Journeys

                                                                                         Kilimanjaro
 

Dear Reader,

It seems that there are a plague of rats in France.  There are over two for every Parisian and their numbers are multiplying.  Paris apparently vies with Marseilles for the distinction of being the most rat infested city in the world.  But to the Green Councillor in charge of pest control and animal welfare in north Paris, all creatures great and small come under that heading. One of her colleagues should not use the word rats, she says, because it carries "pejorative connotations" and probably offends the rats. (I put that in). They should be called "surmulots" which refers to oversized field mice.  "We should study them and learn to live with them,"she concludes.  

We had a rat in the garage in the winter.  It ate through handles of saws, wires, plastic buckets and anything else it fancied. If I see it I must remember not to shout at it in an offense way although, of course, it is an English rat so perhaps it hasn't yet heard that it is now called a surmulot,or an oversized mouse.

                                                                                             *

From Gilbert White, 1786, July 31st in Hampshire

'The poor begin to glean wheat.  The country looks very rich, being finely diversified with crops of corn of various sorts, and colours.'

From John Ruskin, 1884, August 1st, in Lancashire

'Very lovely with calm lake, but the roses fading, the hay cut. The summer is ended.  Autumn begun.'

                                                                                              *

Journeys

Young,
we fly to distant places,
walk the Silk Road,
swim in the Nile,
climb Kilimanjaro,
sail the great seas,
picnic in the desert
under the stars.

Middle aged, with children,
we travel to Europe,
walk in the hills,
ski, surf board, visit museums,
exclaim at the Eiffel Tower,
swim in rivers,
raid the High Streets.

Grandparents, and old now,
we travel all over the world,
enjoy lions in Africa,
natives dancing in Bali,
big white whales in vast oceans,
and explore National Parks
whilst drinking cups of tea,
preparing for the unknown
and longest journey.

                                                                                   *

With best wishes, Patricia

My memoir: "Half a Pair of People"  is published on Amazon.  Click on books,  Patricia Huth and you will see it.

Chapel

                                                                     White washed chapel
 

 

Dear Reader,

 

It was watching 'Civilization' narrated by Alan Clarke when I first realized that I hate ornate churches, statues with flying angels and gold displayed everywhere possible.  Those kind of places seemed to be in Europe, especially Italy, and so they are, in the main,  Roman Catholic.  I can't imagine that God or Jesus Christ wanted all that lavish display, surely his message was of simplicity, humbleness, and quiet peacefulness.  One we could all do with I think. Small chapels, often buried on a hillside, with plain interiors and a jug of wild flowers or daisies on the altar, I find are full of the Holy Spirit I am looking for when I enter to contemplate and to pray.  

                                                                                   *

From John Ruskin, July 26th, 1872, on the English Channel

'Breakfast in Paris - so to train.  Across in intensely calm water and sky.  The smoke of steamers on clear cliffs of England in a streak all round horizon.....I never saw the cliffs themselves so clearly from France.'

 

From Gilbert White, July 27th, 1780, in Hampshire

'Tortoise eats gooseberries.'

                                                                                   *

Chapel

Away with the cherubs
the angels, the painted ceilings
the high arches
the high ceilings
nudes male and female
the artifacts
the gold crosses
the ornate statures of the
Virgin Mary.

Give me a chapel with
whitewashed bricks
wooden pews
oak door with studs
daisies on the altar
in a china jug
a bust of St. Columba
and quiet peace
in God's house.

                                                                                     *

I hope you all managed to keep cool on those very hot days.  I stayed indoors with closed curtains and fans on - all day. 

Very best wishes, Patricia

Love unlocked

 Dear Reader,

My poem today is about love.  I don't think any of us really know what it is exactly.  Falling in love is, I would say, different from loving in general.  Prince Charles is said to have muttered when asked whether he was in love before marrying Princess Diana, said: "well, whatever love is".  Quite.  Whatever it is, it is difficult to define.  For me a feeling of love sweeps over me, looking and being with my family.  I also get this feeling when I am with Francis, sometimes when he has been particularly touching, and mended the bathroom tap for instance or made a delicious lunch. And my friends?  Well Fiona Montagu has been  exceptionally kind, loyal and generous to me over fifty odd years and whatever it is, that sweeping feeling comes over me when I think of her.  And my grandchildren?  Gosh I love them.  When I first saw them as tiny babies that sweeping feeling rushed into my heart and has stayed there ever since.  So is that love?  A sweeping feeling? I am still wondering.....and conclude it must be different for everyone.  Each of us has our own definition, know what love is for ourselves.

                                                                                   *

From S.T. Coleridge, July 19th, 1803, in Cumberland

'Intensely hot day - left off a waistcoat, and for yarn wore silk stockings'.

