whilst we can't move just yet, I have sent for a few house details, and am carefully doing my research on potential areas, and if my darling husband thinks we are moving to Hadrian's Wall he can think on!!!

Baking bread without an oven . . . the old Cornish way

2009-07-07T06:57:00.003+01:00

Interior of a cottage (c. about 1810) at St Fagans. This is the first of a row of terraced cottages which are decorated internally spanning a 150 year period.

I found a wonderful little book recently in Hay-on-Wye, for just £4; “Cornish Homes and Customs” by A K Hamilton, it harks back to a much earlier time – sometimes up to more than a hundred years before this. It is a fascinating book to read and I learn more with every page I turn. How to bake bread though you don’t have an oven was one such lesson. I will include the preamble to this, as it offers a fascinating insight into cottage life generally:

“Notwithstanding the fact that from the early part of the 18th century onwards coal was being freely imported for the use of the mines, furze and turf long continued to serve the needs of the people for all domestic purposes. In 1799 the overseers of Mylor parish were paying but 9d. hundred for furze faggots for the use of the poor-house, a price with which coal, however cheap, must have found it hard to compete. Indeed, until almost the end of the last century many Cornish houses knew no other fuel than that which came to them from within a short distance of their doors. In one or two instances these turf fires are said to have been actually kept alight for a hundred years, faithfully serving the needs of the inhabitants from birth to death (N.B. the same was said of the fire in the Warren House Inn on Dartmoor). Each night, the embers were banked up before going to bed, and the kettle hooked on to the cross-bar in the chimney. On coming down the next morning the water was always boiling, whilst sufficient fire still remained to fry the bacon and mashed potatoes for breakfast. After the meal, the hearth was swept clean, fresh turf was put on, and so the old fire entered on anther day of service and companionship to the household. With the aid of such fires as these the Cornish housewife contrived to do all the cooking for the largest family, asking nothing more than a ‘kettle’ for baking and a ‘crock’ for boiling. The kettle, it should be explained, in no way resembled the ordinary utensil of that name (which was distinguished in Cornwall by being termed a 'tay (tea) kettle’, but was simply an iron bowl with three legs capable of being stood on the ground like a small crock. Whenever baking had to be done, the brandis or heavy iron trivet was first drawn forward into the centre of the hearth and on it was placed a round sheet of iron, known as the ‘baking ire’. With the aid of the ‘fire-hook’, which took the place on the open hearth of a poker in ordinary grates, the smouldering embers were raked around the brandis and under the baking iron, and were fanned into flame with the (bellows). As soon as the baking iron had been heated in this way to the proper temperature it was taken off the brandis, carefully wiped and greased, and replaced on the hearth. On to it the bread or other food was then laid and covered by the inverted kettle. Hot embers were raked around, and a fire of furze and 'bruss' (dried hedge gatherings etc) built up over the whole. Beneath this the bread, protected from all dirt and ash, was left to cook for about an hour and a half, at the end of which time the embers were removed, the kettle lifted off, and there was the loaf baked to perfection! All sorts of dishes – heavy-cakes, pasties, and pies – were prepared in the same way, the only variation being that in some instances a ‘baker’ was used instead of a kettle. The former resembled in shape a heavy iron frying-pan without a handle, and differed from a kettle chiefly in having no legs. For boiling and stewing the crock was used, either placed on the brandis or hung from a cross-bar in the chimney.Occasionally, when very large joints of meat had to be roasted, the crock itself would be inverted over the baking iron in place of a kettle."

Enjoy. I temporarily have an internet connection, so will post this and run. "They" (BT) are finally shutting the road, lopping trees, replacing poles and rotten cable next Monday . . . It had better blardy-well work PERFECTLY after that . . . I have been going stir crazy here after so many weeks without broadband, and have been writing letters in desperation - but no one has written back yet!!!

St Fagan's - Museum of Rural life

2009-07-02T18:11:00.013+01:00

The amazingly colourful cover of the font at St Teilo's church, now reconstructed at St Fagan's. The Star of David and the Tudor rose is incorporated in the design.

We had to pick up Middle Daughter (G) from Cardiff Airport this morning, so we made a detour and visited St Fagan's, as K and I wanted to see St Teilo's Church, which was taken down stone by stone from its old situation in Pontardulais, and re-erected in the grounds of this wonderful museum, amongst many other saved and re-erected buildings - from early Medieval houses to prefabs, and everything in between, including an excellent Iron Age Village. G had "breakfast" with us, then decided she had seen it too many times before (favourite destination of end-of-year school trips, and indeed, the place was packed with them today too!) so went back to snooze in the car.

Below, St Teilo's from the rear.

St Teilo's was built between 1100 and 1520, gradually being enlarged and altered. Around 1850 the church began to be used less frequently, probably due to its position on the edge of the marshes beyond Pontarddulais and the building of a modern church to cater for the increasing number of worshippers in Pontarddulais.

The wonderful wall-paintings which have been faithfully re-created from remains of the originals, date from the 16th century, but overall the murals began around 1350 and several layers and repaintings show they were improved or altered up until 1790.Pigments sourced from natural minerals and mixed with limewash, were used to create the colours. Black pigment was created from soot or charcoal. More expensive pigments included lapis lazuli which gave a rich blue, and a red from cinnabar. Gold and silver leaf were also employed. Egg yolk or linseed oil or buttermilk were used to bind the colour to the paint and the wall. Most churches were this colourful until the Civil War, after which the Puritans destroyed what they considered to be idolatorous and sinful and pagan imagery - in other words, the beautiful and colourful interiors of virtually every church in the land.

St Christopher, in his traditional position opposite the door.

The wonderful chequerboard patterning inside the archways.

The story of Teilo's life is shown here on the Rood Screen, but my arms were too short (and the camera too shaky at arm's length!) to take close-ups, so please go here for the story to unfold, with decent close-up pictures. Using Welsh oak, these carvings took a skilled carpenter over three months to design and carve.

This looks gloomy as the batteries were failing on my camera and sadly I couldn't use the flash, but you get the general idea.

For explanations of the carvings and symbols, visit here. We were hurrying and also talking to someone we met outside the church, so I missed several of them. Part of the church was roped off so we couldn't get near the altar, sadly. I even missed a Green Man on the ceiling!

St Fagan's first became interested in the church in 1982, although the procedures became stepped up in 1984 after the roof slates were stolen and the murals put at real risk from the weather. The church had very early origins - a carved stone inside its walls has been dated to around the 7th-9th century - but the first written mention of the church was in 1100. It's original name - "Llanteilo tal-y-bont" - means the church dedicated to St Teilo at the crossing place of the river (River Loughor). St Teilo was born in Pembrokeshire around 480 AD, and a contemporary of Dewi Sant (St David) and St Padarn.

Broadband . . .

2009-07-02T07:41:00.003+01:00

I have a connection temporarily this morning, but it probably won't last. It's a week since the last connection. Please bear with me - it could be several weeks yet before the problem is fixed as the Council are now involved (to shut the road for tree lopping).

Missing you all and hope this connection holds.

Old books and Romsey Abbey

2009-06-25T19:19:00.003+01:00

Romsey Abbey, Hampshire

Anyone reading this blog on a regular basis will know of my deep love of books - a passion really, since I would forgo almost anything in order to buy another book I have seen and desire. Some of them cost just pennies at the Car Boot Sale. Some are brand new and full price. Once they are on my bookshelves, I find it very hard to winnow out the ones I can live without. A recent Car Boot Sale acquisition was H V Morton's In Search of England, which cost me all of a pound. I have just turned to the pages where he moves on to Romsey from Winchester (in Hampshire). Romsey is where my mum's parents moved after WW1, and where I still have aunties and many cousins living. This was originally first published in 1927, and he could have been writing about my mum and her sisters when he wrote the following:

"Three small girls in white pinafores were nursing dolls in the graveyard; a butcher's boy in a blue pinafore cycled past with mutton, and down the elm walk there came an elderly man holding a posy of wallflowers in his right hand . . ."

And:

"Romsey, in the magic county of Hampshire, is the ideal small market town. Lord Palmerston, with bronze hair turned green by years of rain, stands importantly on a plinth in the market-place; a policeman in an easier attitude stands near him; there is a full cake-shop opposite; everything is slowed down to a reasonable pace; men in leggings stand on the kerbstone with the expressions of deep thinkers; now and then a man and cow cross the square."

My parents were married in Romsey Abbey. I have visited it many times over the years and here is Mr Morton writing about something I remember very clearly:

"There is in Romsey Abbey, in a locked box, a tress of auburn hair. It was found during excavations in the year 1839 in a leaden coffin of Saxon date under the floor of the south aisle near the abbess's door. The coffin was otherwise empty and the hair had been placed in a box of oak that rested upon a wooden stand. What, I wonder, is the story? How often a mystery like that hangs in the mind when the greatest monuments in a church have faded from remembrance."

As indeed, it has stayed in my mind all these years. I wonder who she was? A Saxon princess? A revered mother or sister or daugther? We will never know . . .

June is the month of roses . . .

2009-06-24T05:32:00.018+01:00

Just to show that I can hold my own with rose displays, this is my Paul's Himalayan Musk in full fig . . . A shame we had grey skies and not blue ones. Anyway, double click for more detail.

My husband and I (always feel like the Queen when I write that!) have got back from taking our eldest daughter back to Sheffield and helping her and her boyfriend to move house. On the journey home we did a detour and visited Haddon Hall near Bakewell. It is apparently rated the best historical house in the country and we would second that. It is SO unspoilt and absolutely WONDERFUL. There will be several seperate posts about it, for as long as the broadband holds - we have it back after several days without. If I disappear again, you'll know we no longer have Four Blue Lights on the home hub . . .

The gardens there were just AMAZING and I had to be dragged away, protesting. If we didn't have a 6 hour journey ahead of us, we would have gone around the house and gardens again! The roses there were an absolute joy and the scent of Philadelphus (mock orange) was just wonderful. Even my husband (NOT a gardener) enjoyed it. They had a lot of David Austin roses, in fact, a LOT of roses, full stop. I was taking photos and thinking, oh I must have THAT in my next garden. I think I have a shopping list as long as your arm!

Now that our daughter is t'other side of Sheffield I have persuaded my husband that perhaps a different route to and from the city is in order, so we are exploring the possibilities at present, though in future we shall avoid going through the centre of Stafford just when the schools chuck out! As it was we ended up having fish and chips in Hay-on-Wye and having a lovely stroll around the evening streets in search of a bottle of wine to provide a night cap . . . We found some good A-road routes yesterday, and just need to tweek the route a bit. . .

If you can identify any of these, please let me know. I am about to sit here with my David Austin rose catalogue and see what I can find . . . then make a shopping list for When We Downsize!

I'm back - I think . . . I HOPE!

2009-06-20T07:18:00.009+01:00

I loved this wooden statue in the car park. Apparently it is a Knight called "Mercia Man" and was carved from the remains of a beech tree by Philip Bews and erected in Gaol Street in 2000. It was commissioned by Herefordshire Council. Apparently Mr Bews roughed the Knight out with a chainsaw and then did the details using a chisel. The buildings on the Knight's head represent various buildings in Hereford and the old bridge, and he is carrying an apple in one hand (a cider apple of course!) and a Hereford Bull in the other . . . I don't know who is responsible for the cone, but they were good at climbing!

Well, we are now on our third day of four blue lights on the BT home hub. I can't quite trust in fate that it will stay that way, but I shall hope for the best. I have SO much to share with you and can hopefully reward your patience with some interesting titbits and photos again. I did begin by taking notes (esp. for my Nature Notes) but as the weeks went by I lost hope a bit, especially after being told it could be a month MORE before we had the broadband back.

Anyway, we have our eldest daughter home at present which is LOVELY and yesterday we went to Hereford for the day, as she wanted to see the Mappa Mundi in Hereford Cathedral. It so happens that Hay-on-Wye is on the way too . . . I expect that you know which way THIS post is going!

This beautiful "Magpie house" is from the Tudor period and stands in the middle of the city and now houses an excellent Museum with period furniture and original painted plasterwork. I took lots of photos but sadly cannot share them with you as I had to sign an indemnity form - which particularly said I was not to share them "electronically" . . . A pox on 'em . . .

Looking down the main thoroughfare. I was marched PAST all the plant stalls . . .

Another view of the wonderful museum, which was really light inside from all the windows.

A narrow street (this would be a "wynd" in certain towns) showing that it may once have had a runnel down the middle, as does Cheap Street in Frome, still . . .

There were some nice little shops but I didn't dare go into the Artisan wools one, having had quite a shock in a similar shop in Hay-on-Wye where the cheapest wools were over £5 a time, and several were £8.95 and even £10.95 a ball . . .

Below, a view across the Cathedral Close to some of the older buildings in Hereford.

