Us oiks up 'ere want a voice!

Is there anything like a North/South divide in the States I wonder. I suspect there is from comments which were once made by a New England lady when we said we were going to Texas. (Why would you wish to go there?)
That there is such a divide is unquestionable here in the UK. So to write this post today, as we live North of an imaginary line drawn from Birmingham to the Wash (and definitely North of Watford Gap), I have donned my flat cap and apron and David is, as I write, walking round the fields in his smock with a pitchfork in his hand, to gather in his carthorses for a spot of muck-spreading.
I make quite clear at the beginning that this is in no way meant to belittle the awful flooding in The Lake District (Workington and Cockermouth especially) last week. What happened there was way beyond anything here this weekend - I cannot imagine what it must be like trying to cope with the aftermath - both the deaths and the misery of the mud. But somehow The Lake District always escapes that North/South divide - maybe because it is the area where so many people spend their leisure time and has therefore gained status in the eyes of the Press.
So, here is my moan for today. Yesterday we in The Dales had three inches of rain in less than twenty four hours. The field opposite is a river. Many roads were closed because of flooding. The weather was absolutely dreadful. There are even cars abandoned on the road from the top of our lane into our little market town. Getting out of our road was impossible for most of the day. Our beck overflowed across the fields, forming several new becks in the process (our major rabbit warren was deeply flooded, to the farmer's delight and Tess's horror).
so, I ask a question - is there even a mention in The Times? Of course there isn't - this happened in that foreign country 'oop North. Well, gentlemen (and ladies) of the press - let me tell thee it were right bad oop 'ere; tha couldn't see t'edges for t'great big raindrops (or, to use the farmer's favourite expression "it were chuckin' it down).
This morning Tess and the farmer have done their morning walk in a snowstorm. As I write this the North wind doth blow and the air is full of snowflakes. I think we can say that winter is here. Dominic has some "wet weather" photographs on his blog and if you go to painting the sun (see my blog list) you will see fantastic photographs of West Burton Falls (often painted by Turner) in all their full-flood majesty.

On a brighter note - Happy St Andrew's Day to Titus the dog, Scotland for the Senses and not forgetting More about the Song - Rachel - and to their families too, of course. Time to batten down the hatches and light the fire, methinks.

Water - water everywhere.

Such a contrast to yesterday - then it was warm, still and with bright sunshine; to day it is grey, windy and absolutely deluging with rain. We have already had one and a half inches of rain this morning and the field opposite, yesterday a sea of green, is today under water as you will see from the photograph. I went down the front garden path in the rain to take it, and got fairly wet in that short time.

We were going out to lunch but we cannot even get out of our lane as it is flooded at the top where it joins the main road. The River Ure is over at various places through the Dale, so even if we could get out we couldn't be assured of getting back again - too much of a worry, so we sit down at home to salmon steaks with lime and chilli and a parsnip gratin - very nice, I must say.

I sincerely hope that it is n't raining like this in Cockermouth and Workington, where last week's terrible floods were.

I was thinking about them this morning and trying to imagine the dirty flood water half way up our staircase - it really doesn't bear thinking about. Even if one had enough warning to move one's things upstairs, the mess left behind and the damage to the fabric of the house would be awful.

So I asked myself a question - assuming loved ones and animals were all safe and dry - what is there in the house that I absolutely could not bear to lose? High on the list would be family photographs - mostly of people, loved ones, long gone. Then there would be books - most of my books (and I have at least a thousand) I could probably spare, but those which belonged to my father I would hate to lose.

Then there are the ornaments and pictures. Many of my watercolours were painted by my first husband and are very precious to me - so I would have moved them upstairs away from the flood water.

That leaves other little precious things and I have chosen one or two with sentimental value to me.

First of all there is my buddha. He is made of alabaster and sits on the mantelshelf in one of our sitting rooms. He was the first thing my first husband and I bought together - long before we were married. He came from an antique shop in Lincoln in around 1951 and he cost two pounds and tenshillings. He had a partner - a reclining buddha, also two pounds, ten shillings - but we couldn't afford both at the time. I have regretted that ever since.

Then there is a tiny circular picture which I bought in Pompeii many years ago. The painter, an Italian lady, was actually standing in the house (Vetii brothers, I think) painting in situ. It cost the equivalent of five pounds and I bought it at least twenty five years ago. It has given me pleasure almost every day since - so money well-spent.

And, thirdly, there is my little ceramic doll. She sits on the window cill in the sitting room and was bought as a present by my sister and her daughter, many years ago. She is strange in that she has no face - her face is just flat ceramic - the potter said this was so that one could put ones own interpretation of the face. Underneath she has my name - Patricia - written to suggest that she is me.

