A Grimsby Fisherman's Wife Mrs Ethel Richardson

                                                                 

                                                                Fishermen wearing the Guernsey sweater
 

 

Dear Reader,

The dependable cable knit jumper is ever present with us unlike style trends which are ever-changing. 

Boasting a rich, albeit elusive history in the 19th century Celtic and Gaelic fishing communities, the cable design has featured in the varying forms and in multiple materials yet has remained timeless nonetheless.

Legend has it that the design dates back to the 'Aran Sweater' of the 1800s with different Celtic clans having a unique cable pattern.  This, in turn, was said to provide a way of identifying the bodies of fishermen who drowned at sea.  And although this is romantic, it is now recognised as a mere tale.

The sweater was most likely crafted by a group of Aran women predominately for export purposes in the early 1900s, and has since become associated with Irish culture.  In fact the cable design appears just as much in the Gansey jumper worn by fishermen on the east coast of England in the Victorian era.

                                                                                   

                                                                           *

From Samuel Pepys   1667  January 1st in London

'Lay long, being a bitter, cold, frosty day, the frost being now grown old, and the Thames covered with ice'.

From Thomas Hardy 1886  January 2nd in Dorset

'Cold weather brings out upon the faces of people the written marks of their habits, vices, passions, and memories, as warmth brings out on paper a writing in sympathetic ink.'

                                                                          *

A Grimsby Fisherman’s Wife

Mrs. Ethel Richardson

 

 

 

During the day she knitted

her life into rough wool sweaters.

Fear of north east gales,

- more forecast -

fear of no return,

and Friday night beatings,

were turned with a collar,

stitched with sober wools.

Knit one, purl one.

 

Men known to her, sea-taken;

the grief of loss for

a babe or two; and

winter storms and

treacherous rocks that

albatrossed a fisherman’s life,

were knitted into sleeves,

into polo necks.

Knit one, purl one.

 

At night from her narrow bed,

she knitted dreams of exotic places

warm from the southern sun.

She danced on beaches, cockle-free

and knitted love

into her dream sweaters,

with wools, brightly coloured;

corals, blues, pinks, and red.

By night she knitted pumpkins.

Knit one, pearl one.

 

 

 

                                                                                        *

A very happy New Year to you all,

With very best wishes, Patricia

Love Unlocked

 

Dear Reader,

The Christian story is, I suppose, about love.  Loving our family, loving our friends, loving ourselves. Jesus Christ taught us that the two greatest commandments were to: 

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind" 

and He said :

"Love your neighbour as yourself"

Love for all people was at the centre of Jesus' message:  "Love one another as I have loved you".

                                                                               *

I think the Beatles got it right with their wonderful song:  "Love is all you need".  And thinking today at Christmas time, if you know someone who could do with a loving word or gesture, someone lonely perhaps, go out and smile at them, knock on their door, telephone or email to make them feel loved.  Being loved is happiness and love is what we all need in our lives.  

                                                                                   *

From James Woodforde  1790   25th December in Norfolk

"I lighted my large wax-candle being Xmas Day during teatime this afternoon for about an hour.  It was very mild, thank God, to-day for this time of year, tho' wet and very dirty walking."

From Dorothy Wordsworth  1802    25th December in Westmorland

"It is today Christmas Day, Saturday 25th December 1802.  I am thirty one years of age.   It is a dull, frosty day."

From Francis Kilvert  1873     27th December in Wiltshire

"Heavy rain in the night, but a lovely sunny warm morning.   As I write a dew diamond is sparkling and flashing rainbows on a rose leaf outside the dining room window, a more superb diamond than any among the Crown jewels of England."   

                                                                         *

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.

                                                                               *

 A very happy Christmas to you,

With very best wishes,   Patricia

 

Equality

                                                                   

 

                                                                     

                                                                             Happy Christmas

 

 Dear Reader,

I don't think I am the only one who dreads Christmas.   I have always been a hopeless packer of presents and have no notion of what my family would like to find wrapped. Nowadays, in fact, the grandchildren like to choose something themselves or welcome a little something from the Bank of Granny

I believe and love the Christian story, of Jesus Christ being born in a manager, so my perfect Christmas Day would be a church service with lots of favourite carols to sing, then a turkey lunch with Christmas pudding and brandy butter followed by, what ever the weather, a bracing walk. And to watch in the evening anywhere in the series of Downtown Abbey.

                                                                                       *

From Francis Kilvert  1870 December 28th 1870

An inch of snow fell last night and as we walked to Draycot to skate the snow storm began again.  As we passed Langley Burrell Church we heard the strains of the quadrille band on the ice at Draycot....The Lancers was beautifully skated.  When it grew dark the ice was lighted with Chinese lanterns, and the intense glare of blue, green, and crimson lights and magnesium riband make the whole place as light as day.  Then people skated with torches. 