Anyway, it was a really fabulous day out - but then I'm easily pleased! We wandered round the city and the cathedral, and asked where the Green Men were in the cathedral and the Verger showed us. They had school children and Very Loud Music when we arrived and the Cathedral was filled with a terrific atmosphere - last time we went, there were school children again but it was very subdued in there.

I'll come back and add some more details later, but No. 1 just-left-school son is waiting to come on.

SCREEEEEAM!!!!

2009-06-18T21:30:00.002+01:00

We have 4 blue lights - yippee . . . (though green would be tasteful too Granny . . .) Don't know how long for. Just to update you that we are probably going to have to wait another MONTH before we get broadband sorted properly as they have to shut the lane, lop trees, put up new poles and a new length of cable . . . I am missing you all SO MUCH, but please bear with me, I will be back - hopefully a bit sooner, but we're dealing with the Council here over the road, so . . .

Four blue lights!!!

2009-06-12T07:35:00.001+01:00

That means I have a Broadband connection - we have had DREADFUL problems with the phone line - no internet for 3 weeks now, bar one little blip last time I posted, and no phone for several days too, or a line so crackly it was unusable. Apparently trees are being trimmed and a new line put up today. I blardy hope so. If all goes quiet again, you'll know it didn't work. Back when I can . . .

I'm back!

2009-06-05T10:16:00.003+01:00

Walking home after voting yesterday - I was SO disappointed there is no longer a Monster Raving Loony Party, as believe me, they would have got my vote . . .

Ye Gods! WHAT a performance, changing Broadband and phone providers. Phone no problem, but I am SICK of talking to folk in Indian call centres and trying to get the Broadband sorted. I have SUCH a lot to catch up on and it would return on the day I am destined to garden for my friend. Ah well. Perhaps we may even have an EVENING connection now - that really WOULD be a novelty. Back later and glad everyone loved the Aquilegias. Contact me with an SAE if you would like seed . . .

Ignore this if you hate Aquilegias!

2009-05-26T06:50:00.011+01:00

These are "my" wild Aquilegias which grow up by our field gate. Despite Next Door ripping out chunks of bank with his too-wide farm machinery, I have gone up from 4 to 7 plants this year, as there are three very young ones further down where they haven't grown before. I am going to put some wire or branches in front of the plants so they can set seed without the verge murderers cutting them down.

Last pics, I promise. Just a few close-ups of flower heads as when I walked round my garden last night and REALLY looked at the flowers, I was amazed and delighted to find that I had some more unusual forms. These are better photos which show the flower head. The ones I took the other day were a bit slap-dash. I was amazed to find that I do actually have a couple of plants which have different flower heads on the same plant, so I shall be saving seed from these and marking the trays and seeing what comes up next year.

Aboe and below - a beautiful deep purply-blue clematis style flower with lighter highlights. This has sown itself into a crack in the path - don't know where its parents came from as it's the only one I have like this. Seed being saved again.

Below - a fairly standard double (and treble) petalled flower, with, on the same plant, a white pom-pom flower. Aren't they gorgeous. Again, I shall save seed and see which ones come up when they flower.

Touchwood Nursery - Aquilegia Heaven!

2009-05-24T19:06:00.015+01:00

Faced with all this gloriousness, I was like a child in a sweetshop!

Before I leave the subject of Aquilegias, I had a lovely afternoon out on Saturday and visited Touchwood Nursery in Swansea, to look at an absolutely stunning collection of Aquilegias. I hardly knew where to look first as there were so many beautiful and unusual plants. I must have been there nearly an hour, and of course didn't come home empty-handed as I bought ten packets of seed (with a bonus one thrown in free), so I want to get those in seed trays and carefully labelled up tomorrow. I am SO excited about them.

I think the gorgeous pink and cream one is scented! Amazing and definitely something to try and develop more. To the left are some more gold-foliaged plants.

This is one of the clematis-petalled sort. I have a deep bluey purple one like this, but I think this had silver highlighting around the petals which you can't see from my duff picture.

I loved this one - reminded me of the Moulin Rouge dancers for some reason.

I wish I had seeds for this one, but I believe it's still at the experimental stage. They have to start breeding true and not producing different flower types.

Isn't this gorgeous? I've just sent our eldest daughter a necklace in similar colours - this is prettier though!

Note on the right, one of the golden-foliaged Aquilegias, which I think I chose seed for. I'll have to go and check.

Such unusual colours.

I hope that you will visit Carrie's website (there's much more than Aquilegias alone) and perhaps treat yourself to some seeds if you're too far away to visit.

Aquilegias in the garden

2009-05-23T06:49:00.015+01:00

. . . or Columbines . . . or Granny's Bonnets, whatever your preference. I have always grown them and still remember the thrill of finding them growing wild on a verge near Arne in the Purbecks. Deep blue they were - probably garden escapees - but here in Wales they grow wild, and also grow and self-seed in my garden and I encourage them. You can't have too many Columbines . . . and they are addictive. When I spot a new-to-me one, I am done for . . . The most recent was last weekend at the car boot sale. A huge well-grown (very tall) William Guinness, which as you will see below, is virtually black with white inner petals.

I have discovered that there is a small Nursery in Swansea specializing in Cottage Garden plants, and she has couple of Open Days to view her Aquilegias, including today and Monday. I am very tempted, and think I may just be taking a little drive later today, pennies clutched in hot sticky hand . . . She has the National Plant Collection of Aquilegia vulgaris and cultivars and hybrids at Touchwood Nursery . . . and bare-root seedlings are VERY reasonable . . .

A feast for Aquilegia lovers . . . Some of the ones I have growing in my garden (and I'm about to get some more!)

My black Norah Barlow about to come into flower.

Pink stellata form near the pond.

Um . . . lost the label . . . but a dwarf form.

I have lost the label for this one to, so will have to identify. Isn't it gorgeus though? On the Touchwood site there is a single called Adelaide Addison which is similar.

William Guiness above.

White double aquilegias. I think they are also known as 'ballerinas'.

The many-petalled Norah Barlow form, above.

This is the stellata form.

A Walk around Gloucester - Part 2

2009-05-22T07:41:00.020+01:00

If you double-click on this, you will hopefully be able to read about John Hooper, who died nearby. That's his memorial above.

This is the blue plaque you can see on the wall below (WANT that house!)

T'other side of same beautiful house.

How glorious this must have looked when the statues were painted, as in Medieval times. The money from the film company who filmed the Harry Potter films here has paid for the cathedral walls to be blast-cleaned and some external restoration work carried out on well-weathered buttresses (see photo below).

Above, wonderful memorial to Sarah Morley and her husband James, though if you enlarge it sadly, it tells of her giving birth on board ship and both her and the baby dieing on transit to foreign parts . . . Hence her holding a baby to her breast.

Above is the ornate and skillfully crafted monument (of marble and alabaster) which commemorates Thomas Machen (d.1614) and his wife Christian, who survived him by just a year. They had seven sons and six daughters, some of whom are depicted beneath their kneeling figures. There appear to be two boys short, so perhaps they died in infancy - there are two little girls at the back of the four larger ones, but the handrail partly hides them from view).

Above and below, part of the display of superb early English silver plate from Cotswold churches.

Considering the bad press that attended Edward II during his lifetime, it surprised me greatly to read of his being depicted on his tomb as a "saintly figure with angels at his head". In my first year at University, I took a course about Paleography and deciphering old documents, and one of the facsimile documents we were given to decipher referred to Edward II and the gift of land to his favourite, Hugh Despenser) I believe it is widely thought that Edward II was at the very lease, bisexual and was, as my ex-husband would have crudely put it - "as queer as a lemonade sandwich"! His sexual preferences apart, he was a weak and deeply unpopular king, and following the conclusive defeat of the English at the hands of the Scots at Bannockburn, wandered into a downward spiral which culminated in his imprisonment in Berkeley Castle (near Slimbridge in Gloucestershire), and his murder by means of a red hot poker (which is what they tell you at the castle), although according to the official booklet about the Cathedral, he was suffocated. However, no money was spared on his tomb, below.

Below, two beautiful pieces of stained glass which were, I believe, in the Lady Chapel, which has a very peaceful atmostphere and strangely, made my ears ring (Judy's too).

A walk around Gloucester . . . this had better be Part 1!

2009-05-19T09:59:00.015+01:00

Before going to Badminton Horse Trials - I am going back in time as you see! - about 10 days ago now, my friend Judy and I went to Gloucester, visiting the Cathedral first of all. I have only driven through Gloucester in the past, and Judy had told me many times about the beautiful calming atmosphere of the Lady Chapel, so I wanted to experience it for myself. I knew they had filmed Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone and also Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets there, and some of you may recognize the Cloister below (with its stunning ceilings) which Harry Potter and chums ran along in the films. There is apparently a Harry Potter trail and you will walk along these cloisters if you take it. The following link will tell you all about it and also gives a link to see 360 degree views of the interior of the cathedral (which will put my photos in the shade!) - http://www.bbc.co.uk/gloucestershire/focus/2003/08/potter_more_info.shtml

Prior to the Reformation of Henry VIII, Gloucester was a former Benedictine monastery dedicated to St Peter - from 1089 until 1540 when Henry VIII decided it would become a Cathedral . . . The remains of the earliest Anglo-Saxon monastery still stand and we passed them on our way from Tesco's car park to the Cathedral. The proximity of the Cathedral can be seen in the photograph below.

Once the Normans arrived, William the Conqueror installed Serlo, a monk from Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy as the Abbot. This was in 1072, and Serlo's appointment was good news for the Abbey, increasing the number of monks and indeed, the income from the considerable estates. The foundation stone of Serlo's new abbey was laid in 1089 and the abbey consecrated in July 1100.

This triptych of modern stained glass by Tom Denny portrays the New Testament story of Thomas in the presence of the risen Christ. It was made as part of the 900th anniversary celebration of the foundation of the Cathedral in 1089.

If you double click on these you will get more detail, including trees, sheep and cows in the above photograph.

Above is Thomas with Christ and below are portrayed the elements - earth, wind, water and fire.

This Elizabethan lady died in childbed, aged only 18. That's all I can recall about her as the photograph I took of her details got the wobbles and was illegible when I downloaded it.

The hook-nosed Robert's effigy is made of bog oak and dates from the thirteenth century, but the tomb chest dates from the fifteenth century.

The fan vaulting of the Great Cloister is world-famous. Here the monks would have lived, worked and meditated. Work began here in the 2nd half of the fourteenth century and was finished by Abbot Froucester in 1412. That's just rung a bell with me as outside Gloucester on the edge of the Cotswolds is Frocester Hill and if I remember correctly, there is a vast monastic tythe barn at the bottom of it and a gatehouse which I have a photo of somewhere . . .

I think this is on the Harry Potter trail!

Due to the vagaries of my useless broadband, this has taken all day to write/load photos on, so I shall post it now whilst I am connected . . .

One of those Rawhide moments. . .

2009-05-18T06:19:00.004+01:00

I am an early riser normally, but having woken a couple of times in the night, I was still sound asleep until woken by the sound of cows bellowing outside. In fact, they sounded very close and very upset. I was up and running before my eyes were even open and wrenched open the curtains to find upwards of 50 bloody piebald matrons in the paddock, munching for all they were worth and the ones who hadn't found the gap where they had broken the fence down, were bellowing outside the gate. Keith and I flung clothes on and hurtled outside to try and get them out which was not as easy as it sounds as in order to get these ones OUT, the front gate had to be open, and if that was open, all the rest wanted to come IN.

The poor cowman - middle European, very little English, could only mutter "string" in strangled tones and I had a Fawlty Towers moment where he reminded me of Manuel and I was very tempted to hit him over the head with a frying pan. Fortunately sanity prevailed and we concentrated on moving the outside bunch into the yard and then rounding up the ones decimating my paddock. The fact that I had put electric fencing tape around 7/8 of my new intake area saved it. Just one cow had got in and trampled through my raspberries (and God knows she did enough damage. I have trodden them back in and am hoping for the best).

It is NOT how I wished to start my week and fencing in pouring rain holds very little allure . . .

What a lovely day 1

2009-05-14T16:23:00.014+01:00

Part of my favourite stall. We used to have a meat safe like the one on the left. It lived in the larder.

I have so much I want to write about I hardly know where to start, so I shall go back to where I lost broadband connection and carry on from there. In early May my husband and I gave ourselves a well-earned day out together and drove up to the International Antiques and Collectors' Fair at Builth Wells, and spent a lovely day (smashing sunshine too!) wandering round, with a break for the usual crusty bread, cheese and fruit "car picnic."