Three little treasures - I would make sure that they were safe. The farmer and I always bring some small memento back from our travels - a paperweight from malta, a stone box from Grenada, a bull's head from Salamanca - each little treasure holds special memories.

But, let's face it, when all is said and done - in any emergency the only things which really matter are the wellbeing and the safety of one's nearest and dearest - including dogs and cats in that!

If it rains much more today I shall start growing fins. Have a good day.

Fancy a walk?

It is a lovely day here - cold, still and sunny. For the past week it has been very windy and blustery showers, so today the contrast is quite marked. The farmer is shooting (well, beating as he is not a shooting man really) with our local syndicate, so Tess and I set off alone.

When I finish my lunch-time coffee and put my newspaper down, that is the signal for Tess to get up and look at me: "Are we going, then" I decide to go to the bathroom first - she comes with me - just in case I am pulling a fast one and not going to take her. Out of the landing window I spot a tiny wren on the wall, in full sunlight. Such shy little birds, who spend most of their lives in the hedge bottom scratching for grubs, this little chap is in fine feather and, close to, he is such a prettily marked bird, not the little brown job you imagine. So that is a good start.

A little way down the lane, after I have waited for Tess to poke her nose into a hole in the wall and shout, "Oi! I know you are in there!!" to the rabbits, a male bull finch flits silently across the lane in front of us.

What a splendid bird! His crimson breast is the nearest thing we have to the red cardinal in the US. If only they were not such secretive birds - they so rarely show themselves. This one, I guess, is after the last few honeysuckle berries in the hedge.

Today wildlife round here must be in a state of terror. In the fields to the left of the lane our syndicate are shooting. On the right of the lane our neighbouring farmer's syndicate is also shooting and he meets me as I come back. He is hitting the hedge with a stick to flush out any hiding pheasants. None come out and i am secretly glad. In the distance I get sight of our loval Hunt, who are in our area today looking for foxes. Again I am secretly hoping that all the shooting that has been going on since mid morning has warned the fox to lie low.

There is barely a leaf left on the trees after a week of gales. . I point the camera over the fields - the sheep graze in the Winter sunlight and the peaceful scene belies the shooting going on.

We come back through the front garden. There are still roses blooming and the purple hebe is putting out a few shoots of flowers. In the tubs by the back door the tete a tete daffodils are already poking through the gravel - a bit too early for my liking, they may get a nasty shock as a sprinkling of snow on high ground is forecast

I am in the middle of baking Christmas cakes for family and friends. One is just about ready to come out of the oven and one sits on the cooling rack. The smell is delicious - Christmas draws nearer - it will be December next week. Have a good weekend.

Finished!

Well, for better or worse, I have finished my Poetry Book Cover. In case you missed my earlier blog, I have hand-written some of my poems into a book, really so that when I "pop my clogs" my poetry can be kept by my family, if they wish to do so. I really enjoyed writing it out so I decided it would be good to make a decoration for the front and back covers.

Making a complete book cover is quite easy, but this book had a spiral back which meant I had to design a front cover and a back cover and stick them on.

Because it is a long time since I did any serious textile work, I have found getting back into it very hard. My sewing machine was like a foreigh, unvisited country. Even the simplest thing caused me to get into melt-down. I kept getting the tension wrong, I couldn't thread the needle, the thread kept breaking. I began to despair, and several days ago posted a blog to say that I could not find my "voice" again with textile art. Fantastic bloggy friends that you are, you sent me a series of very encouraging messages - keep trying, don't despair, your voice will come back.

So yesterday morning - with nothing planned for the whole day - I shut myself in my study, took it gently and began to sew . And, hey presto, I have managed it.

Yes, I know (and you will know too if you enlarge the pictures) I have made mistakes, it is not perfect by any means. But I have managed to complete something and I like it (with reservations about some of the stitching). If posterity reads it and gives the verdict "well. she is a better poet than she is a needlewoman" then I shall be happy.

On a different note: my daughter-in-law has a new camera and she brought it round for me to look at. I turned it towards Tess and clicked the shutter. Since I had Tess I have spent hours trying to get a decent photograph and they always turn out badly. But as you can see on my side bar - this one was very successful.

It is not always good news on the farm.

One thing you quickly learn in farming is that things do not always go as you wish them to. Of course, the weather plays a big part - particularly for the arable farmer, when a wet autumn can spell disaster for getting the crops in. But even here, where we have semi-retired and only look after animals for others, we have the occasional sad tale to tell.

Last week it was a sheep - suddenly went off its feet . We brought it into a calf pen where it lay for a week in warm straw. Two or three times a day the farmer coaxed it to drink a little water and every day it had an injection, but to no avail - at the weekend it quietly died.