From John Ruskin  1874    December 28th  in Coniston, Lancashire

Yellowish haze polluting sunshine.   Intense white fresh snow everywhere and sharp frost.

                                                                              *

Equality

Christmas Day.
The house fills with laughter, music
the tree sparkles, aglow with stars,
angels and white roses.
Under ribboned branches, a present pile,
exciting, enticing, the children
jump, squeal, and dance, eyes bright.
The turkey is succulent, the pudding sweet,
there are chocolates, crackers, jokes.
But a thought buzzes, wasp-like in my head:
while families reunite, reaffirm, love, smile, chat,
I think of those who have none of that.

                                                                                      *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

Invocation to Iona

 Dear reader,  

The Atlantic puffin species that ranks among everyone's favourite seabirds includes an endearing story.  How parents birds starve their single nearly grown chicks until hunger motivates the youngsters to leave the security of the clifftop burrows, and and in the dark of the night, leap to the pounding sea. 

The puffin in folklore was able to predict stormy weather.  The would fly to landwards two or three days in advance of a storm and fishermen observing them gather on the clifftops would pull their boats in until the tempest passed.  They were regarded as a reliable guide to the location of fish shoals.

Puffins are one of the few birds that have the ability to hold several small fish in their bills at a time. Their raspy tongues and spiny palates allow them to firmly grasp 10 to 12 fish during one foraging trip.

                                                                               *

From Dorothy Wordsworth  1802 December 19th in Westmorland

......as mild a day as ever I remember.  We all set out to walk ......There were flowers of various kinds - the top most bell of a foxglove, geraniums, daisies, a buttercup in the water....small yellow flowers (I do not know their name) in the turf, a large bunch of strawberry blossoms.

                                                                               *

Invocation to Iona

 

“Iona, sacred island, mother,

I honour you,

who cradle the bones

of Scottish kings,

Who birthed coloured gemstones

to enchant bleached beaches,

who shelter puffins on your rocks.

 

I wrap myself in your history,

and knot the garment with

machair rope-grass.

In the Port of Coracle

your southern bay,

I hear the wind-blown cormorants cry

and draw a breath.

I see Columba’s footsteps

in the sand, and weep.

Tears overflow,

I am spirit-engulfed.

 

“I ask you, Iona,

is this then, or now,

what is, or what has been?

Does the rolling salt sea-mist

cover the uncounted time between?”

 

                                                                         *

With best wishes, Patricia

 

 

Rooks

 Dear reader,

 

The rook is a member of the family Corvidae in the passerine order of birds but the English name for a rook is ultimately derived from the birds harsh call. 

The population of rooks has been increasing slightly year-on-year and seems to have adapted to the various changes in agriculture practices that many other species have been adversely affected by.  

Rooks are similar in size to carrion crows although sometimes slightly smaller.  It has black feathers which often show a blue or bluish-purple sheen in bright sunlight.  The feathers on its neck and head are especially dense and silky.

Rooks nest in a colony called a rookery.  The nest is built high in a tree close to other nests with previous years' nests even being reused.  The nest is usually bulky and is and of twigs bound together with earth, lined with moss, leaves, grass, wool and even hair.

                                                                                  *

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 Dorothy Wordsworth   November 24th 1801 in Westmorland

'I read a little of Chaucer, prepared the goose for dinner, and then we 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......'

                                                                                     *

 

Rooks

 

I was fourteen,

when I first heard

the call of the rooks

caw-cawing

their eerie cries.

 

From a Cornish cottage garden

I walked down through

dark woods to the beach,

a remote place,

just dunes, sand, the sea

and me, a confused, angry teenager,

with the rooks caw-cawing in my ears

disturbing my thoughts.

 

Even now, in later years,

whenever I hear whispers from the wind,

or sea lapping over large grey stones

ever forward, ever backward,

glimpse a faraway horizon

and see twilight descending

darkening the sky,

the rooks in large black groups

flying high towards

their evening bed,

cawing, cawing, cawing,

my heart misses a beat

and an unexplained sadness

overcomes me.

 

                                                                    *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Plumage

                                                                 Birds of Paradise
 

 

 

Dear Reader,

Birds of Paradise are found in New Guinea and surrounding islands.   They are so attractive that their appearance once made them the target of skin hunters who decimated some species.  They are the most intelligent species in the animal kingdom and use tools to get food and branches to build their nests.

Another characteristic shared by all Birds of Paradise is their diet.  These birds mainly eat fruit and insects such as grasshoppers and cicadas.  A common misconception about male Birds of Paradise is that they come out of the egg ready to dance.  But in fact it takes many years to learn and refine the dance steps that makes them attractive to females.  It can take four or five years before young males get their incredibly ornamented feathers.