There were so many stalls it was hard to know where to start, so we did the outside ones first - an eclectic mix as the photos show - before going into the back sheds (think mostly house clearance brown furniture and very little of interest). As you came forward through the sheds, the stalls became more organized with proper displays, until you came to the glass/china/jewellery which although interesting, were somewhat samey and I am trying to cut down on my china collection. We like furniture/prints and paintings/rural collectibles and of course, books. We were very abstemious as we had set ourselves a goal of only buying something we really needed which is why a set of large wooden curtain rings and a log splitter came home with us . . . And no, the curtain rings weren't for curtains but for my husband-with-the-woodskills to quarter and split in halves to use when restoring furniture with missing sections of moulding where they need to be curved to go in corners.

Then we came to the stands with some very nice antique furniture and fell in love with a Victorian elm blanket box, the sort with a little candle compartment inside. It was very reasonably priced (and my husband haggled), so we left a deposit and as they were not too far from us, arranged to collect on the Monday (so another day out!) The beautiful wild grain of Elm - usually seen in the seats of Windsor chairs, which we have a regular collection of now (mostly restored by my other half) - shows up even better on larger objects like this chest. An indulgence perhaps, but another piece of furniture will go to make way for it, in the name of "trading up". We need to get rid of several big lumps of furniture before we downsize and this is a fraction of the size of some of the pieces to go.

Then a last stroll around the outside stalls, amongst people carrying all sorts of strange and desirable (or not!) objects back to their cars. There were even sold stickers on some extremely rusty old bits of farm bric-a-brac - feeding troughs etc - and I thought the chap had wasted his petrol taking them there! Just goes to show there's no accounting for taste . . .

A hunting home had obviously had a clear-out - stuffed foxes and all! Amazing what turns up at auction . . .

I love stuff like this - could have brought that big stripey jug home with me! Further view below.

This (and above) was one of my favourite stalls as it had lots of little interesting rural pieces (and one or two nice interesting BIG pieces too.

With so much outside, it was just as well the weather held.

We spent some time talking to the lady with the wonderful Raj four poster beds - last used when Britain was a true Empire. We've always wanted a four poster . . . but not a lot of use if we move to a little cottage when we downsize though!

The house clearance side of things - some of it better than others. By this stage I was kicking myself for not having taken a stall myself - I had thought it was all "up market" but I was mistaken . . .

I fell in love with this beautiful little fine lawn cotton child's dress. Every stitch was hand-sewn, and though you probably can't see it, there was embroidery across the yoke, and very fine drawn threadwork above the little pin-tucks. It was £28 and I just wished I'd been the one to find it at auction (at considerably less!)

Zebra skin anyone? I wonder what my cats would make of this?!

I was very tempted by this little washing board for lace, as I come from generations of Northamptonshire lace makers on my mum's side, but I didn't "need" it.

I'm back!

2009-05-13T09:41:00.001+01:00

Well, after no broadband for nearly a week, it was fixed over the weekend when I was away at a friend's (we went to Badminton Horse Trials), then drove home Monday to find a tree had taken out our phone line, so I had neither phone nor broadband. Phone fixed yesterday and broadband finally sorted out AGAIN today. Fed up with phoning Indian call centre though . . .

LOTS to post about, but you will have to be patient as I have to proof-read my daughter's dissertation first - IF it ever finishes loading . . .

Family History - Bolts of Hennock

2009-05-04T07:42:00.003+01:00

Great excitement in the BB household as a "relly" has made contact, we share the same g.g.grandparents. dunigaj1 - could you please leave a comment with an e-mail addy (I won't publish the comment so you will have anonimity).

My husband and I have awarded ourselves a day off. Well, we have to collect a beautiful elm chest from Crickhowell. My husband fell in love with it at the Antiques Fair on Saturday at Builth, and it was a good price, so that's his birthday and Christmas present all in one.

Teatime now and I lost the connection this morning so couldn't post this. We have had a WONDERFUL day out and I will write it up tomorrow. I must have taken about a hundred photos . . .

Gardening

2009-05-01T06:20:00.015+01:00

Below is a corner of the wildlife pond, with Marsh Marigolds.

My garden has been more than taking up my spare time recently. I have been spending just about every waking moment out there. This is paying dividends and the flowering part of the garden is starting to look really good. I still have my work cut out on the intake plot in the paddock as the grass and the chocolate mint are now getting their revenge, after a good few days of rain, but hey-ho, the years of virtual abandonment have been turned round. I have dug, weeded, edged, got brutal with the thugs I will no longer tolerate - mainly Michaelmas Daisies and Achillea Ptarmica and have taken great pleasure in creating new beds and broadening the ones I have already. I have ordered 3 bare root roses frm the David Austin nurseries (they were cheap in their sale!) and they arrived today, so are currently soaking their roots in a bucket of water. I have been looking through their catalogue and lusting after so many new roses - but those are for the future, when we downsize elsewhere. I spent some of my birthday money on Cardinal Richelau, a deep purply red rose which David Austin sells, but on this occasion Wyevale actually had their own cheaper. It has its first bud already and I am ridiculously excited about seeing it bloom. The Blush Noisette climber is destined to go beside the gateway into the paddock plot - when we have moved some post and rail fencing down from the top field to enclose it - and built the gate! The Sir John Betjeman and Tuscany Superb will be incorporated into the wider flower beds.

I have fallen for the charms of various Heucharas too - having spent a lifetime thinking they were rather boring plants as they don't have a very spectacular flower. I have finally grown up and realized that foliage colour is important too. I have some gorgeous ones - a really purple one (Prince?) and one like burnished copper (Peach Flambe).

I had to buy an extra seed stack this year as I have so many seeds. The best grown ones are now in the Lidl tomato tunnel, which is housing trays of runner beans and peas. Earlier this week I sowed Nigella, Night-scented stock and Larkspur in the borders and just hope that the slugs don't get them as they did a whole packet of Stardust which I sprinkled on the rockery.

I also started off some Tarragon, more Coriander, about 40 Italian Cucumbers, more Courgettes etc, and the excess will go to car boot sales along with various other potted things I've grown such as Asiatic lilies and Feverfew and Lemon Balm. I have my Nasturtiums coming along now - a deep red one called Cobra, a creamy yellow called Moonlight, which I have planted beneath a deep purple Clematis to clamber up through it I have a tray of Ratibida, which look like Plantain only with big red petals - they're also known as Mexican Hats.

In the reinstated Herb garden in the paddock, I have strewn two packed of Pot Marigolds (years ago I had them self sown everywhere), and I have just planted fresh pots of Thyme, Santolina and Rosemary.

This year I have had a sudden desire for Aubretias in every suitable corner, and they are certainly brightening the place up.

I have masses of cowslips and about a million young plants in trays . . .

Some of my deep red Cowslips.

A corner of the widened bed by the Magnolia Stellata.

These used to be called Wallflowers and sold by the bundle for pennies. Now they are potted up and called Erysimus to try and fool the gullible public into paying up to £5.99 a pot (Wyevale prices!!) Couldn't resist this pretty colouring, and it wasn't too expensive . . . I shall take seeds too!

This side of the garden was planned for years, with a picture from a magazine held on the fridge door with fridge magnets. I never got around to the sundial unfortunately.

I can see it all in my mind's eye, and I can only hope a keen gardener buys our smallholding when it's on the market, but meanwhile I shall take photographs this summer for the buyer's booklet about the history of our house and how it looks through the seasons and of course, for our Master Copy!

A stroll round the Antiques Fair & Fleamarket

2009-04-26T18:37:00.009+01:00

A lovely old (ship's?) lamp - brass under all that tarnish - and with an electric fitting at present, but I would like to alter it to take a candle - if we can ever work out how to put the removable bottom back in with a squat lit candle on . . . Suggestions on a postcard please. . .

These are infinitely preferable to the Car Boot Sales down on the showground, although it's £3.50 a head to get in. We spent an hour and a half wandering round, slowly, and deliberating about an old lamp which we had fallen in love with, but wasn't as cheap as we'd have liked it. Anyway, we walked all the way round, went back and it was still there, so we brought it home with us - though the people didn't want to shift on the price. I think it may have come from a ship originally, as it has loops top and bottom to be hung from and perhaps tied with for steadiness?

My husband, who loves wooden carvings and collects them, along with Windsor and primitive chairs, couldn't leave two broken carvings behind - he has some mending to do now. They're not quite griffins as they don't have the eagle's beaked head (which has ears too) so I shall have to consult my bestiary. They would originally have possibly graced an elaborate mirror rather like the one we have behind our sideboard, which has King Alfred on the top.

He spent some time drooling over a lovely primitive chair, but that was way over our budget - think it was damn near £3,000!!! I spent just £6 on three books (pictured below). I was delighted with the Hermann Lea photographs from places in Thomas Hardy's novels. Two volumes and untouched - don't think they'd even been opened. I shall settle down with them tonight.

The Battle of Derwen Fawr

2009-04-24T08:31:00.008+01:00

The view West along the Towy Valley from Dryslwyn Castle.

Dryslywn Castle in winter.

Every time I drive along the A40 and pass the cross roads at Broad Oak, I look at the low-lying marshy fields and think of them strewn with dead and dieing men. This routeway along the Towy Valley has been in use since the Roman times, when it joined the forts at Carmarthen and Llandeilo and beyond, and doubtless since prehistoric times, as it is an obvious route along the valley bottom. The Grongar Hill of Dyer's famous poem overlooks it and was crowned by an Iron Age hillfort - for there was of course an earlier chain of command than the Roman forts and the later Medieval castles. Originally a glaciated valley, now silted up, a line of hills formed from the harder post-Silurian rocks has formed these obvious settlement areas. Dryslwyn Castle and Dinefwr Castle still stand on two of them.

This particular straight stretch of the A40 was constructed by Thomas Telford in the 1820s so we are unsure of the exact route of the original road. Higher land, heavily wooded in 1257 when the battle of Derwen Fawr took place, overlooks the marshy land. It was here, on the first two days of June, that the Welsh took on the Normans and routed them.

In this year of 1257, Llywelyn III and his uncles Maredudd ap Rhys and Maredudd ap Owain were the Welsh power in the area and the uncles held Dryslywn Castle. The two Maredudds had strong links with Whitland Abbey to the West, as they had been responsible for endowing the Abbey. Stephen de Bauson, and his Norman henchmen and mixed army of Norman, Gascon and even Welsh soldiers attacked Whitland Abbey, killing the monks and lay brothers, and destroying buildings there. They then proceeded along the Towy Valley, laying waste to the small farms and dwellings there, cocking a snook at the Welsh Lords in lofty Dryslwyn who were, I should imagine, grinding their teeth and planning revenge. However, accounts suggest that they avoided the actual main (A40) route since that led past the castles at Llanegwad and Dryslwyn which were in Welsh hands, so they must have taken the route south of the River Towy, crossing where the river can be easily forded near Derwen Fawr and camped the night nearby. Perhaps the intention was to move downstream and the laying waste to the Towy Valley communities would have convinced the Maredudds that they should surrender Dryslwyn without a fight.

The field names still record the slaughter on the first day of June: Congl Gwaedd - the corner of shouting - for it is written then noise figured much in the lead up to the battle, with Llewelyn's men cwtched up in the woodland overlooking the low ground and intimidating the opposing army with a barrage of noise and well-placed arrows (Welsh archers had a fearsome and well-deserved reputation as they proved at Agincourt).

Llether Cadfan - near the present Cadfan Farm - the slope of battle; Cae Dial - the field of retribution; and Cae Trac - the field of defeat, destruction and death . . . Those few words more than sum up the outcome of the battle - particularly to a Welshman.

At Cardigan, 30 or so miles North, were further supplies and reinforcements. Perhaps realizing they had bitten off more than they could chew, the Norman lord and his army moved off but when they reached Llether Cadfan they found that the Welsh army had come out of hiding. In this first fight, the English Army lost its supply train, with horses, weapons, armour and pack animals. Routed, the surviving army apparently headed northwards towards Talley and eventually Cardigan. The valley bottom was wet and marshy, the tributary valleys are steep narrow gorges. Sources suggest that the second battle may have taken place at Pont Myddfai - where several tributaries meet (noted in the records) and one of the streams has an unusual name - Nant Stephanau - quite possibly the place where Stephen du Bauson was killed. In the marshy ground, between 1000 and 3000 troops were killed - dragged from their mired horses and put to the sword. For hundreds of years it was the greatest defeat of an "English" army by the Welsh.

Many thanks to http://www.welshbattlefields.org.uk/eng/?page_id=18 for the facts used in this account.

Above, looking Eastwards (with a touch of South!) from Dryslywn Castle.

Sorry I don't have any photos of the actual battlefield.

Impressions

2009-04-21T17:58:00.003+01:00

I have been feeling rather unwell this afternoon, and managed just half an hour's sporadic five minute wanders into the garden to move a few primulas and home-grown plants around to colour up a corner by the wildlife pond. I am going to sit down this evening with a good book.