But a couple of days ago we had a drama which was most upsetting. The farmer suddenly noticed that one of the heifers in the loose housing was in some kind of distress. All these heifers are in calf, mostly due around Christmas and January.

On close investigation he saw the nose of the calf sticking out but no legs (calves usually come legs first with nose neatly tucked in). We got our neighbour round immediately and once he saw it he rang for the vet. It was a dark, wet and windy night but luckily there is good lighting in the housing and it is sheltered, although one side is open to the elements.

The upshot was that there was not one calf, but two, both very large and both, sadly, very dead.

The vet thought that they had probably been dead for around a week before she began to abort.

I wont go into gory details, suffice to say that one of them had to be cut to extract it - the bodies of both calves were very smelly and the cow was already very ill.

She had a cocktail of injections and at eleven o'clock at night she had a drink of warm water from a bucket - but all to no avail. By morning she had died too.

Strange to say, all this took place in the housing, amongst twenty or so other heifers, who took little or no notice of what was happening.

It is always sad to lose an animal, doubly sad when it is so young (she was only three years old), and trebly sad when beautiful calves die too (these were beautiful calves but either one would have made for a difficult birth.)

The dead animals have been fetched away, the housing is re=strawed and the yard has been well swilled down, so it is all over - but there is still a lingering sadness.



It is Thanksgiving today - so may I wish all readers who live in the US a very happy Thanksgiving Day.

Hare

When I posted my book on my blog a couple of days ago Derrick commented on the page he could read, which was "Hare." I did put this poem on my blog a long time ago, but as today is a very busy day here (that will be another blog tomorrow) and I shall be short of time, I am putting the poem on again. So this is for you Derrick (Melrose Musings) and for anyone else who came to my blog after I posted it last time.
The hare is my favourite animal. Maybe it is something to do with being born on Hallowe'en - but the magic and folklore which surround the animal has always fascinated me. There are dozens of colloquial words for the hare - one of which is Dew Flirt, and another The Wild One. I have used both in my poem.

Hare.

Dew Flirt!
Mysterious wild thing
of the ploughed earth,
birthing in the furrow and
living for the free, open ground.

Tales of mystery
and magic
surround you.
How little we really know you -
The Wild One.

Familiar to the goddess, Freya,
as the black cat
to the witch,
you stand tall,
tipped ears erect,
and meet my eye with
fearless gaze.

Then you are gone,
leaping and flying
through the air in one
gigantic burst of speed.

Sleep with your eyes open
if you will.
Dance to the rhythms of time
as you have always done.
Shun taming,
stay free; but
give me the occasional glance
to gladden my heart.

Have a lovely day.

Stripped bare.

I suppose the only time the "real" me emerges is when I am about to step into the shower; when all my clothes, jewelry, "statements" are removed, then surely we are shown without any pretensions whatsoever. That person is the me before I attempt to create a persona for myself - in Jungian terms to present to the world the character I wish to be seen as.

For what a lot our clothes say about us If I see a woman in a long, flowing dress, long dangly earrings, long, flowing hair and ethnic jewelry, it says "I am a creative free spirit" to me. And a man in a battered hat, cords and an old fleece (particularly if he is also sporting a beard) says,"I am my own man and I don't care what I look like." The woman with shoulder pads, tight fitting suit and high heels - "Don't mess with me!" At least that is the image they are trying to project.

The fact seems to be that without our clothes were are uncomfortable (yes, I know most of us live in places where the weather is wrong for nudity), could it be because the real person is one we don't necessarily want to show to the world?

These thoughts occurred to me on the drive back from Tesco this afternoon. You never know what is going on in the minds of drivers who pass you on the road! They were prompted by a David Hockney painting would you believe.

"Bigger Trees near Warter" is a Hockney painting which measures a staggering fifteen feet by forty feet and he has given the painting to Tate Britain, where it goes on show today. Painted on fifty separate pieces of canvas it occupies three walls in the gallery.

How does this relate to my earlier thinking? Well all the trees in the picture are bare. The artist had to rush to finish the painting (in three weeks) so that he caught all the branches before they came into leaf. In fact he raced against the onset of Spring in 2007 because he did not want the emerging leaves to hide the beauty and detail of the branches.

It is very beautiful - each and every branch and twig stands out in such detail.

Then I thought how foliage similarly defines a tree and hides its imperfections. It is only in Winter that one really sees the shape, the beauty, the flaws and the secrets. I would never have seen the long tailed tits nest which you see above had it been on a leafy tree - only when all the leaves are gone and the tree is stripped bare is all revealed.

The farmer searched long and hard for the nest of our resident carrion crow (don't ask why, tis best not to know), never found it until all the leaves fell and the crows were long gone - there it sat in the topmost bough of an alder in the plantain.

