I'm a follower of Polly Vous Francais and her post today is about the riots in France.
It reminded me of "The Troubles" as they are prone to be called, in my homeland of Ulster.
I wrote this while we were on the way to a wedding in Oxford. But my thoughts and concerns were for the family still living in Belfast that day.
I didn't actually know about Omagh until we bought the paper the next morning. My poem was really just about my frustration and anger at the futility of so much that goes on in the name on politics whether France, Iraq, Afghanistan or Ireland. No prophetic knowledge of what obscene action was even then happening.
August 1998
I want to go back to Ballyferris safety.
I want that euphoric upper storey experience.
I don't care how unreal it was.
I don't care how insecure the foundation was.
I want it back.
Where can I capture it?
I need a butterfly net.
I need a bottle of fresh air.
I need sand between my toes
-and daisies.
Lots of daisies.
How could something so perfect
go so wrong?
What did we do?
Who held the pin that burst our bubble?
How cynical!
Why did they take away our hope?
How cruel!
Here we are following the M40
Down to the milllenium,
to the 21st century
behind a little red mini.
Once upon a time-
We thought every thing would last forever.
Always sunshine in the day
Soft rain at night.
Wild flowers in the grass.
Smiling faces.
Easy lives.
Forgiveness and
Fun.
I hate you Bruce Naumann.
You've let the spirits out of Pandora's box.
Nobody can ever catch them again.
Forget the butterfly net.
I despise your truthfulness.
I want to run away from your noise,
confusion,
chaos.
Stop the world !
I want to get off!
Wednesday, October 20
Tuesday, October 19
The Rowers - sculpture.
I like this work by Alan.
Like is maybe the wrong word.
Sometimes we feel that no matter how hard we are rowing in the sea of life, there is someone rowing in the opposite direction and so we get nowhere.
Maybe we need to think,"well at least I'm out there trying"!
Like is maybe the wrong word.
Sometimes we feel that no matter how hard we are rowing in the sea of life, there is someone rowing in the opposite direction and so we get nowhere.
Maybe we need to think,"well at least I'm out there trying"!
Sculpture by Alan Snape@ The Potters House Penketh.
Ceramic and driftwood.
Monday, October 18
Guest blog for Amelie's House...First Anniversary!
I'm excited and nervous! I'm going to post a blog for Amelie's House and I know it's got to be good!
As it's a foodie blog that she does, I thought that it might be quite interesting to look at our family history of ,
"The Importance of being Earnest about Celebration"!
Of course all of this started way before she of the "Amelie's House" fame was born.
Nana Mary and Great Aunt Helen were the forerunners in the family celebration lark. Having Scottish blood, they were the creme de la creme of shortbread bakers and victoria sponges. In fact it is true that as far back as the 11thC. there was a baker mentioned in the maternal geneology. Honestly!
When I was six or seven, Mary held a prayer meeting in the drawing room at home. I was there each month without fail. What a godly child I hear you cry.....noooo........ the supper she prepared was to die for. Was I going to miss that? I think not! So I waited through it all until at the end, out came little sandwiches, meltingly good scones with Ulster butter and home made jam, fruit cake,almond slices, melting moments, gipsy creams, german biscuits, coconut haystacks, meringues and victoria sponge. I knew that ,without a doubt, all the prayers came for the same reason. The supper. It was obvious even to my young mind. I did my duty and passed the plates around the waiting women. I hope that the prayers realised what I was up to and prayed a little prayer for me!
So you see I learnt from an early age the joys of yumminess and a godly life!
The thing about food is that it's really not much fun to be on your own, so people came to our table to share in it's abundance. Maiden aunts and elderly neighbours as well as my teenage friends.
It wasn't only Mary's side of the family who were the foodie people. No, Aunt Cis dad's sister, produced bottled fruits and exotic chutneys and offered them in exquisite sandwiches placed on silver trays with Irish lace clothes. To be invited into the pantry to view the cupboard with the regimented rows of jars with such succulent produce, was like an invitation to the Buckingham Palace Garden Party.
I've had such fun looking through all of the old family photos to find those days of celebrations. Birthdays, weddings, Easter, Christmas, picnics, barbeques and the mad parties we had just for an excuse to feast. Not that we needed much of an excuse! We had Murder Mystery Parties and when my neighbour came to one of them she couldn't believe how much we were in to the whole thing, food and dressing up.We had Star Trek parties and the daughter invented wonderful Trekkie food to go with our crazy outfits. One of the best was a Cajan party with mad hats and delicious southern states food.
But I thought that you might like to see the early Amelie's House baker in action. Yes? Well here she is beating up a storm with a wooden spoon.
As it's a foodie blog that she does, I thought that it might be quite interesting to look at our family history of ,
"The Importance of being Earnest about Celebration"!
Let's start at the very beginning. This is my mother presiding over tea in the garden in Belfast with the Scottish silver teapot.
This is Aunt Helen sipping tea from china cups in the garden in Belfast!
These two woman taught me all that I know about baking...well apart from the first year domestic science lessons where I learnt how to wash lettuce and stir porridge [as if I hadn't done that a lot at home!]
