Going Back

 Dear Reader,

Oak panelling began in medieval times for insulation, evolving from simple boards to intricate Tudor/Elizabethan designs (linenfold strapwork) for warmth and status, the larger Georgian panels (often painted softwood), declining in Victorian times for wallpaper, and seeing a resurgence in Arts and Crafts and modern designs for its warmth, beauty and insulation, using oak for its durability and classic appeal.

Plain vertically-boarded panelling was in use by the 13th century.  More familiar framed panelling dates back to the 14th century and before the 18th century was mainly of oak.

                                                                                * 

 There is something about a panelled room that transports me.  It is the same sort of feeling I have when I go into a library, an antique bookshop or possibly into an old church.  The past is till there, it envelops me.   Even the smell of those places sticks on my clothes, and I love it.  I really know sometimes that Jane Austen or Charles Dickens are there in the shop, talking.  The characters come alive.  

What happens to you, do write and tell me please.

                                                                                  *

 From Nathaniel Hawthorne   December 11th  1855 in Lancashire

'This has been a foggy morning and forenoon snowing a little now and then and disagreeably cold.......At about twelve there is a faint glow of sunlight, like the gleaming reflection for a not highly polished kettle.' 

 

From Gilbert White     December     13th  1775 in Hampshire  

 

'Ice bears: boys slide.' 

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth   December 18th 1801 in Hampshire

Mary and William walked round the two lakes (Grasmere and Rydal Water).   I stayed at home to make bread, cakes and pies.   I went afterwards to meet them.....It was a chearful glorious day.   the birches and all trees beautiful. hips bright red, mosses green.' 

                                                                                   *

Going Back

 

The old farmhouse,

surrounded by

rhododendron bushes,

was a funny old place,

full of twists and turns

passages and panelled rooms,

a large sunny kitchen

with green lino floor,

a dark larder

full of hams and baskets of eggs,

while dogs slept in the small

drying room where it was warm.

 

There was a ghost, of course,

a smuggler killed fighting another

over a brandy run aborted.

I felt it, twice,

a middle of the night experience, ice cold, terrifying.

My dog wouldn't go in there,

just growled.

 

Tadpoles were caught in the streams,

ponies were ridden over the forest,

lots of apple crumble,

toad in the hole, beef stews,

and dumplings eaten

picnics on the lawn,

squirrels watching, watching....

a cosy family house

the children's home.

 

But now?

Years later it is reformed.  It is a

mansion.  Rebuilt with mega money.

All the farmyard magic gone,

the sun that used to filter

through dusty windows,

the back door with never a key,

the old farmhouse destroyed,

no longer a home but a fort.

A prison. Cameras everywhere

watching watching......

 

                                                                            * 

With best wishes, Patricia 

 

Sleep Snare

Dear reader, 

The croissant originated from Austrian pastry called "kipferl" with a popular legend crediting its creation to 1683 Viennese bakers celebrating victory over the Ottoman Empire by making crescent-shaped pastry after the siege of Vienna.This pastry was later introduced to France and transformed into the modern flaky version by french bakers in the the 19th and 20th centuries who adopted the kipferl and crated a laminated, yeast-leavened dough for it.

The earliest recorded introduction of the kipferl to France occurred in 1839, when Austrian artillery officer, August Zang, founded a Viennese baker in Paris.  Parisians fell in love with the kipferl and with Viennese baking as a whole and imitated the bread in their own shops. 

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From Francis Kilvert  December 8th   1872 in Wiltshire

'at about half past four began the Great Storm of 1872.  Suddenly the wind rose up and began to roar at the Tower window and shake the panes and lash the glass with torrents o rain.  It grew very dark and we struggled home in torrents of rain and tempests of wind so fearful that we could hardly force our way across the Common to the rectory.  All the evening the roaring S.W. wind raged more and more furious.  It seemed as if the windows on the west side of the house must be blown in.  The glass cracked and strained and bent.... I went out to see where the cows were, fearing that the large elms inn the avenue might fall and crush them.   The trees were writhing, swaying, rocking, lashing their arms wildly and straining terribly in the tempest but I could not see that any were gone yet.'