When I first watched a documentary about these beautiful birds I couldn't help feeling that they behave in exactly the same way as human males or females.  Wanting to be attractive to the opposite sex, or the same sex, means dressing up in your best clothes, applying a little after shave or perfume, slicking down your hair or arranging it in a sexy way, then off to a dance hall or club to show off your wares.  Sometimes you are lucky, as with the birds.

                                                                                   *

From Gilbert White  1782 November 27th in Hampshire

'Fierce frost.  Rime hangs all day on the hanger.  the hares, pressed by hunger, haunt the gardens and devour the pinks, cabbages, parsley, etc. Cats catch the red-breasts.  Timothy the tortoise sleeps in the fruit-border under the wall, covered with a hen-coop, in which is a good armfull of straw.  Here he will like warm, secure, and dry.  His back is partly covered with mould.'

From John Everett Millais  1851 November 29th in Surrey

'All painted after breakfast- Holman Hunt at grass; myself, having nearly finished the wall, went on to complete stalk and lower leaves of Canterbury-bell in the corner.  Young, who was with Hunt, said he heard the stag-hounds out; went to discover and came running in in a state of frenzied excitement for us to see the hunt.   Saw about fifty riders after the hounds, but missed seeing the stag, it having got some distance ahead.   Moralised afterwards thinking it a savage and uncivilised sport.

                                                                              *

 

 Plumage

 

Deep in the humid forest

Scenting strongly of rich earth,

The bird of Paradise trips

Backwards and forwards on a tree branch,

Utters loud cries, jumps small jumps,

Dances the pas de deux,

Fans out his tail feathers,

Pink, aquamarine, blue and red

Yellow and green,

To entice female birds

To fall in love with him.

 

And sometimes they do.

 

The human male

Getting ready for a date

might slick back his hair,

smile at himself in the mirror,

put on a bright coloured shirt

red silk tie, and yellow waistcoat,

pat on some after shave

hum a tune, dancer a step or two,

and sally forth,

hoping some female will

fall in love with him.

 

And sometimes they do.

 

                                                                    *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

                                                                                    *

Thanks Private Norfolk

 Dear Reader,

 

The destruction on all the First World War battlefields was total.  Every account spoke of the sea of mud and the elimination of any distinguishing feature of the landscape.  For troops in the trenches the only other living things they would encounter, apart from fellow soldiers, were rats, mice or lice.

But one miracle did survive.   The conditions perfectly suited an annual herb called papaver rhoas, whose seeds can lie dormant in the soil for more than 80 years before germinating.  The process is usually triggered by disturbance of the soil, which is why the plant better known as the 'common poppy' is often found beside ploughed fields.  Now the so-called " war to end all wars" had served the same purpose.

This had been apparent since the unusually warm spring and early summer of 1915, when poppies had begun to grown in clusters on and around the battle zones.

This is from a poem by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae.

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

                                                                             *

The 11th of November seems to come round very quickly and as usual my thoughts are with my dear father, Harold Huth, who was a soldier in this terrible war.  He served as a major with The Royal Army Service Corps and was mentioned in Dispatches on three occasions.  I have a letter written in January 1916 congratulating my grandparents, from a Colonel Harrison and his other officers, on their son's distinguished conduct and gallantry.  So today, Remembrance Sunday, I am thinking of you, Dad, and thanking you for the part you played to give us all the freedoms we now enjoy, and am sending you my love.

                                                                         *

 

From Thomas Hardy  1877 November 12th in Dorset

'A flooded river after the incessant rains of  yesterday.  Lumps of froth float down like swans in fron of our house.  At the arches of the large stone bridge the froth has accumulated and lies like hillocks of salt against the bridge; then the arch chokes, and after a silence coughs out the air and froth, and gurgles on.'

         

                                                                              *

 

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.

 

                                                                         *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

Bridal red

 Dear reader,

 

Kenya is highly patriarchal in the rural areas of the country.  Girls and boys will have fairly separate upbringings with each being taught the duties and obligations specific to their gender.  Women are often expected to be obedient to their husbands as well as not to challenge or disagree with their views. 

Women and adolescent girls are the most vulnerable group in Kenya.  The are particularly vulnerable to poverty especially in the household and the community which is exacerbated by gender-base violence, harmful cultural attitudes and beliefs around roles, norms and female empowerment.

Gender based violence remains pervasive and women are still underrepresented in decision-making processes at al levels.  Women and girls still spend long hours collecting water and firewood.

                                                                              *

From Dorothy Wordsworth   November 8th 1800 in Westmorland

'A rainy morning.  A whirlwind came that tossed about the leaves , and tore off the still green leave of the ashes....the whole face of the country in a winter covering.  We went early to bed.'

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.'