Of course all of this started way before she of the "Amelie's House" fame was born.
Nana Mary and Great Aunt Helen were the forerunners in the family celebration lark. Having Scottish blood, they were the creme de la creme of shortbread bakers and victoria sponges. In fact it is true that as far back as the 11thC. there was a baker mentioned in the maternal geneology. Honestly!
When I was six or seven, Mary held a prayer meeting in the drawing room at home. I was there each month without fail. What a godly child I hear you cry.....noooo........ the supper she prepared was to die for. Was I going to miss that? I think not! So I waited through it all until at the end, out came little sandwiches, meltingly good scones with Ulster butter and home made jam, fruit cake,almond slices, melting moments, gipsy creams, german biscuits, coconut haystacks, meringues and victoria sponge. I knew that ,without a doubt, all the prayers came for the same reason. The supper. It was obvious even to my young mind. I did my duty and passed the plates around the waiting women. I hope that the prayers realised what I was up to and prayed a little prayer for me!
So you see I learnt from an early age the joys of yumminess and a godly life!
The thing about food is that it's really not much fun to be on your own, so people came to our table to share in it's abundance. Maiden aunts and elderly neighbours as well as my teenage friends.
It wasn't only Mary's side of the family who were the foodie people. No, Aunt Cis dad's sister, produced bottled fruits and exotic chutneys and offered them in exquisite sandwiches placed on silver trays with Irish lace clothes. To be invited into the pantry to view the cupboard with the regimented rows of jars with such succulent produce, was like an invitation to the Buckingham Palace Garden Party.
I've had such fun looking through all of the old family photos to find those days of celebrations. Birthdays, weddings, Easter, Christmas, picnics, barbeques and the mad parties we had just for an excuse to feast. Not that we needed much of an excuse! We had Murder Mystery Parties and when my neighbour came to one of them she couldn't believe how much we were in to the whole thing, food and dressing up.We had Star Trek parties and the daughter invented wonderful Trekkie food to go with our crazy outfits. One of the best was a Cajan party with mad hats and delicious southern states food.
But I thought that you might like to see the early Amelie's House baker in action. Yes? Well here she is beating up a storm with a wooden spoon.
Now food should be lovingly prepared and cooked, but that is not the end of the equation, not by a long chalk! Like any art it then must be presented in all it's glory. On china plates, in secret boxes,on tables groaning under the weight of food surrounded by multicoloured cushions to rest on and enhance the whole theatrical celebration.
Table laden with christmas fare.
Baskets overflowing with picnic goodies.
So winter to summer and back again
In savoury and sweet
We will entertain.
With glass raised up high
A toast we will make.
To shortbread and scone
But especially to
CAKE!!
Sunday, October 17
Kite Festival
It was interesting that the Commonwealth Games had as it's advert, kids flying kites.
Anyone who has read The Kite Runner will remember actually how dangerous it was. Yet we think of kites as symbols of freedom and family fun. Of course they are, when dad or grandad get on the beach and give the instructions to the minions to hold that line...don't let go...did I say hold!
Every year Morecambe has a kite festival. It's big business now. There are kites to take you up in the air with them and kites to fly over water, skimming and somersaulting like mad birds in the sea foam.
I love the festival, but somewhere in the back of my mind is a niggling thought about the kite runners of Afghanistan or even India as I view the colours and shapes hanging up in the Northern air.
And a good day had by all.
Anyone who has read The Kite Runner will remember actually how dangerous it was. Yet we think of kites as symbols of freedom and family fun. Of course they are, when dad or grandad get on the beach and give the instructions to the minions to hold that line...don't let go...did I say hold!
Every year Morecambe has a kite festival. It's big business now. There are kites to take you up in the air with them and kites to fly over water, skimming and somersaulting like mad birds in the sea foam.
I love the festival, but somewhere in the back of my mind is a niggling thought about the kite runners of Afghanistan or even India as I view the colours and shapes hanging up in the Northern air.
The beach is packed with kite flyers.
From the Midland Hotel along the West Prom.
It's a day for mum to bring the picnic and the kids to race up and down the sands while dad unravels the string for the kite, for the umpteenth time.
A day for mad theatricals.
A day for death defying acts.
A day for queueing up to get the best icecream on the prom from Kate's van.
A time for kite surfers on The Bay.
A time for the older ones to dream of their childhood.
A time for the young to dream of a future.
Friday, October 15
The Story of Ballyferris. Cassie
This part of the story seems very apt for the season we are having. Mushrooms and fungi are everywhere. I'm amazed at the size of some of them in the back field. In around the labyrinth are the most beautiful little orangey-red ones. I've looked in my mushroom book in the summer house ,but it's hard to know from so many types exactly what we have. So I just warn the grand children to look but not to touch.
But this story of Cassie is a good one and all the better for the comment I received this week from someone who discovered me and was on the field with her family at the same time as us.
Cassie.
We always seemed to eat well at the caravan. Maybe it was the fresh air, maybe it was the smell of the calor gas stove or was it because after a day roaming the beaches, we were just plain ravenous. One of the new experiences that dad introduced me to, was early morning trips to search for field mushrooms. I learnt that the best place to look for them was around the periphery of old cow pats! I suppose you could say that they were very well manured. The difference in the taste of a freshly picked field mushroom and a lily white button one salvaged from the ravages of some supermarket shelf cannot be described with mere words. I would need you to smell and taste these plump, snowy morsels after they had been gently marinaded in hot butter by mum and arranged on toast also dripping with butter and placed on the caravan table sometime around 8 in the morning, just after the successful search. The best fields to find these jewels of the morning were always at Cassie’s farm.
Cassie was an old woman living alone in her farm up on the right of the Greystone Road looking away from the Hopes' property. As kids we used to climb on the back of the tractor and cling on for dear life as one of the Hope boys drove at breakneck speed up the narrow road to Cassie’s to work in the potato fields gathering the harvest. In my memories this was normally the younger of the two sons, Neil, who allowed us on to the back of the tractor. Can you imagine this happening today? Of course it was a bit dangerous, but in all the years that I did it, I knew of no accidents. That’s not to say that there were none but I never heard of them. Cassie’s farmyard was a lot smaller the Hope’s. but just as exciting for us townies. There is a great family story concerning dad and Cassie. One morning he went alone to collect the mushrooms. He was wandering in one of the fields scanning the ground for some fresh white goodies when a voice cried out to him in a lovely Co. Down accent, “ I think you’ve strayed!” He looked up and noticed an elderly woman approaching him pointing a loaded shotgun in his direction. Being the charmer that he was, he gave a chuckle and agreed. But she was having none of it, and he had to carefully retreat! Alas, that was the last time that we ever gathered mushrooms for our seaside breakfast. Cassie had every right to defend her land. A woman living alone out in the country needed to know how to protect herself. Then again, maybe that’s why she was alone! I’ll never know. Moments like this are there to be savoured in the difficult times that all of us encounter in life.
The painting, "The Quaint Couple" is by Charles Vincent Lamb. 1893-1964
But this story of Cassie is a good one and all the better for the comment I received this week from someone who discovered me and was on the field with her family at the same time as us.
Cassie.
We always seemed to eat well at the caravan. Maybe it was the fresh air, maybe it was the smell of the calor gas stove or was it because after a day roaming the beaches, we were just plain ravenous. One of the new experiences that dad introduced me to, was early morning trips to search for field mushrooms. I learnt that the best place to look for them was around the periphery of old cow pats! I suppose you could say that they were very well manured. The difference in the taste of a freshly picked field mushroom and a lily white button one salvaged from the ravages of some supermarket shelf cannot be described with mere words. I would need you to smell and taste these plump, snowy morsels after they had been gently marinaded in hot butter by mum and arranged on toast also dripping with butter and placed on the caravan table sometime around 8 in the morning, just after the successful search. The best fields to find these jewels of the morning were always at Cassie’s farm.
Cassie was an old woman living alone in her farm up on the right of the Greystone Road looking away from the Hopes' property. As kids we used to climb on the back of the tractor and cling on for dear life as one of the Hope boys drove at breakneck speed up the narrow road to Cassie’s to work in the potato fields gathering the harvest. In my memories this was normally the younger of the two sons, Neil, who allowed us on to the back of the tractor. Can you imagine this happening today? Of course it was a bit dangerous, but in all the years that I did it, I knew of no accidents. That’s not to say that there were none but I never heard of them. Cassie’s farmyard was a lot smaller the Hope’s. but just as exciting for us townies. There is a great family story concerning dad and Cassie. One morning he went alone to collect the mushrooms. He was wandering in one of the fields scanning the ground for some fresh white goodies when a voice cried out to him in a lovely Co. Down accent, “ I think you’ve strayed!” He looked up and noticed an elderly woman approaching him pointing a loaded shotgun in his direction. Being the charmer that he was, he gave a chuckle and agreed. But she was having none of it, and he had to carefully retreat! Alas, that was the last time that we ever gathered mushrooms for our seaside breakfast. Cassie had every right to defend her land. A woman living alone out in the country needed to know how to protect herself. Then again, maybe that’s why she was alone! I’ll never know. Moments like this are there to be savoured in the difficult times that all of us encounter in life.
The painting, "The Quaint Couple" is by Charles Vincent Lamb. 1893-1964
Wednesday, October 13
A Poem for Thursday.
Suddenly the warmth of last week has left us, and the clear skies have allowed the nights to turn chilly. So Autumn is at last a reality.
Summer House Lament
I lie and watch
the leaves turn brown.
Then fall and flutter to the ground.
The old grey squirrel
at his toil,
hides chestnuts
in the autumn soil.
Fat pigeons
Flying through the wood
And calling
from the distant roofs.
The last red apples
turn to wine,
And on them bees and wasps still dine.
And birds,
who still sing summer's song
Know,
soon the season will be gone.
Thursday, October 7
A Poem for Thursday.
October 5th
I look up
Through the branch
of the cherry tree.
A spinner joins puzzle to puzzle.
Short days
Time of the essence.
Slow flies
The essence of time.
I look across
To the dome
of the elder tree.
A blue bird picks and jennies for grubs.
Love of the essence.
Slow bees
The essence of love.
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