 

                                                                                    *

Sleep snare

 

 

 

 

I lie awake and hear

the clock strike three,

and wonder how to

snare elusive sleep,

how to capture it,

how to find

its hiding place

and coax it back to bed.

I might entice  it

with crimson berries,

or butter croissants

then pounce on it,

and let it loose

inside my head.

But sharp is cunning sleep

it knows the tricks,

is bored of counting sheep.

 

 

 

I must fly northwards

to the moon

and let sleep take me

 

 

soon

 

          soon

 

soon ......... 

 

 

 

 

                                                                             *

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

When my dad came home

 Dear Reader,

The history of malt whisky began in medieval Scotland where monks distilled it for medicinal purposes, with the first recorded production in 1494.   Over the centuries its popularity grew leading to increased taxes and illicit production until the Excise Act of 1823, legalized licensed distilling causing the industry to boom.

By the 19th century single malt was established and while blended whiskies later became more popular, single malt whisky remained a niche but respected product. Single malt, made exclusively from malted barley was traditionally made in the Highlands.  And in the 1820s single malt gained royal approval with King George IV's visit to Scotland helping to restore its reputation.

For any Scotch whisky, whether malt or blended, the age statement on a bottle refers to the number of years the whisky spent maturing in casks.  Very few whiskies are bottled from a single cask.  The mixing of spirits with different amounts of ageing is allowed, the age statement of the resulting mix reflects the age of the youngest whisky in the bottle. 

                                                                                *

The only time I drink whisky is when I have a bad cold.  Before you go to bed mix honey, lemon and whisky together and it sends you to sleep in a moment.  The cold seems to get better too!

                                                                                 * 

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth   November 24th  1801  Westmorland

'I read a little of Chaucer, prepared the goose for dinner, and then we all walked out.  I was obliged to return for my fur tippet and spencer, it was so cold....It was very windy, and we heard the wind everywhere about us as we went along the lane, but the walls sheltered us........' 

 

From John Ruskin   November 30th 1875   in Surrey

'Herne Hill.  Bitterly cold and dark;  the paper chilling my fingers.'

 

                                                                                  *

 

When my dad came home 

he nodded off
int the old armchair
any time,
forgot everything
could name no names.

Tobacco smoke from Woodbines
filled the house,
he drank malt whisky,
came home unsteadily from the pub.

He talked of cricket, he whistled
and hummed old country and western songs,
rocked in the rocking chair
and potted up red geraniums.

He ate junket and white fish
had headaches
and he wept sometimes.

But we were good friends, my dad and I,
night times he told me stories,
and tucked me into bed.
I never asked about the war,
and he never said. 

 

                                                                                  *

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bridal Red

 Dear Reader,

The Kikuyu people originated from the northeastern Bantu groups who migrated to the Mount Kenya region of modern Kenya, likely from the further north.  While the exact point of origin is uncertain, archaeological evidence suggest their arrival in the Mount Kenya area was around the 3rd century. 

According to traditional Kikuyu beliefs, their people were created by a man called Gikuyu and his wife Mumbi, who were given land by the creator, Ngai, on Mount Kenya.

It is believed that Ngai created and put the first man (Gikuyu) and a woman (Mumbi) on earth.  Traditionally the Kikuyu trace their origin to this couple.

The Kikuyu people fought violently against the British during the Mau Mau uprising from 1952 to 1960. Thousands of people were killed, but the rebellion led to Kikuyu's independence in 1962.  In 1963 Kenya became an independent nation.

The Kikuyu's tribe's traditional wedding ceremony involves the whole community. Woman organize the food while the men organize financial matters.  The man is considered responsible for his bride's dress and the bride is free to choose her bride's maids.

                                                                              *

I wrote today's poem after seeing a documentary of the event.  The Kikuyu girl being taken off to be married to a faraway tribesman, over the mountains.  Apparently after a few weeks in her new home she commited suicide.  I often think about this girl, she was only about 14 years old.