We had to g to St Clears today, to go to the wonderful butcher there (Eynon's) for steak for our son's 18th birthday tomorrow - how the years have flown by. I can still remember him, very blonde and very angry, in a green and white striped baby-gro, grizzling then yelling blue murder in nearly the same spot as I was gardening today, when it looked very much different with a trellis and some shrubs. Anyway, I digress. Sometimes there is an image which you capture and which will stay with you a long time. By the traffic lights was a big old rendered house with a high-walled garden. All you could see were the tops of a long-abandoned shrubbery, a Magnolia the size of a prefab and the most amazing Rhododendron the size of a caravan, the palest nearly-white pink with baby pink buds - just absolutely stunning. It took me back years, when I was still living in Southampton, and I took my mum to Exbury gardens for a treat. We had chosen our visit well, for all the Azaleas, Camelias and Rhododendrons were in bloom and walking through such a riot of colour was sensual overload.

We walked through a little gateway and found ourselves near the river, and a Stoat ran across our path, stopping to look at us a minute before going unhurriedly on his way. I've just sought out a photograph of Exbury from Creative Commons. I even found the bit where we saw the Stoat (see above). I feel a sudden urge to get in the car and start driving, to drink it all in again, but of course, I won't. I shall just polish the memories.

What might have been . . .

2009-04-18T07:01:00.005+01:00

Birthday Auriculas . . .

Do you ever wonder how your life might have been, if you hadn't taken a crucial decision, met certain people, moved to a particular place? For instance, if I hadn't married my first husband, moved my pony to a certain farm, met a good horsey friend there who subsequently moved back home to Dorset, and moved to Dorset myself when I split up with my husband, I might never have met the love of my life and we've been married 20 years now.

Just so with houses, for if we hadn't lost out on the cottage we were buying near Dartmoor, and if I hadn't been on holiday to Carmarthenshire in 1971 and 1972 and fell in love with the area, we might never have moved to our current home. And in fact, if we hadn't bought a huge £1 mirror at auction and decided that it would be lovely to have an old farmhouse to hang it in, life might have been very different indeed.

I was thinking all these thoughts - and more - driving up to Sheffield with Eldest Daughter on Thursday. Every time I have driven up through mid-Wales and passed the turning to Montgomery, I have wondered what the town looked like, as we were very keen to view a half-timbered farmhouse in the area, which sounded just what we were looking for, but unfortunately the vendor was playing ducks and drakes and every time we tried to make an appointment to view, he cancelled, driving us and the Estate Agents to despair. In the end, we gave up and moved to Carmarthenshire instead.

So when I was driving back home yesterday I thought "S*d it, I'll go and see what we missed!" I have to say, sitting in the serene little market square in Montgomery, with its beautiful houses and 3 or 4 small shops, I think it would have suited us to the ground. I drove up a steep winding hill past the castle (will visit that next time, camera in hand) and out across beautiful countryside back through Abermule and onto the road home.

Living in the past

2009-04-15T05:05:00.006+01:00

The tiny tree-clad motte at Llanegwad, where the castle was possibly the one put to the torch in 1203.

There are times when your mind becomes immersed in an idea, a concept, and it returns to this idea like a dog with a bone. Thus when I was awake at 4 a.m. again this morning, my mind kept wandering around this parish (Llanegwad), peopling it with long-dead inhabitants, mulling over the limits of Talley Abbey lands, thinking about the Medieval administrative tiers of Cantref, Commote, Maerdref, Llys, about the kingdom of Deheubarth, the Lord Rhys in his llys at Dinefwr, the battles which waged back and forth between Welsh princelings, and then the hated English.

I thought about Monachdy, with its grange which was the final outpost of the Premonstratension monks of Talley Abbey (that title for the white-robed monks makes me think of PMT!), and the lost chapel in a nearby field and the chunks of high-status dressed stone possibly from there which we found used in the flagstone floor in the bottom kitchen. I thought about the lost chapel attached to Llandeilo-yr-ynys, a grand house on the banks of the Towy, and which probably derived its name from the ancient land divisions when Maenor Brwnws was settled on the confluence of the rivers Cothi and Towy - Llandeilo Rwnws . . .

I thought about the battle here between the Normans and the Welsh in 1116, and the bloody battle further up the Towy Valley near Derwen Fawr in 1257, when - if I remember rightly - the English army were caught wrong-footed and slaughtered like rabbits caught in a car's headlight. That deserves a post in itself, so I shall do just that when I return from taking our eldest daughter back to University.

I wondered if it really WAS the little castle on the motte in Llanegwad which was burnt by the Welsh in 1203, and how, in 1287, people living along our valley would have fled or died when the soldiers sent by the Norman Constable of Carmarthen, Robert de Tibetot plundered and pillaged up as far as Brechfa in pursuit of Rhys ap Maredudd after a beseigement of Dryslwyn Castle. Rhys was patron of Talley Abbey and much against the English king replacing the Welsh canons at Talley with English ones.

I have a feeling I shall be hunting the Records Office again soon . . .

"Made in England"

2009-04-14T03:56:00.004+01:00

Do you remember when "Made in England" was on just about everything we bought? It was a byword for quality. I'm trying hard to think of anything at the cheaper end of the market which is still Made In England, particularly if it is a garment, but it seems that everything comes in from the Far East sweatshops these days. In fact, everything seems to be farmed out, from food to utilities. Britain has forgotten that it is an Island, and as such, vulnerable in times of duress.

Indeed, back in 1967/68, pride in our country and a motivation to reduce the Government Debt (who would help them out these days?!!!) resulted in a short-lived campaign to work an extra half hour a day for no pay to increase productivity. The slogan was "I'm Backing Britain". Here in Wales of course, it was "I'm Backing Wales" . . . It was started by 5 secretaries in Surbiton, who were working for Colt Ventilation and Heating and you can read all the details on the Wikipedia entry.

Back in the 1930s, Dorothy Hartley was travelling the countryside chronicling the skills and crafts which were recorded faithfully in her book "Made in England", first published in 1939. Her book is divided into crafts associated with Wood; Straw, Reed, Grass and Willow; Stone; Metal; Bricks and Pottery; Leather and Horn and Wool and Feathers. Let me share an extract with you:

"One of the most beautiful things I ever saw of English make was a black oak table, polished with beeswax, upon which stood twelve slender black horn tumblers. They fluted upwards, from ebony to creamy white, and there were black and white horn-handled knives to match - simple, practical, and modern, yet as old as the hills. It is a great pity that the new composition materials, from which so many various things may be fashioned, should have helped to reduce the output of the genuine horn goblet. There is even less 'apparatus' needed to form goblets than spoons - a saw, lathe, and polishing buffs are all that is required.

Apart from the decorative value, travellers find horn light in weight and often more effective for use than metal or glass. In this connection I remember a very English incident in a small horn factory in Gloucestershire. A workman who had been in trade from boyhood, 'and his father before him,' said that his grandfather, 'before that,' had a busy time 'a few years ago' when he (the grandfather) 'got a sudden rush of orders for medicine glasses for the Crimean War'.

Because as soon as the doctors arrived abroad all the medicine glasses were found broken in the knapsacks, so then 'all army medicine glasses had to be made of horn'. It was 'a great rush of work in that small place in those days!' I remember I had spent a happy afternoon in that country workshop, and now the place was very quiet, the workers had gone home, a bee drifting in through the open door zoomed its way across and out through a broken window. On the odd tools and the worn benches, the dust of the day's work and the fluff from the polishing lathes was drifting down.

I remember how the workman stooped slowly, and hunting and rooting in an old oak bin under his bench, produced one of these old glasses for me. He wiped it, and stood it down on the bench. It was 3 inches deep, by about 2 inches in diameter, very dusty. He looked at it reminiscently, 'Very clear horn, these medicine glasses had to be - this one's darkish, expect that's why it got chucked out; it's been there ever since the Crimea . . .'

He chucked it back into the box, together with a short shoe-horn, a snuff box that had warped, and something new that looked as if it might be a piece of aeroplane fitment. The horn, and the workman, were the same: only the wars change." ("Made in England": Dorothy Hartley, 1939, Eyre Methuen.

We still use the old-fashioned bone-handled table knives, a bone-handled carving knife, and I have two very old bone spoons (one Scottish) which are a joy to touch. It is good to find out that items are still being made from horn and its use has not died out entirely.

In case you are interested, the following link is excellent, and horn spoons and other items are still being made and sold, though I suspect there is little British horn now that cattle are generally disbudded as calves. And that link calls up another forgotten skill - the traditional Umbrella Maker . . .

Heritage craft skills

2009-04-12T07:12:00.004+01:00

I have always been fascinated by rural skills and traditions. I can remember riding through woodland at Odstock in Wiltshire and seeing a man making hurdles from carefully-coppiced stools of hazel - I hope his son is carrying on this tradition. At agricultural shows I have always been interested in watching the chap with the pole lathe, turning chair legs, or the basket-maker (something I have had a one day course in and would love to pursue) or the potter or whoever has a demo. spot that day. I often think that I was born in the wrong time. On my mum's side I come from a long long line of Northamptonshire lace makers. I have always been drawn to needlecrafts, and love to embroider, and do x-stitch, spin, needle-felting, hand-made quilts, hand quilting, plus knitting, crochet and upholstery (hitting something with a hammer is SO satisfying!) Although my mum taught me to knit when I was little, and I was shown how to crochet last year (thank you Sarah), and I used to go to Upholstery evening classes, the other skills have been self-taught with the aid of books. My husband works with wood - and is a skilled turner, repairing chairs in particular and antiques in general and he has a real affinity for anything made from wood. He has also done dry stone walling course in the past. The satisfaction derived from making something from scratch - be it a meal, or a loaf, or a cushion-cover or a gate or basket, has to be experienced to be appreciated.

Last weekend I was fortunate enough to find three wonderful books about rural crafts - Made in England by Dorothy Hartley; Household and Country Crafts by Allan Jobson, and The Complete Practical Book of country Crafts by Jack Hill. They catalogue wonderful skills and traditions but sadly many of these are dieing out for one reason or another - and not necessarily from lack of demand. So much knowledge and skill has already been lost and these traditional skills should be more than just a demonstration at an agricultural show.

I hope that you will visit the Heritage Crafts Association which is keeping these wonderful traditional crafts alive. If you have a blog, mention them on your blog, and put a link on facebook or twitter or whatever social network you enjoy. Then set yourself a task to learn one new thing to make in the coming year - one skill, one traditional craft perhaps.

I blinked and missed it . . .

2009-04-10T18:37:00.010+01:00

Where has the last week gone? I have been bound up with collecting our eldest daughter from Uni - that took 2 days - then it was nearly my birthday, so we had a day out and then a day celebrating (indoors as it rained), and today I have been in the garden practically all day and I am now struggling to stay awake. Tomorrow I have to visit a friend in hospital and on Monday i will be up at first sparrow's f*rt to take our middle daughter to her friend's in Newport (not Pembs!) for onward transition back to Uni . . .

My birthday outing was wonderful - mostly revisiting places which have a special meaning for me. The Pilgrim burials at Llanstephan; Newport - for a beach picnic then a wander round the town including the antique and 2nd hand bookshop; discovering Moylegrove for the first time; gazing at wild flowers and the cairns along the ridge of Carn Ingli; looking at the river where we once found Mesolithic flints; taking Tam to see Pentre Ifan for the first time and of course taking photographs to remind me of the day. We ended up in Newcastle Emlyn, where I couldn't resist spending some of my birthday money on plants for the garden. It cost nothing but the fuel and some bread and cheese for our lunch, but will live in my memory forever.

Cottage at Moylegrove.

It was hard to tell where the sea stopped and the sky began . . .

What a ducky little castle - best I've ever seen.

Window surrounded by slate weatherproofing on a Newport (Pembs) cottage.

How Pentre Ifan may have looked when it was still in use as a burial chamber.

Busy in the garden

2009-04-04T07:35:00.007+01:00

Why aren't there more hours in the day? I am going flat out just to stand still at the moment as there is so much to do outside. My fault, my husband tells me - I have made a rod for my own back because I have widened the herbaceous border in the front garden and because of my "intake" area in the paddock. Since February (I started in January, but ice and snow stopped play) I have been gradually been cutting back, mattocking, digging, weeding, removing nettle and bramble roots, and then planting up a new soft fruit area MUCH bigger than my existing one. I did have an overflow area of blackcurrants, and two redcurrants and an escapee gooseberry bush, but now I have planted about 40 raspberry canes (many of them autumn fruiting), a couple more gooseberries, about a dozen blackcurrants and redcurrants - the former home grown, the latter boughten. I have bought and planted a Jostaberry, a lovely Autumn Gold raspberry, a potted cranberry and about to transplant a blueberry, and transplanted dozens of young strawberry plants. Over on the original plot I have added more rhubarb crowns, two tayberries and just transplanted some more autumn fruiting raspberries which were threatening to take over the main veg. plot.