From Gilbert White,  July 20th, 1778, in Hampshire

'Much thunder.  Some people in the village were struck down by the storm, but not hurt. The stroke seemed to them like a violent push or shove.  The ground is well soaked.  Wheat much lodged (laid flat).'

Love unlocked

What can I say about love
that has not been said?

I have little to add except
my sweetheart proffered
a unique key
to the door of possibilities
through loving me.

                                                                                     *

With very best wishes, on this very hot day,

Patricia

The Door

                                                                                    The closed door
 

Dear reader,

What a week we have had with all the government machinations.  So finally Boris had to retire and for my two penny's worth that was completely the right decision, and he should have made it sooner.  It wasn't really terrible for me that he attended a birthday party or didn't, it was the fact that he told lies. Oscar Wilde said: "whoever let the truth get in the way of a good story" an anecdote that Boris made his own.  I have met many men of his ilk tell stories of perhaps shooting achievements, or of the size of the fish they have caught, or just general exaggerations and, because it is often funny, nobody minds.  In fact often when I tell a story I exaggerate to make it more amusing, and my children often point this out.  But as Prime Minister exaggerating and distorting the truth just won't do. We need integrity in a leader, someone we can trust.  Let us hope that the next chosen one keeps to the truth, however difficult that may be.

                                                                           *

I know it is going to be very hot this week and so for me a week of drawn curtains and a very quiet life.  I have never sunbathed even when I was young. But for all you who may love the heat and the sun have a lovely time.  Enjoy, as they say.

                                                                           *

From William Cowper, June 13th, 1783 in Buckinghamshire

'The fogs..... still continue, though till yesterday the earth was as dry as intense heat could make it.  The sun continues to rise and set without his rays, and hardly shines at noon.  At eleven last night the moon was a dull red; she was nearly at her highest elevation, and had the colour of heated brick.....Dead ducks cannot travel this weather; they say it is too hot for them, and they shall stink'.

                                                                             *

The Door

needs oil, creaks,
is heavy to push open
into that shut, secret room.

The mind-cabinet
has been closed
to the mystery-blue subconscious
to creativity,
shut tight against thoughts
which disturb quiet sleep,
and assail unasked, imploring,
impatient to be heard,
burdened with things that need telling.

Then I heard a gentle voice whisper
in the warm summer night:
"Pick up your pen, start again,
let the words flow, write...."

                                                                           *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Acknowledgement

 Dear Reader,

                                                                                            Irish Holiday 1973

 

When you get old thinking back about your life seems to play a large part of your dreaming by day or night.  I often think about days gone by when I can't sleep which is quite a lot of the time.  This photograph of Eliza, my second daughter, and I, was taken on a holiday we took to southern Ireland with a horse drawn caravan, or two in fact.

It has to be said the horses for the two caravans were not in tip-top condition.  Rosy, one of them, was definitely lame and the other horse was just very old. Each night we had to find somewhere to park the caravan and find a field or a patch of grass for the horses.  This was not easy.  I think the local farmers had got fed up with tourists asking to borrow their fields and most of them were simply not going to do it. 

But looking back it was all great fun.  My then husband played the guitar in the evenings and we made a fire and cooked sausages and bacon for supper.  The children loved it, made games with snails to see which one was the fastest, ran about picking berries, but looking after the horses was the best entertainment, taking it in turns.  In those days there really wasn't much on the roads, perhaps there still isn't it, so we could plod along at a quiet and gentle pace.

Perhaps this was one of my favourite holidays of a life time.  The young family together and all having a good time.  Lots of more expensive holidays since, abroad and in the sun, have not been so memorable for me. 

                                                                                     *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, June 5th, 1802, in Westmorland

'A very sweet morning.  William stayed some time in the orchard....It came on to rain, and we could not go to Dove Nest as we had intended ......The roses in the garden are fretted and battered and quite spoiled, the honeysuckle, though in its glory, is sadly teazed.  The peas are beaten down.  The scarlet beans want sticking.  The garden is overrun with weeds.'

                                                                                     *

Acknowledgement

We walked along the woodland path
my grandchild and I
noting nature things,
pointing out early primroses, aconites, wild violets.

We crossed the stream, and headed up the hill,
"Look a rabbit", my grandchild said.
Together we saw one magpie, then two.
We shared a chocolate bar, drank from the stream
cupping out hands.

Kneeling in the rich earth I said,
"we are part of this
you and I, dear granddaughter,
part of this earth is us".

She nodded.

"Do you know Grandpa, Granny?" she said.
"He said nature is part of us, or ought to be".
She chattered on and
God forgive me, I didn't hear.

Do I know Grandpa?  Yes.  A bit.
We lived together for twenty years,
I do know of his love for wild things,
for nature, and of his quick eye,
and how he loved me once
and how I loved him.

Yes, dear granddaughter,
I do know Grandpa.

                                                                                     *

With very best wishes, Patricia