                                                                           *                                                                          

Bridal Red

 I saw

a young girl smiling,

laughing, threading beads, minding goats,

chasing chickens, pulling feathers from their tails,

holding hands with sisters, friends,

chattering, gossiping, rough and tumbling

in bright sunlight.

 

I saw

scrub-plains, white rocks and blue,

blue mountains,  straw huts,

men on haunches, chewing,

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 woman, a wife.

The girl was chosen,

a bargain was struck

 

I saw

her stand silently, acquiescent,

red ochre paste and mud

mixed in a wooden bucket,

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,

not smiling, 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 grief, her tears trickling,

then flooding through the paste and mud.

I saw her sorrow as the colour red,

and a crown of thorns her maidenhead.

 

                                                                                 *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

 

 

Going Back

 Dear reader,

I had to go to the New Forest two weeks ago to read one of my poems and say a few words about my very dear friend, Lady Fiona Montagu, at her Memorial Service.  In order to do this I had to stay close to where I had lived for nearly twenty years in my twenty's and thirty's. My daughter, Jessica and I decided it would be interesting to go back to the house I had lived in all those years.  But it was a big mistake.  When I lived there it was, at the end of the 1960s, and a dilapidated old farmhouse with masses of charm.  The roof leaked, rats lived in the walls and it was cold but with a family growing up, three daughters, it was a solid and cosy home with lots to recommend it.  The now grown up children remember it with affection.

I left the house and got divorced and my ex-husband sold it to a millionaire cattle farmer.  It now looks  completely different.  A great deal of money must have been spent making it pristine.  New walls, new staircases, panelled rooms and Italian type tiles in the old hall.  And there were cameras in the grounds everywhere to detract uninvited guests. 

Jessica and I did ring the bell and the owner answered, but was not very welcoming, however he gave me a piece he had written about Ipley Manor (the farmhouse) and its acres  from Medieval times, which was very interesting.  I asked him whether he saw the ghost and told him I had twice felt it and knew which room it appeared in.  He didn't seem very interested but perhaps one doesn't want to know about ghosts in our houses.  It wasn't at all like the house that I remember and know now that my memories will remain, in my mind, as it was.

                                                                *

From Gilbert White, October 25th 1784 in Hampshire

'Hard frost, thick ice.   In my way to Newton I was covered with snow! Snow covers the ground and trees.'

 

From Francis Kilvert, October 25th 1874 in Wiltshire

'A damp warm morning steaming with heat, the outer air like a hothouse, the  inner air colder, and in consequence the old thick panelled walls of the front rooms streaming with the arm air condensed on the cold walls....The afternoon was so gloomy that I was obliged for the first time to have lights in the pulpit.'

                                                                                    

                                                                                  *

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 very best wishes, Patricia

Small Pleasures in Old Age

 

Dear Reader,

Of the wild UK deer species only the red deer and roe deer are truly indigenous.   Fallow deer were almost certainly introduced by the Normans while three Asiatic specious Reeves muntjac, chinese water deer and Sika arrived in the last 19th and early 20th centuries.

Within properly functioning ecosystems deer play an important role by maintaining open arrears which can enhance biodiversity and habitat quality of a woodland.  However without any predators large deer populations can have a devastating effect on their environment.

                                                                                     *

One of the pleasures I mention in today's poem is having time with the grandchildren.  This week I was lucky and Mary, and her boyfriend Jamie, came to afternoon tea.  And we had a great time.  They told told of their aspirations for future life and how they were starting new jobs in November.  And as, I think, a wise old woman, I propounded the theory that living in a frugal way was good for the soul.  We only have one go in life and it is short and precious.  Live together, with rules, I said, and happiness will surely ensue.

                                                                                      *

 

 

From John Clare, October 31st, 1824 in Northants

'Took a walk, got some branches of the spindle tree with its pink-color'd berries that shine beautifully in the pale sun.'

From Dorothy Wordsworth, October 31st, 1800 in Grasmere, Westmorland

'A very fine moonlight night - The moon shone like herrings in the water.'

From S.T. Coleridge, October 31st, 1803 in Cumberland

'The full moon glided on behind a black cloud.  And what then?  And who cared?.'

                                                                                     *

Small Pleasures in Old Age

 

 

Listening to Mozart’s Andante

in front of a log fire

 

hearing the robin’s call

in early spring

spotting the first violets, first primroses,

 

walking in the woods

sitting under the trees

whilst the bagpipes utter

 

their unique spiritual sounds

watching the deer hurrying

through the undergrowth

 

following the antics

of the Archer family

eating peanut butter sandwiches

 

watching the goldfinch spitting

out seeds, and laughing

at the absurdity of life itself

 

exchanging family news

proudly loving the grandchildren

and their stories

 

small away holidays

with Francis, by the sea

in Dorset

 

And, perhaps,  best of all, having the courage

to not say yes to things

when I mean no

                                                                               *

With best wishes, Patricia