 

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From George Sturt   November 21st  1890  in Surrey

I noticed in the poplar above me two sorts of sound; the leaves pattering and rustling against one another, each with its separate chatter; and then as accompaniment and continuous ground-tone, the wind itself breathing audibly and caressingly between leave and round twigs and limbs.'

 

From Gilbert White   November 26th   1775 in Hampshire

' A very dark season: dark within doors a little after 3 o'clock in the afternoon.'

'Monthly roses now in bloom.'

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Bridal Red

 

 

I saw

a young girl smiling,

laughing, threading beads, minding goats

holding hands with sisters, friends,

chattering, gossiping, rough and tumbling

in bright sunlight.

 

I saw

scrub-plains,

blue mountains,  straw huts,

men on haunches, and thin dogs, fat babies,

loving families, happiness.

 

I saw

men, suddenly, appear from a distant village,

offering cows and sheep as an exchange

for a shepherd in need of a wife.

The girl was chosen,

a bargain was struck

 

I saw

her stand silently, acquiescent,

red ochre paste and mud

plastered on her shaven head,

necklaces of golden wire

wound tightly round her neck,

ankle bracelets in profusion.

 

I saw

her sisters, her friends, not laughing now,

offering presents,

a carved stick,  a beaded purse.

At dawn she would leave as the sun rose,

to walk over the mountain pass

to an unknown bridegroom,

an unknown life.

 

I saw

as she left 

her tears trickling,

then flooding through the paste and mud.

I saw her sorrow as the colour red,

a crown of thorns her maidenhead.

 

                                                                       *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

                                                                   

 

                                 

The Ragbag of a Human Heart

h

 Dear Reader,

Muntjacs are native to Southeast Asia and were first introduced to Britain in 1894 at Woburn Park, Bedfordshire.  Following deliberate releases and escapes from the early 20th century onwards, they have spread to become a common, invasive species in much of England and Wales. Their success is due to their small size, adaptability and a year-round breeding ability which allows them to thrive in diverse habitats including urban areas.

The spiritual meaning of the muntjac deer combines general deer symbolism with its unique characteristics, suggesting a focus on defending on what is yours, alertness and finely tuned instincts.

The muntjac's ability to bark emphasizes the importance of announcing trouble or danger, while its continuous mating cycle can symbolize perpetual renewal or a connection to nature's continuous cycle.  Muntjacs also scream when frightened.  Does and offspring communicate with a series of squeaks.  

 

                                                                              *

Reading in the paper that it was going to be the worst flu winter ever I very reluctantly decided to have a vaccination myself.  Years ago I had one and felt ill for weeks.  I only have one and a half lungs and was told that if I got flu it would be curtains for me.  So I had it. And have felt fine, no side effects this time.   Surely this story tells us something?  I am not quite sure what but perhaps sometimes we have to do something against our wishes that turns out to be the right thing, as we have been advised.

 

 

 

From John Everett Millais   November 19th  1851 in Surrey

'Fearfully cold.   Landscape trees upon my window-panes.  After breakfast chopped wood, and after that painted ivy.....See symptoms of a speedy finish to my background.  After lunch pelted down some remaining apples in the orchard.   Read Tennyson and the Thirty-Nine Articles.'                                            

From John Ruskin   November 24th  1857 in Surrey   

'Very wet.  But quiet, and birds singing all sorts of delicate airs, richly, as if it was spring.'

 

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The Ragbag of a human heart

 

 

He saw the girl

young, beautiful, innocent,

inflamed her with clever words,

caught her

seduced her

smiled, walked away.

 

At the bus stop

he saw an old lady

waiting in the rain,

offered her a lift,

drove her back to her house,

made her a cup of tea,

hugged her,

smiled,  walked away.

 

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Very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thanks Private Norfolk

 

 Dear Reader,

 

I have just been watching the ceremony at the Cenotaph in London and it always brings tears to my eyes.  Over 10,000 people marched past this morning and I would like to say thank you to everyone of them.  Think what they did for us.  Each one of them had done something to make our lives safer, with more freedom and a better future.  