There is such beauty in a bare tree and Hockney has captured that in the same way that great artists through the ages have captured the beauty of the naked human body.

There may well be somewhere on the web where you can view this picture - if not then like me you will have to hope that one day you can see it in Tate Britain. It is flanked by two identical photographic images of the same scene - and I dearly wish to see it - fully clothed, I might add.

Don't think this post is necessarily in praise of nudity. Somebody once said that after forty everything begins to move South - and I am sure they are right - so I will keep my persona if you don't mind - although I do feel it is sad that we are mostly reticent about removing our clothes.

##Don't read the title as "water", I haven't spelt it wrongly - Warter is obviously the place where the trees are.

Finding a Voice.

I have only been writing poems since I got my laptop and began to blog. Some are stored in my computer, some in a notebook and some are filed in my Writers' Group folder. In other words they are all over the place.

So, my resolution was to buy a note book and put them all together. I bought one at The Knitting and Stitching Show in Harrogate last week and during this weekend I have written all the poems I can find into the notebook. It really has been an interesting exercise.

To begin with I didn't know I had written so many. When I wrote them out (I wanted them to be in my handwriting) I was astonished to find that some of them I liked very much, some were just alright and some I discarded as being not worthy of inclusion.

Now I want to involve one of my other hobbies and decorate the cover of the notebook. And here the difficulty has arisen. My textile work has been on the back burner for some months as I have concentrated on writing - for my blog, for Writers' Group and for my poetry. Suddenly even my Bernina sewing machine is almost a foreign country.

But one thing has struck me forcibly - and that is that I have to find my own voice. I am sure that this applies to any creative work. Reading through my poetry I am conscious that they are written in my voice. Yes, I have read RS Thomas, Edwin Morgan, Norman MacCaig - and all the other poets who's work I admire. But when all is said and done, it has to be my voice - for good or bad.

And the same thing goes for my textile work. I had developed a style and could carry out the work to my satisfaction and was ready to push forward. Now I find that voice has gone and I am having to begin again. Yes - I admire the work of Jan Beaney and Jean Littlejohn, of Ruth Draper, of Maggie Grey - I love their books and they are a mine of inspiration. But when I sit at the machine, or when I get out threads and materials, it is my voice that has to be heard - and somehow I have to find it again. It is not going to be easy, but then what would be the point of doing it if it were easy.

So here is the naked book for you to see. Sometime soon, when my textile laryngitis has recovered, I will show it to you with the cover decorated. Has anyone out there had this kind of difficulty in any of their creative work? I suppose it is similar to writers' block. But that's another story.

Call in and have a stir!

It is "Stir Up Sunday" today - the day on which we traditionally make our Christmas Puddings - and as I am a great one for tradition, I am making my puddings today. I can't put the recipe on my blog as I am sure I would be breaking Delia's copyright - I always use the recipe from Delia Smith's Christmas book - but suffice to say it contains all the usual ingredients - suet, dried fruit, oranges, lemons, spices, barley wine, stout and rum. Already the smell has spread through the farmhouse and Christmas has begun.

Everybody who stirs the pudding and makes a wish is sure to have good luck - so pop in and give it a metaphorical stir for good luck. Tonight I shall put it into the basins and pop them in the Aga warming oven for the night. Tomorrow morning I shall remove the puds and cover them in greaseproof paper and foil and store them until Christmas.

I make them for several friends too. On Christmas morning the pudding will be put on to heat through, then the farmer will heat the whisky in a little pan, fire it and pour it over the pudding.

Yum, yum. Can't wait. Christmas cakes next!

A Little Surprise!

This morning when we got up we found a little surprise in the loose housing shed - you can see her in the photograph above - sorry about the cow-pat directly in front of her but Mum was being protective and the farmer didn't want to get any nearer. Usually the heifers leave here and go home to the farm next door two or three weeks before they are due to calve, so that they can have special rations - but this lady decided to calve a bit early. Our neighbour came round immediately with his land rover and trailer. The heifer went into the trailer and he carried the calf into straw in the back of his land rover - and off they went home.

I have a friend moving house this weekend, so I have made her a card by sewing a house shape on to a piece of card. It is not finished yet but thought you might like to see the idea.

The Western side of the country has been greatly affected by the very heavy rain. Sadly a policeman has been drowned - there is always a run of very sad stories in this sort of weather - our sympathies go to his family. It has been a showery day here today but as you will see from the photographs taken just as it was getting dark, the storm clouds seem to be gathering again. The poor people who have been flooded out of their homes must be in despair as many of them have experienced it before. Our rivers are all very full but not overflowing today. Now we shall have to see what tomorrow brings in the way of weather.

Have a lovely week-end.