I have resurrected the original herb bed, which surprisingly still had its original inhabitants, despite having Fahly-horse walking over it all winter for the last 6 years (bar last). I have transplanted the inhabitants of my raised herb bed and that is "supposed" to be turned into a plastic-covered greenhouse, but I am waiting on my husband for that . . . and I know him of old - he has a PhD in procrastination . . .

I have planted young fruit trees either side of the pathway - several pears, a Victoria Plum, a Cox's Pippin apple and moved a very well grown Bay tree to the end (it looks like it is surviving). There is still much to do, but we have made good progress. Of course, with the downsizing planned for next year, I am doing this for the incoming family, but I shall enjoy it this year and I think it's a good selling point - the "Good Life" and self-sufficiency and all that . . .

Towards the beginning, when all I had done was clear the bramble brakes, lay the weed suppressant membrane for the path, and put the fruit trees in.

How it is now, with autumn bliss raspberries in the foreground; strawberries - including under the plastic cloche; summer raspberries to their right; young black- and red-currants behind that and established blackcurrants and gooseberries to the right.

Herb bed between the two fruit trees, and foreground shows one end of the first potato plot. The right hand half of the plot will be mostly spuds and perhaps some beans this year, if I get the digging done in time. Ignore Next Door's shabby shed (we do!). Another job to be done is to move the piles of grassy builder's sand and duff which are at the base of our wall. I intend to put tubs of flowers along here.

This is the original soft fruit garden with the transplanted autumn bliss raspberries and tayberries/loganberry the other side of the blue baling twine. Out of sight are 4 well grown gooseberry bushes and some Japanese Wineberries.

Right, I can't put off the digging ANY longer . . .

The long way round

2009-03-31T05:45:00.018+01:00

We had to take our car for its first MoT last week, and went the most delightful scenic route both ways, up over the mynydd. It was raining on the way out so I couldn't take photos of the beautiful Saanan valley, but I made my husband stop on the way back over Llanybydder mynydd for a photo session. I spotted this small standing stone beside the road and yelled, "Stop!"

Below: As you can see, it was quite diddy, but perhaps there is more hidden beneath the peat and tussock grass . . .

On the very top of Llanybydder Mountain, you can see the steeply banked trackways of old farmsteads, against the backdrop of mile upon mile of Forestry Commission pines. This is Brechfa Forest. They have one stage of the World (Car) Rally Championships here each year.

And when the logging company has been in . . .

The shabby little Village Hall, c. 1920ish I would think.

The little church of Llanfihangle-Rhos-y-Corn.

Inside it is a very plain and simple place of worship.

What a pretty pulpit with its sunflower motif.

There was a lovely maze put in the adjacent field, and as I walked around it, in reflection, I began to understand mazes - you couldn't cut corners or step across, you had to keep on to the end, nose to the grindstone, so to speak, in quiet contemplation . . .

J.J. with a date of 1869.

I wonder who M.E. was? I have a feeling they were in memory of children.
Looking back in the direction of home. Our valley begins with the last swell of hill.

A 'modernized' cottage snuggled down in the valley below.

The road is just ever so slightly zig-zag! The bend after this almost disappears up its own . . . You get the picture?!

Archaeology - the 67 foot tall menhir . . .

2009-03-28T17:00:00.004Z

I found my birthday present this week (early!) It was going to be something gardening-orientated, then my darling husband dragged me into the excellent 2nd hand book shop in Llandeilo and my fate was sealed, as I came out with Julian Cope's The Megalithic European, which I had seen in Ottakers when it first came out, but at £35 was out of my budget then. Here it was remaindered and only £20, so it didn't hurt so much!

Of course, I wish I had seen The Modern Antiquarian now - especially as the cheapest price I can source it at is £50 plus p&p. Ah well, I shall pray that it turns up at a car boot sale as I shall fight for it!

Every evening I pick this wonderful book up, read a bit more, look through the gazeteer - which is AMAZING. Menhirs and burial chambers from across Europe. I have visited many archaeological sites in Britain, from Aberdeenshire down to Devon, and of course, here in Wales, and also in Ireland. I would love to go to Britanny though, to the concentration of fabulous monuments at Carnac. The amazing stone rows at Kermario which remind me so strongly of the little echoes of them which survive on Dartmoor (Merrivale and Drizzlecomb), and the wonderful jewel in the crown that is Gavr'inis, with its richly-carved stones, reminiscent (slightly) of those at Newgrange in Ireland, which I have seen in the flesh. I can remember doing an essay on the artwork on this at Uni and my conclusion (then) was that it was associated with the coming of agriculture. I'd like to revisit the topic now . . .

And the 67 foot menhir? That would be the Grand Menhir Brise. Weighing in at 300 tons, and sadly broken on the ground in several gigantic pieces, there is no evidence that this ever stood - though it would need to have been buried in the ground roughly a third of its length. The fact that it exists at all, broken or no, says a lot about the society which brought it to that place. There are other massive menhirs amongst this concentration of truly superb archaeology. The Table de Marchands and Er Grah, less than 100 metres away, have sections of yet another huge menhir as their capstones - this menhir probably stood on the site of Er Grah according to Julian Copes and a third section of this standing stone is incorporated into the tomb at Gavr'inis. One might speculate that the reason for doing this can be one of several - veneration for the previous monument, although it would appear that its ritual use had changed over time, causing the menhir to be incorporated in the new burial megaliths; deliberate destruction - perhaps following the introduction of different religious beliefs, or just sheer practicality - menhir falls over, breaks, and a lot of man hours saved having to quarry and move stone from elsewhere.

This amazing monolith was somehow moved over 2 and a half miles from its native quarry. This was 6000 years ago and whoever was in control of causing this concentration of prehistoric building, was a very powerful leader indeed.

Photographs courtesty of contributors to Creative Commons Search.

Castell Coch Part II

2009-03-25T18:04:00.015Z

The cowman (!) Next Door once took his girlfriend to Castell Coch for an afternoon out. He reported back that it was "very small" and "nothing special" and a waste of money . . . The old saying about casting pearls before swine springs to mind!

I have to go out now so will return later and add more information beneath the pictures. Enjoy!

The truly magnificent fireplace in the Banquetting Hall.

The Drawing Room walls are painted with scenes from Aesop's Fables. These were executed following Burges' death in 1881 and typical of the Aesthetic movement design then employed when the Master's guiding hand was gone. If you double-click on this you will see that the monkey left, has wonderful Victorian whiskers, and that there is a little frog in the middle with a quack medicine bottle!

The fireplace with the figures of the Three Fates above it, designed by William Burges and executed (carved) by Thomas Nicholls.

Painted panels surrounded us, with detailed botanical studies.

Foxgloves and other wild flowers painted in the panelling.

A close up of the detailed wall painting in the Drawing Room. This is JUST up my street - LOVE it. Hollyhocks are US!

A corner of Lord Bute's bedroom. The bed was based on a design by Viollet-de-Duc and was made from copper-plated cast iron railing held together by elaborately knotted ropework. The feet splay out in a very Moorish design and I wish I'd taken a photo of them now!

Wouldn't you jut LOVE a bed like this? The mattress looked good and lumpy but is in fact a feather mattress and having once slept in a feather bed, I can vouch for it being the best night's sleep I ever had. The mattress hugged you to it. I love the Crystal balls about the bed and wonder if she woke up feeling wonderfully mentally attuned the next day . . . This too is a copy of a supposed 14th C design illustrated by Eugene Viollet-le-Duc, who was a central figure in the Gothic Revival period in France.

The archways around the room show the Moorish influence which Burges took to his heart in his interiors at Castell Coch and Cardiff Castle. His travels to Sicily and Constantinople had a strong influence on his future designs. I would like to add that there are elements of Celtic design too, as recourse to any of Romilly Allen's notes and books on Celtic knotwork designs on early Christian monuments would show.

Now THIS is what I CALL a washstand! isn't it superb? It was designed after Burges' death by J S Chapple and dated 1891. The castle towers hide lead-lined cisterns for hot and cold water.

One of the pair of Moorish-influenced chairs which are based on earlier designs by Burges.

The incredible vaulted dome ceiling in Lady Bute's bedroom. Burges was no stranger to designing domed ceilings like this, as he had designed one for the chancel of Studley Royal church in Yorkshire and he had made miniature domes for his scheme of decoration at St Paul's Cathedral and for a chapel at Penylan in Cardiff.

Detail on one of the carved capitals at the base of the vaulting. Each one around the room shws different birds and animals.

This is just small section of the vaulted ceiling in Lady Bute's bedroom. I cannot imagine how long it took to paint all this incredible detail but the more you look at it, the more wonderful it obviously is. Incidentally, Lord Bute disapproved of the monkeys in the panels - makes me wonder what his take was on Darwin's theories? The interlacing vines and backgrounds for the other panels re influenced by and allude to the Sleeping Beauty (fairy tale turns into Lady Bute one assumes!)

Thinking . . .

2009-03-24T17:57:00.004Z

There will be more photos from Castell Coch tomorrow, but right now I am shattered from all the gardening I've been doing the past 10 days or so - especially the mattocking I have been doing in the paddock.

I sat down on the bank in the paddock this afternoon, when the sun was out, and having just dug up some round pebbles (possibly Iron Age ammunition), glass (Victorian or later), tile (possibly earlier), glazed tile (1950s fireplace) and a burned stone (any period), I got to thinking about the people who lived here in late Medieval and Tudor times - I would need to be digging deeper for traces of THEM! I wondered where the original house was and whether the 'great hall' was in front of where I was sitting at that moment or buried inside our present house, which has 1718 over the door, but that is just modifications to the architecture as we have an external wall a couple of feet thick in the middle of the house. We have found two parallell lines of foundation stones on the line of our present driveway.

I imagined the Bardic poet Lewis Glyn Cothi arriving on a sensible cob, and settling down by the fire to compare genealogy with his host and write praise poetry (he is recorded as being a great friend of the influential family living here then.) I imagined the excitement when one of the sons here was given a position as Esquire to the body of Henry VII. I imagined the other sons - or even their father - riding into Carmarthen in search of entertainment when country life got tedious. Perhaps their father had a mistress there who he visited when he was supposedly on official business and he would ride into town like Yuri in Dr Zhivago, visiting Lara.

I wondered what it was like here when Carmarthen Castle surrendered to Glyndwr in his rebellion, and when local Dryslwyn was so badly damaged by his forces in 1403 that it ceased to be of any importance and the townsfolk of its hilltop village would have been killed or at least displaced. Were the beacons flaring along the line of command up the Towy Valley, from Carmarthen to Dryslwyn, to Dinefwr, to mighty Carreg Cennen on its limestone crag? Did our family rally to the call to arms?

I am glad that we don't have to fight local battles or defend ourselves against all-comers, but every time I find a round pebble, I think of the defended Iron Age enclosure in the field next door to ours, and wonder, was it a slingshot? And does that burnt stone come from a Medieval hearth?

Castell Coch Part I

2009-03-23T04:06:00.012Z

Castell Coch is a Gothic Revival castle near Cardiff and it was owned and restored by the fabulously-rich John Patrick Crichton-Stewart, Third Marquess of Bute and his skilled architect, William Burges. Burges was a somewhat eccentric character, greatly influenced by the work of Augustin Pugin (who designed the interior for the Houses of Parliament and a wonderfully talented man). Lord Bute's wealth came from his inherited portfolio of land holdings in Scotland, England and Wales, which included the land and mineral rights of the coalfields beneath the Welsh valleys, and most of Cardiff, including the Dock area . . . The astute marriages of 3 generations of his family left him the richest man in the world. Lord Bute loved nothing better than a project - and the Medieval ruins of Castell Coch overlooking the Taff gorge, once the stronghold of Gilbert de Clare - proved to be an excellent project indeed.

Work began in 1875, but sadly Burges died in 1881 so never saw the finished castle. It is similar in the interior to the fabulous Cardiff Castle which Lord Bute and 'Billy' Burges also restored previously, only not quite so 'over the top' and it is incredible to think that for such a wonderful and impressive building, there are only 'his and hers' bedrooms and NO guest bedrooms at all! In fact, it was only really lived in by the widowed Lady Bute whilst the titles and estates were being passed into her keeping following her husband's death.

The approach to the castle.

This aspect in particular, is very like Cardiff Castle, with the covered walkway.

A quiet corner of the kitchen.

The dresser was absolutely massive.

A splendid range and huge table.

Lord Bute's many-windowed bedroom.

The hip bath, which would have been placed in front of the fire before being filled, and his elegant wash stand.

This unusual cupboard, like the other furniture in the castle, was made in the Bute workshops.

More tomorrow . . .

Who am I?

2009-03-21T18:25:00.003Z

I've just been over to Nita's friendly blog and she has taken the Typealyzer test, which looked a bit of fun, so I entered both my blogs, and came up the same person on each . . . Apparently I am . . .

"The entertaining and friendly type. They are especially attuned to pleasure and beauty and like to fill their surroundings with soft fabrics, bright colors and sweet smells. They live in the present moment and don´t like to plan ahead - they are always in risk of exhausting themselves. The enjoy work that makes them able to help other people in a concrete and visible way. They tend to avoid conflicts and rarely initiate confrontation - qualities that can make it hard for them in management positions. "

That does sound rather like me. . .

http://www.typealyzer.com/index.php?lang=en

Tomorrow, the first post about our visit to Castell Coch . . . At the top is a photo taken today, hoping I will tempt you back . . .

Curiouser and curiouser

2009-03-20T12:01:00.005Z

I have been trying to do some research on symbolism shown on the Norman gravestones at St Michael's church the other day. Easier said than done, as there is little to make comparison with. The figure(s) on the horse(s) above remind me of a particular Pictish image, but though I have searched my dissertation (on that subject), several of my collection of books on Insular Art, and various other publications I cannot find the image I am remembering. There are two horses - either that or the sculptor couldn't count as there are three hind legs . . . There also appear to be two heads on the figure, and one figure appears to be face on to the viewer. The nearest comparison I can make is with the viewer-facing (female) rider on the Hilton of Cadboll Pictish stone. She is on a larger equine though, probably riding side-saddle and although she has another horse behind hers, it is completely mirroring the outline of her horse. The weathering on the St Michael's stone hides the original intention and design, though even allowing for the cracking at the top of the piece, I believe there are two heads, not one, and the nearer rider could be jumping sideways off his horse, arms outstretched (an early Franki Dettori perhaps . . .) or possibly they are fighting - so you are seeing the BACK of the nearer figure, wielding (right-handed) his sword and the other is right-handedly fighting back? Dunno for sure . . .

This is a very unusual pre-historical spiral symbolism to appear on a Norman burial. In "The Celtic Christian Sites of the central and southern Marches" (Sarah & John Zaluckyj), they illustrate carved stone at Llangammarch Wells, which is set into the church wall and dated to between the 7th and 9th centuries. It is the remains of a pillar stone decorated with a wheel cross (top) and below a "gingerbread-man" type figure (!) with annulets (rings) around it and a full three ring spiral starting as the prehistoric examples on say, Newgrange in Ireland.

The same sculptor is believed to have been responsible for stone carvings now built into the east wall of the porch at Llanafan Fawr, near Builth Wells, and only a few miles from Llangammarch. There are also spirals found at Moylgrove in Pembrokeshire and Tregaron in Cardiganshire, and it is suggested that there may be stylistic links with Ireland on carvings accompanying the spirals and attributed to the same sculptor. So, links with Ireland; an enduring motif or belief which hints at a belt-and-braces approach to Christianity, even a thousand years on, or just a foible of the Normans?

Thelma - I'd love your take on this.

Kipling poem

2009-03-19T18:33:00.004Z

This is quite my favourite church - at Capel-y-Ffin near Hay-on-Wye and it seemed to fit the image I had in mind for Eddi's church . . .

I've just looked this up (see comments from most recent post) and here's the poem in full:

Poetry by Rudyard Kipling - Eddi's Service

Eddi, priest of St. Wilfrid
In his chapel at Manhood End,
Ordered a midnight service
For such as cared to attend.

But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,
And the night was stormy as well.
Nobody came to service,
Though Eddi rang the bell.

"'Wicked weather for walking,"
Said Eddi of Manhood End.
"But I must go on with the service
For such as care to attend."

The altar-lamps were lighted, --
An old marsh-donkey came,
Bold as a guest invited,
And stared at the guttering flame.

The storm beat on at the windows,
The water splashed on the floor,
And a wet, yoke-weary bullock
Pushed in through the open door.

"How do I know what is greatest,
How do I know what is least?
That is My Father's business,"
Said Eddi, Wilfrid's priest.

"But -- three are gathered together --
Listen to me and attend.
I bring good news, my brethren!"
Said Eddi of Manhood End.

And he told the Ox of a Manger
And a Stall in Bethlehem,
And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider,
That rode to Jerusalem.

They steamed and dripped in the chancel,
They listened and never stirred,
While, just as though they were Bishops,
Eddi preached them The World,

Till the gale blew off on the marshes
And the windows showed the day,
And the Ox and the Ass together
Wheeled and clattered away.

And when the Saxons mocked him,
Said Eddi of Manhood End,
"I dare not shut His chapel
On such as care to attend."

Note: (A.D. 687)

Back tomorrow with the results of some research . . .

Spring Sunshine and links with the Normans - part I, the church of St Michael

2009-03-17T13:12:00.012Z

Today, map and Sian Rees' "Dyfed" in hand, my husband and I had a morning out to discover the ancient church of St Michael near Llansteffan. We had gone in search of it before, but forgotten our map, and been unable to find it. As it was, there are two ruined churches close to one another and I had been convinced it was the other we were looking for!

It was just above the marshes where the Afon Cwywn flows into the Taf and as magical a place as you could wish to be on a sunny spring morning. We followed the directions and parked outside the farmhouse of Trefenty - and WHAT a farmhouse, a double pile, enormous and towering over the excellent farm buildings, and with a beautiful garden and vast newly-dug pond. The ruins of what may have been an earlier farmhouse in a state of great distress, mouldered next door.

We followed directions and our map and made our way through the farmyard, our arrival broadcast by two collies and a one-eyed Jack Russell who escorted us across the fields to the ruined Norman church. The view across the sunlit marshes and sparkling river was superb. The ruined church - one wall entirely fallen down - sat amongst snowdrops, celendines and several yew trees. A long-abandoned horse-drawn hay tedder rusted away by the wall.

The church was originally probably founded by the Norman lords of the nearby 12th C motte and bailey castle, nearer the house. There are 6 burials dating from this period and probably associated with the original Norman Lords f the Manor, but legend has it that these were "pilgrim's graves" and the church a "pilgrim church" although Major Francis Jones stated that there were no such references prior to 1860. The church has been long abandoned and a new one built in a spot more convenient for parishoners. Francis Jones noted that:

"During the later period few worshippers came to the church of Llanfihangel, mainly because of remoteness, particularly during wintry weather. On one occasion, the congregation consisting of only the vicar, and pious old Mr. Evans of Llandeilo (his own church being then in disrepair), who always attended accompanied by a faithful sheep-dog to whom he was devoted, the vicar is said to have introduced into the prayers this extempore distich-

O Dduw, maddeu i ni ein tri
Ifans Llandeilo a finne a'r ci,

which I have ventured to translate as

O Lord, may forgiveness for us three be found
Evans Llandeilo, myself, and the hound."

There is also a wonderful prophecy that should the graveyard ever be neglected, then the parish would be visited by a plague of snakes! This, however, seems not to have ever been fulfilled. . .

There is a nearby abandoned church (that of Llandeilo, which is the one I nearly took us to by mistake, as that is also ruinous) which is also on the edge of the marshes, and abandoned for the same reasons as St Michael's, because it was at the very southern tip of its parish.

Of the pilgrim graves, I will write more tomorrow. However, the occupants of the farm had a curious custom:

In the Antiquities of Laugharne (1880) Mary Curtis has this to say about "the farmhouse called Treventy which occupies the site of a monastery. I visited this house which is large and substantially built, the walls enormously thick, bearing marks of great age ... I have been told that the dairy only is part of it [monastry]; that the kitchen before it was altered was a curious place. It is divided into two, and appears more ancient than the rest of the house. There was a while ago in front of the house, a passage with a roof to it, along which funerals had a right to pass to the church; out of it they have formed two rooms. At the back of the house I observed some walls looking very old. About ten minutes' walk from this farm, on the St. Clears side of it, is a small cottage very ancient, the walls exceedingly thick; it is called 'Treventy Gate'." She adds this about Trefenty mansion — "Opposite the front of the house, the river way, are earth works; here tradition says a battle was fought" — this is the castell of which I have spoken earlier.

Reference to the funeral practice is contained also in D. E. Jenkins's Life of the Rev. Thomas Charles, B.A., of Bala, published in 1908. He wrote, "Another custom of the parish is the old passage in the farmhouse of Treventy . . . . Funerals weddings, and the ordinary congregation had to pass through on their way to Church, and each individual had to present his (or her) name to the tenant of Treventy on passing through. There was no public way passing the Church, and the owner of the Manor of Oysterlowe Grange had no desire to forfeit his right and allow the public to claim a right of way; and this, probably was an ingenious contrivance whereby each person might be kept conscious of the private ownership of the path down to the Church. Even the horses and their litter had to pass with the body through the limits fixed by the old thick walls and the white-wash". In 1841 the path to the church is shown well eastwards of the house and outbuildings, and in all likelihood the custom had been discontinued before that time.

* * *

Perhaps most beguiling of all, is the local memory concerning an unconventional circumstance attending cheese-making at Trefenty. About the years 1860-64, Mr. Plowden permitted a shepherd to keep two cows on the demesne. Their milk enabled him to make cheese which he sold to augment his scanty wages. As he could not afford to buy a cheese-press (peis) the enterprising fellow went to the deserted churchyard and took a few of the fallen headstones, and with deftness and ingenuity fashioned the necessary article, which despite its homely construction proved thoroughly efficient. Farmhouse cheeses in those days were large and circular, often well over a foot, even two feet, in diameter, as delicious to the taste as nutritious for the system. Now, one of the stones used by the adroit shepherd bore the inscription "In memory of David Thomas", and those words came out clearly etched on the cheeses. He carried them to St. Clears and was not long before he attracted customers, one of whom having read the inscription on his purchase, observed "You have resurrected this cheese from Llanfihangel churchyard!" This caused much mirth, and thereafter the succulent produce of Trefenty became known throughout the district as "the Resurrection Cheese" — caws yr Atgyfodiad.

Many thanks to the Carmarthenshire Historian website,

http://carmarthenshirehistorian.org/cgi-bin/twiki/view/Historian/TrefentySomeObservationsAndReflections

where the article by Major Francis Jones was shown.

This tiny stone was between two others, so is presumed to be that of a child.

One of the female gravestones.

If you look carefully, you should see two animals on either side of her arms (for it is a female burial). I think they could be beloved dogs.

A fuller view of the same stone, showing the lattice pattern on the bottom of the stone.

This huge sword denotes the masculine grave and is similar to hogsback graves often found further north.

This is rather broken now, which is a shame.

The other hogsback, again decorated with a massive sword.

Friday's Walk

2009-03-15T06:35:00.018Z

Now that spring is here I have no excuse not to get back into my walking regime again (apart from gardening that is!) Anyway, nothing daunted, on Friday I set off to do a local walk using two footpaths I've not used before. The first one was great - contouring and cutting off the steepest bit of the hill - the bit wot has an arrow on it on the map, showing it's like mountaineering - a mini Porlock Hill in fact. The 2nd footpath leads around what was a promontory fort in Bronze Age times, and was then commandeered by the Normans as a suitable spot to put a motte and bailey on. Sadly, from my muddy pathway in the bottom, the hillsides were too steep to see the motte from.

There were a few wild daffodils flowering in the woods. I should love to go to the woodlands in Herefordshire now, where there will be acres of these tiny wild daffodils around Much Marcle.

As it is such wet woodland (all woodland is around here, because of clay over a bedrock of poor slate) there was plenty of Saxifraga oppositifolium (for some reason it is properly known as Chrysoplenium oppositifolium but I used an old book when originally identifying it - Keble Martin perhaps?) Anyway it's about the only Latin name I know and trips off the tongue beautifully! My girls used to chant it when they were small : ) It is flowering now and en masse is really pretty, despite such a tiny and basic "flower".

I had two choices of pathway home and as it had come on to rain as I reached the quarry where the path split, I came back through the woods on an ancient farm track which I think once led straight to the grange which was the last outpost of Talley Abbey's land, whose boundary was the nameless stream which bounds under the bridge by Trinity Church. The alternative was to cross a field and then a rickety bridge which was once the crossing to the tiny school (now a private dwelling) and back along the road.

I plodded along through the mud and puddles, past the stands for the local Shoot, and noted they had ruined the view of the little waterfall by cutting down trees and blocking it off, just so the "Guns" had a good spot to stand.

This is a trackway we used to ride along, and it held bittersweet memories of quick canters on Fahly, with Maggie doing her best flat-out trot (she could win trotting races, easy peasy!)

I was shocked, walking past the top of our yard on the farm trackway, what a MESS it looked. In fact, so much of a mess that I spent the rest of the day removing a couple of dozen strawberry plants which are now re-established in the paddock intake bit, weeding, tying up the tayberry and loganberry and planting to more tayberries, and then mulching them all. I also cut off two overgrown and cankered branches from the Pippin apple tree, cut back some Snow Berries (SO invasive), ripped out brambles and generally began the Big Tidy Up. It was so warm in the yard and March is always the time when I set the long soft fruit bed to rights. The gooseberries are looking very positive, with plenty of leaf spring forth and I am hoping for bumper crops again this year. They were pruned hard two years ago, but needed it - you could hardly get between branches to pick the fruit and we had about 30 lbs gooseberries that year. I must learn to bottle them this year . . .
At the top of the hill, the Canada Geese I have heard flying over, honking, most days, have stopped for B&B on their way South.

I obviously looked as if I needed Checking Out!
Cutting across the field, the view was slightly different than from the road.

This splendid oak tree was once part of a field boundary which is still shown on my map, though long gone.

This triangle of lnd suggests to me that there was once a cottage here, though no wall line remains, but as I approached it from the side, lots of debris has been accumulated, rather like a middle eastern Tell.

Shards of Victorian steen in the middle of the field, which remain from when china was thrown n the muck heap and then the muck heap strewn across the fields.

In Dorset we called these streams winterbournes (several villages have this name) as they only manifest themselves in the winter - or very wet summer weather!

Don't know what THIS chap is about?

Just a few primroses on the banks - delayed this year due to the cold weather - there are normally yards and yards of them.

The footpath at the bottom of the hillfort.

A carpet of Saxifraga oppositifolium.

The wet hillside led to a small stream at the bottom.

Wild daffodils.

The farm track home.

Trap for anything which might get tempted by young pheasants . . .

A badger sett.

The redoubtable Miss Potter

2009-03-13T08:08:00.004Z

The Fells viewed from the M6 . . .

I feel I have been rather lax on C&C recently, whilst trying to get my Nature Notes up and running, so here at long last, is another post on Beatrix Potter, which I have been promising for a while now.

I have two excellent books on BP - one little one is just the size of her childrens' tales, but a little broader in the waist: The Tale of Mrs William Heelis by John Heelis, who is her great-nephew, and Linda Lear's "Beatrix Potter: The extraordinary life of a Victorian genius". (Both temptingly available on Amazon of course).

I have only dipped into these books when I have had time, rather than reading from cover to cover,but it soon becomes obvious how Beatrix must have suffered from being confined to the town as she was a countrywoman to the tips of her toes! Her farm at Hill Top, which she bought with some of the money from the sales of her books, was 120 acres in total. Here in Wales, 50 acres of less is considered a one-man farm - an amount of land which he could manage, especially with a son or three about the place. 120 acres was serious farming, and indeed, Beatrix Potter was serious about farming it in the proper way. During the First World War, she described it as consisting of "9 arable acres, the rest being meadow hay and hill pastures, 2 horses, 9 or 10 cows, young stock (rear many calves), 60 sheep, 47 being lambing ewes" (she bred, showed and was an authority on Herdwick sheep). She also had "poultry, orchard, flower garden, vegetables." By 1916 she was worried about keeping the farm going having got it into good working order over the previous 10 years, as skilled farm girls were being tempted away from the land by the "theatrical attraction of uniform and armlet" offered by the munitions factories, which also offered wages no farmer could ever afford. These are extracts from a letter she wrote to The Times in March 1916 on the subject of "Women on the Land".

We get a view of the real Beatrix when she is communicating with an applicant for a female farm worker: Having explained that her husband was a solicitor " . . . and as there are all sorts of people in the world I may say that he is a very quiet gentleman, and I am a total abstainer!! . . . We live very quietly in a cottage separate from the old farm house . . . It is best to speak straight out; the great difficulty with a stranger woman is the boarding. I can see Mr Heelis does not want a lady living here (Castle Cottage)". She was hopeful that the applicant would consider living in the front part of the farmhouse at Hill Top for the summer, someone who would care for the old oak furniture. She said that she didn't go out much as she was so busy and the town relished gossip, which interested her not a jot, and neither did she go to church as she liked not the parson (she claimed to be a dissenter). She admitted, "I am very downright, but I get on with everybody. I can make jam, while there is sugar, but should be glad to learn more cooking!"

A down-to-earth woman, who employed Miss Choyce, the person to whom she was corresponding in the paragraph above. She decribed Beatrix thus: "short, blue-eyed, freh-coloured face, frizzy hair brushed tightly back, dressed in a tweed skirt pinned at the back with a safety-pin . . . Mr Hellis is a quiet man, very kind. They believe together in the simple life."

The little John Heelis book offers further insights into Beatrix' character and self-deprecating humour. This from a letter t Miss Choyce (they kept up a life-long communication): "Have I-a-fool-of-myself-at-a-sale made? I do not know. I cannot tell! The advt in the Gazette anounced several cows, an aged black mare . . . a calf, hay mows etc and 'a portion of household furniture'. It was little out of the way farm near Crook, a forlorn dirty little place, everyone dead except an old man removed to the infirmary. My purpose was to buy the calf, a nice little red heifer, which we obtained for £3 and stowed into the back seat of the car.

I poked into dark little kitchen and amongst broken chairs and lumber beheld a carved and dated dark oak court cupboard. I suppose it had been to lumbersme to remove with the other 'portion of household furniture'. I had vain hopes that I was going to get a bargain - no dealers. But there is no such thing as bargains in this district; there appeared two other knowledgeable people - a second auctioneer, R D Dickinson, and an unknown lady & gentleman; between them I paid £21. 10s. . . . Unquestionably it is genuine and untouched - except by rats. It did not seem to be wormy. . . The doors fastened with little wooden buttons. The carving was rather rough . . . It had belonged to the aged wife, the neighbours said she had refused good offers in her lifetime for the 'sideboard'.

A pencilled note added once she had got it home: I think it is a very good cucpboard, horribly dirty but it will polish alright, except for some clumpy later hinges and a drop corner damaged . . . it is in good condition. I must keep away from sales for some time."

As a regular auction-goer and bargain hunter myself (along with my husband) I can sympathise with her wanting a bargain, hoping for one and yet having to pay top dollar! She knew a good piece when she saw one though, and obviously had a good eye. If I ever get to Hill Top, I shall look out for this piece . . .

I will try and add some more to her character profile over the weekend.

Caves on Dartmoor

2009-03-12T15:09:00.003Z

This extract is taken from on on-line book resource (Project Gutenberg) and is another of Sabine Baring-Gould's MANY books, Castles and Cave Dwellings of Europe. I am thankful to my fellow-blogger Thelma over at Northstoke for raising my awareness of this book being listed on there. One branch of my ancestors lived in Hennock, so I found this entry particularly interesting and would love to walk up to Bottor Rock next time we are in Devon (hopefully this summer).

In the crevices of Bottor Rock in Hennock, Devon, John Cann, a Royalist, found refuge. He had made himself peculiarly obnoxious to the Roundheads at Bovey Tracey, and here he lay concealed, and provisions were secretly conveyed to him. Here also he hid his treasure. A path is pointed out, trodden by him at night as he paced to and fro. He was at last tracked by bloodhounds to his hiding-place, seized, carried to Exeter and hanged. His treasure has never been recovered, and his spirit still walks the rocks.

At Sheep's Tor, where is now the reservoir of the Plymouth waterworks, may be seen by the side of the sheet of water the ruins of the ancient mansion of the Elfords. The Tor of granite towers above the village. Among the rocks near the summit is a cave in which an old Squire Elford was concealed when the Parliamentary troopers were in search of him. Polwheel in his "Devon" mentions it. "Here, I am informed, Elford used to hide himself from the search of Cromwell's party, to whom he was obnoxious. Hence he could command the whole country, and having some talent for painting, he amused himself with that art on the walls of his cavern, which I have been told by an elderly gentleman who had visited the place was very fresh in his time." None of the paintings now remain on the sides of the rock. The cave is formed by two slabs of granite resting against each other. It is only about 6 feet long, 4 wide, and 5 feet high, and is entered by a very narrow opening.

Fascinating, and two more interesting bits for me to file away in my memory about my beloved Dartmoor. Incidentally, my father found a Civil War breastplate one day as a lad when he jumped over a bramble brush and landed on it, cutting his knee. http://www.devonmuseums.net/component/option,com_mumancontent/task,view/sectionid,32/catid,296/For many years it was proudly displayed on the wall of the school and is now on display in the lovely little Museum at Bovey Tracey, which is where the old railway station once was. The Cavaliers were routed by the Roundheads when they were disturbed over a game of cards. I often wonder whether this breastplate was lost on that fateful day.

Notes on a Brecon journey

2009-03-11T07:04:00.004Z

View from the top of Hay Bluff.

I read that poem again and again, and all I can say about it is that Dylan Thomas had a very unhealthy preoccupation with death. Abbadon is, according to Hutchinsons' on-line encyclopaedia:

In the Old Testament, a synonym for Sheol (Hades) and death. In the New Testament, in Revelation 9, it is the name of the angel (devil) of the bottomless pit, perhaps Hell personified.

There's a nice cheery thought for the day.

I, on the other hand, am fascinated by the landscape, and what grows on it and in it. Here are some notes taken on a journey to Brecon on the 6th January 2008. Discovered, with others, whilst searching for that elusive passport (I've given up now!) I may turn them into a bit of poetry some day. May . . .

Bare, sheep-freckled hillsides, the soft green of a mistletoe leaf, blasted by the winter winds. Paths, crooked fingers of sage green, poke through the dead bracken, stunted thorns snuggled into the hillslopes. Black thickets of thorn and sloe in the gulleys, holding fast to russet flocks of leaves, which fret and sidle at their feet, hand-fasted by winter. A golden beam of light illuminating a mountain manuscript of rocky crag and foothill. The moss-nibbled castle tump, home now to the shallow-rooted, silver barked beech.
Reading that, I know exactly which bit of the A40 we were driving along. The castle tumps are at Trecastle.

Dylan Thomas - Altarwise by Owl-Light

2009-03-10T09:38:00.004Z

A "pome" today, as I have lorst my passport and my son needs the details for HIS application. Sigh. I am not a tidy soul at the best of times and my worst-hated job (I would rather clean the slate kitchen floor with a toothbrush) is going through piles of old paperwork. I want to do a walk. I want to garden. Sigh.

Altarwise by Owl-Light

by Dylan Thomas

Altarwise by owl-light in the half-way house

The gentleman lay graveward with his furies;

Abaddon in the hangnail cracked from Adam,

And, from his fork, a dog among the fairies,

The atlas-eater with a jaw for news,

Bit out the mandrake with to-morrow’s scream.

Then, penny-eyed, that gentleman of wounds,

Old cock from nowheres and the heaven’s egg,

With bones unbuttoned to the half-way winds,

Hatched from the windy salvage on one leg,

Scraped at my cradle in a walking word

That night of time under the Christward shelter:

I am the long world’s gentleman, he said,

And share my bed with Capricorn and Cancer.

Death is all metaphors, shape in one history;

The child that sucketh long is shooting up,

The planet-ducted pelican of circles

Weans on an artery the gender’s strip;

Child of the short spark in a shapeless country

Soon sets alight a long stick from the cradle;

The horizontal cross-bones of Abaddon,

You by the cavern over the black stairs,

Rung bone and blade, the verticals of Adam,

And, manned by midnight, Jacob to the stars.

Hairs of your head, then said the hollow agent,

Are but the roots of nettles and of feathers

Over these groundworks thrusting through a pavement

And hemlock-headed in the wood of weathers.

III

First there was the lamb on knocking knees

And three dead seasons on a climbing grave

That Adam’s wether in the flock of horns,

Butt of the tree-tailed worm that mounted Eve,

Horned down with skullfoot and the skull of toes

On thunderous pavements in the garden time;

Rip of the vaults, I took my marrow-ladle

Out of the wrinkled undertaker’s van,

And, Rip Van Winkle from a timeless cradle,

Dipped me breast-deep in the descended bone;

The black ram, shuffling of the year, old winter,

Alone alive among his mutton fold,

We rung our weathering changes on the ladder,

Said the antipodes, and twice spring chimed.

What is the metre of the dictionary?

The size of genesis? the short spark’s gender?

Shade without shape? the shape of Pharaoh’s echo?

(My shape of age nagging the wounded whisper).

Which sixth of wind blew out the burning gentry?

(Questions are hunchbacks to the poker marrow).

What of a bamboo man among your acres?

Corset the boneyards for a crooked boy?

Button your bodice on a hump of splinters,

My camel’s eyes will needle through the shrowd.

Love’s reflection of the mushroom features,

Stills snapped by night in the bread-sided field,

Once close-up smiling in the wall of pictures,

Arc-lamped thrown back upon the cutting flood.

And from the windy West came two-gunned Gabriel,

From Jesu’s sleeve trumped up the king of spots,

The sheath-decked jacks, queen with a shuffled heart;

Said the fake gentleman in suit of spades,

Black-tongued and tipsy from salvation’s bottle.

Rose my Byzantine Adam in the night.

For loss of blood I fell on Ishmael’s plain,

Under the milky mushrooms slew my hunger,

A climbing sea from Asia had me down

And Jonah’s Moby snatched me by the hair,

Cross-stroked salt Adam to the frozen angel

Pin-legged on pole-hills with a black medusa

By waste seas where the white bear quoted Virgil

And sirens singing from our lady’s sea-straw.

Cartoon of slashes on the tide-traced crater,

He in a book of water tallow-eyed

By lava’s light split through the oyster vowels

And burned sea silence on a wick of words.

Pluck, cock, my sea eye, said medusa’s scripture,

Lop, love, my fork tongue, said the pin-hilled nettle;

And love plucked out the stinging siren’s eye,

Old cock from nowheres lopped the minstrel tongue

Till tallow I blew from the wax’s tower

The fats of midnight when the salt was singing;

Adam, time’s joker, on a witch of cardboard

Spelt out the seven seas, an evil index,

The bagpipe-breasted ladies in the deadweed

Blew out the blood gauze through the wound of manwax.

VII

Now stamp the Lord’s Prayer on a grain of rice,

A Bible-leaved of all the written woods

Strip to this tree: a rocking alphabet,

Genesis in the root, the scarecrow word,

And one light’s language in the book of trees.

Doom on deniers at the wind-turned statement.

Time’s tune my ladies with the teats of music,

The scaled sea-sawers, fix in a naked sponge

Who sucks the bell-voiced Adam out of magic,

Time, milk, and magic, from the world beginning.

Time is the tune my ladies lend their heartbreak,

From bald pavilions and the house of bread

Time tracks the sound of shape on man and cloud,

On rose and icicle the ringing handprint.

VIII

This was the crucifixion on the mountain,

Time’s nerve in vinegar, the gallow grave

As tarred with blood as the bright thorns I wept;

The world’s my wound, God’s Mary in her grief,

Bent like three trees and bird-papped through her shift,

With pins for teardrops is the long wound’s woman.

This was the sky, Jack Christ; each minstrel angle

Drove in the heaven-driven of the nails

Till the three-coloured rainbow from my nipples

From pole to pole leapt round the snail-waked world.

I by the tree of thieves, all glory’s sawbones,

Unsex the skeleton this mountain minute,

And by this blowclock witness of the sun

Suffer the heaven’s children through my heartbeat.

From the oracular archives and the parchment,

Prophets and fibre kings in oil and letter,

The lamped calligrapher, the queen in splints,

Buckle to lint and cloth their natron footsteps,

Draw on the glove of prints, dead Cairo’s henna

Pour like a halo on the caps and serpents.

This was the resurrection in the desert,

Death from a bandage, rants the mask of scholars

Gold on such features, and the linen spirit

Weds my long gentleman to dusts and furies;

With priest and pharaoh bed my gentle wound,

World in the sand, on the triangle landscape,

With stones of odyssey for ash and garland

And rivers of the dead around my neck.

Let the tale’s sailor from a Christian voyage

Atlaswise hold half-way off the dummy bay

Time’s ship-racked gospel on the globe I balance:

So shall winged harbours through the rockbirds’ eyes

Spot the blown word, and on the seas I image

December’s thorn screwed in a brow of holly.

Let the first Peter from a rainbow’s quayrail

Ask the tall fish swept from the bible east,

What rhubarb man peeled in her foam-blue channel

Has sown a flying garden round that sea-ghost?

Green as beginning, let the garden diving

Soar, with its two bark towers, to that Day

When the worm builds with the gold straws of venom

My nest of mercies in the rude, red tree.

Wonderful words and phrases. I wish I understood it. I would love to have a session with my Eng. Lit. tutor when I was doing Access - she would break poetry (and prose) down and explain every breath . . .

Normal service will be resumed

2009-03-08T18:25:00.007Z

I am glad to say that Lucy the one-eyed, is now getting back to her old self - she shot up the stairs ahead of me this morning, with her tail askew, and obviously any pain is easing considerably, although I'm still giving her the Metacam and will do until it runs out. She is holding me to ransom over food - all she will eat are the expensive and tiny tins of pussy-cat Salmon Pate! Ah well, she was ever a fussy eater, but hopefully she will go back to Whiskas at some point!

Lovely grass - shame about the rain!

Just LOOK at those ears !

An Eeyore moment as donkeys don't really enjoy being wet. They were whisked under cover with a haynet apiece, and carried on meeting their public.

I had a lovely day out in Swansea yesterday and went to three of the city's museums. The team from Lluest Horse and Pony Trust were at the national Waterfront Museum, as there was a special exhibition about Cockle Picking. Adele and Millie, Poitou donkeys who belong to Lluest's Manager, were there to fly the flag for the donkeys of the past who were part of Wales' maritime heritage.

I also visited Swansea Museum, which had a good temporary exhibition 'Animals and Us' and has a wonderful Cabinet of Curiosities room, reminiscent of those studious Victorian gentlemen's collections. As photographs were banned without filling out a huge form, I will put links to the Gnoll Stone and the Gellionen Stone, fascinating remains of early Christianity in Wales.

I ended up at the Dylan Thomas Museum, which was wonderful, a real wrap-around Dylan Thomas experience. There is also a second hand bookshop beside the cafe, which put temptation in my way! I was good and just bought a book by Henry Williamson (best known as author of Tarka the Otter) about his attempt at farming in Norfolk, during the farming slump in the 1930s. Inspired by the Dylan experience, I also bought a cheap book of his poetry with all my old favourites in it. I cannot help but think that some of his poems were definitely middle of the night nursing a hangover stuff - they seem disjointed and nonsensical, but I guess (my) ignorance is bliss. I shall read them over and over and see if they become any more understandable.

Back to B.B.

2009-03-06T09:30:00.001Z

BB's "Letters from Compton Deverell" is my downstairs reading at the moment. I would love to share with you part of one of his March letters, in which he is writing about Rooks:

"The shining sable birds were passing to and fro from the rookery to a ploughed field somewhere behind me. Some crossed directly overhead without the least fear though they could see me clearly. It was very definite flight line. And how delighted were these bald-faced wise birds with this bright spring hour! They were like children, you could see this joy in their bouyant flight. There was one old bird with his primaries pure white. He mde the journey four times in the hour. He was not gathering nesting material, I think that he felt he must be flying somewhere to feel the soft wind among his feathers and the lift of the air currents under him. He had a mate in a half-built nest in a tree at one end of the spinney and always, of course, he returned there and conversed with his spouse who was busy a-building.

Other birds were waddling about in the sunny field outside the spinney, close to the bounding hedge. These were gathering bents with which to line their nests. Bird after bird dropped down from the tree tops and searched about among the dead bleached grass and when they had twisted off a bent would fly up with it to their respective nests.

A few birds were already sitting for I could see their motionless black tails poking over the edges of their nests. A good many rooks had not yet commenced house building but were sitting in lovesick immobility, pressed side by side in the most delightful Darby and Joan manner, taking no notice of the hustle and commotion going on around them. . . .

One old rook was courting a shy lady, running around her on the grass, bowing in the most absurd way, presenting himself before her as she hopped on the sunny sward, holding out his wings and raising his head feathers until he seemed to be wearing a high crowned hat."

He mentions how he spent over an hour just amusing himself by watching the rooks, as he sheltered from the last of the winter cold in the less of some hawthorns. To spend an hour so today would to many people, rushing here and there, to be such an ill use of time. I disagree.

Countryside Writers - Part II - Alison Uttley

2009-03-04T04:32:00.008Z

View from the top of Bannau Sir Gar (Carmarthen Fans).

I think that Alison Uttley is perhaps my favourite countryside writer, though she and Mary Webb are neck and neck. I have half a dozen of her books and would like them all. My girls enjoyed her childrens' books when they were small and we still have them.

If you haven't yet discovered Alison Uttley, or haven't read her for a while, you are in for a treat. Here are extracts from The Farm on the Hill (which cost me an exhorbitant £18 at an antiques fair), Country Hoard and The Country Child.

The Farm on the Hill - Alison Uttley, 1949, Faber & Faber.

"It was late afternoon and the April sunshine brimmed the woods and fell in quivering, dancing drops on the dead leaves of last year. The smooth beeches held up their glass-clear leaves to the sun, and the light strained through them like water through a sieve. Pools of rain lay on the earth in black hollows under the trees and thick carpets of moss covered the naked roots. By the walls and in the wood field young bracken raised its thousand curled fists, and the rough-haired stirks nosed among it seeking the bitter-sweet grasses. Sheltering under the fox-coloured fernballs grew primroses, and the striped cups of wood-sorrel. The sweet warm breath of spring was mingled with the odours of winter, but already the spikes of bluebells had pierced the earth and the pale green buds showed in the rosettes of stiff leaves."

"She looked round the whitewashed attic with its green-painted wooden bed, shaped like a house gable, and the tumbled sheets and blankets. The summer patchwork quilt, made of pieces of print frocks flecked with little flowers and spots and stars, lay in a crumpled pile, tossed over the bottom gable. There was an old carved chest, unpolished and rough oak, with iron lock and heavy hinges, under the low dipping eaves. Susan glanced at it with distain for its lack of beeswax. It was scrubbed like the attic floorboards, and the wooden pegs for clothes. Upon it was set of doll's house furniture, with chairs and tables made of horse-chestnut and cradles of rushes, and screens of Christmas cards. The penny dolls dressed in scraps of silk and velvet reclined in various attitudes on the tiny chestnut couch and the frilled bed, but Susan had lost interest in them. She had outgrown their attractions, and they were now museum pieces, if Susan had known anything about museums. She arranged them, and added to them a delicate shell, a feather, or a cherry-stone basket, but they were no longer toys for her delight."

Country Hoard - Alison Uttley, Faber and Faber, 1949

"March and April were better months, for they brought spring with them. March winds and April showers Bring forth May flowers. They sprinkled the lanes with golden-eyed celandines, whose bright enamelled petals glittered like glass. They brought bird's-eye, to stare at the sky with blue innocent gaze, and the fine threads of Star of Bethlehem, white as silver, and little scented white violets to peep from the encircling leaves in banks and hedges. They brought rain, beating across the hills, blotting out all we knew, and winds which nearly swept me off my feet. The lambs ran races and played in the same old places as other generations. They leaped over the fallen tree, and sprang from the little hillock. They formed a band with a leader, as they scampered back and forward in a worn path under the wall. Daffodils nodded in the orchards and down in the river meadows. Primroses starred the banks. The first flowers were miracles of wonder and delight March and April were good months for birthdays."

The Country Child - Alison Uttley, Nelson, 1936

"The dark wood was green and gold, green where the oak trees stood crowded together with misshapen twisted trunks, red-gold where the great smooth beeches lifted their branching arms to the sky. In between jostled silver birches - olive-tinted fountains which never reached the light - black spruces with little pale candles on each tip, and nut trees smothered to the neck in dense bracken.

The bracken was a forest in itself, a curving verdant flood of branches, transparent as water by the path, but thick, heavy, secret a foot or two away, where high ferny crests waved above the softly moving ferns, just as the beach tops flaunted above the rest of the wood. The rabbits which crept quietly in and out reared on their hind legs to see who was going by. They pricked their ears and stood erect, and then dropped silently on soft paws and disappeared into the close ranks of brown stems when they saw the child.

She walked along the rough path, casting fearful glances to right and left. She never ran, even in moments of greatest terror, when things seemed very near, for then They would know she was afraid and close round her. Gossamer stretched across the way from nut bush to bracken frond, and clung to her cold cheek. Split acorns and beech mast lay thick on the ground, green and brown patterns in the upside-down red leaves which made a carpet. Heavy rains had swept the soil to the lower levels of the path, and laid bare the rock in many places. On a sandy patch she saw her own footprint, a little square toe and a horse-shoe where the iron heel had sunk. That was in the morning when all was fresh and fair. It cheered her to see the homely mark, and she stayed a moment to look at it, and replace her foot in it, as Robinson Crusoe might have done. A squirrel, rippling along a leafy bough, peered at her, and then, finding her so still, ran down the tree trunk and along the ground.

Her step was strangely silent, and a close observer would have seen that she walked only on the soil between the stones of the footpath, stones of the earth itself, which had worn their way through the thin layer of grass. Her eyes and ears were as alert as those of a small wild animal as she slid through the shades in the depths of the wood. A mis-step made her iron heel catch a stone, and the sharp ring alarmed a blackbird dipping among the beech leaves, but it frightened the child still more. She gasped and held her breath, listening with all her senses, her heart beating in her throat. A little breeze rustled, lost among the trees, seeking its parent wind, fluttering the leaves as it tried to escape. Then it flew out through the tree-tops and was gone, and she was alone again."

I bet that made you hold your breath . . . it is one of the most beautiful and evocative pieces of writing and whilst you read it, you ARE that little girl . . .