On Remembrance Sunday I always think of my father, Major Harold Huth.  He was in the Royal Army Service Corps and was mentioned in Dispatches on three occasions.  I have a letter written in l916 congratulating my grand parents from a Colonel Harrison, and his other officers, on their son's distinguished conduct and gallantry.  

So today, as always, I am thinking of you Dad, and thanking you for the part you played to give us all the freedoms we now enjoy, and I am sending you my best love. 

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Ltd Colonel John McCrae:

"In Flanders fields, the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row."

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 From H.W. Longfellow   1807 - 1882

Lives of Great men all remind us
we can make our lives sublime
and, departing, leave behind us
footprints on the sands of time.

 

From Jane Austen     November 17th    1798 in Hampshire 

"What fine weather this is!   Not very becoming perhaps early in the morning, but very pleasant out of doors at noon, and wholesome - at least everybody fancies so, and imagination is everything."

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Thanks, Private Norfolk

 

 

You left, singing, with your pals,

marching for good and glory.

You hadn’t yet dug a trench,

killed an unknown soldier,

seen dead bodies, smelt their stench,

heard comrades’ last sickening cries.

 

You gave your life with generous heart,

believed the lies

dispatched by loftier ranks.

And so to you, dear Private Norfolk,

I give salute,

and my deepest thanks

 

for swapping your mauve rain-skies,

your white-breast beaches, and beckoning sea,

your level fields of ripening corn,

to fight in foreign fields, for us,

for me.

 

 

 

 

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With very best wishes, Patricia 

 

 

 

 

 

Separation

 Dear Reader,

 

 

Redwings 

 

 

 

 

The history of the redwing bird is marked by its scientific description by Carl Linnaeus in 1758 and its long standing presence as a winter visitor to the UK with its name deriving from the red underwings.

Its presence in the UK as a breeding bird is a more recent development, first recorded in Scotland in 1925.  The redwings status as a winter visitor has been documented for centuries with early mention appearing in texts as far back as 1678.

Redwings migrate to the UK from Iceland, Scandinavia, and Russia during the autumn to escape the harsh northern winters.   They are known to be nomadic and will move in response to food availability, meaning their presence in the UK can fluctuate yearly.

Redwings feed on worms and berries, particularly hawthorn and rowan.  When food is scarce they will venture into gardens and orchards in search of a bite to eat.  Apples seems to be their favourite food. 

 

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 From D.H. Lawrence   November 9th  1915 in Oxfordshire

'When I drive across this country, with autumn falling and rustling to pieces, I am so sad, for my country, for this great wave of civilization, 2000 years, which is now collapsing, that is is hard to live.  So much beauty and pathos of old things passing away and no new things coming; this house (Garsington Manor) - it is England - my God, it breaks my soul - their England, these shafted windows, the elm trees, the blue distance - the past, the great past, crumbling down, breaking down, not under the force of coming birds, but under the weight of many exhausted lovely yellow leaves, that drift over the lawn, and over the pond, like the soldiers, passing away, into winter and the darkness of winter - no, I can't bear it.  For the winter stretches ahead where all vision is lost and all memory dies out.'

 

 

From Dorothy Wordsworth   November 10th   1800 in Westmorland 

'I baked bread.  A fine clear frosty morning.   We walked after dinner to Rydale village.  Jupiter over the hilltops, the only star, like a sun, flashed out at intervals from behind a black cloud.' 

 

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Separation

 

Sometimes, in the night, sharing  our bed

I feel cage-restrained.

I cannot stretch, or scratch, or swear

at moths or mosquitoes looking for

the light, or me.   I cannot listen to the

World Service, speak outloud or hum.

 

 

And yet and yet, separated,

my being yearns for you.

Not for rapturous couplings

not for passion, but for oneness.

It is my primordial need

to share the beat of breath,

the silent, unconscious rhythm of life

that is not yet death.

 

                                                                        *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia