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

                                                                             

The Promised Land

                                                                    The way to heaven perhaps?
 

 

Dear Reader,

A very dear friend of mine was dying but quite happy about it since she thought that being dead was a great big adventure that she would enjoy. A few days before she died a very strange thing happened to me. 

In the middle of the night, at about 3 am, I was awakened by a voice in my head dictating the following prayer/poem.  I stumbled into my study and managed to write the words down but the next morning I remembered very little of it. I was a bit shaken for a few days but thinking about it I am sure of one thing.  This was the voice of Jesus Christ, or some Higher Being or perhaps a Guardian Angel.  Certainly this sort of thing has never happened to me before or since.

 I believe it is called channelling and has happened to various artists over the years.  Rudyard Kipling  thought that sometimes a voice told him what to write when working on his poems.  This is quite different from thinking and telling yourself what to write.

I telephoned my friend and read it out to her.  She loved it and wept.  

See what you think.

The Promised Land

 

I cannot see the distant place

It’s out of reach for me.

I cannot see the distant place, 

misting to the sea.

 

I cannot hear the singing birds

or see the mountain range,

I cannot speak my Christian name

since my body starts to change.

 

I will not know what happens next,

Or where I might be,

I cannot see the distant place

It’s out of reach for me.

 

Lord and Saviour, hold my hand.

As I drift into the Promised Land.

 

                                                                                         *

From John Everett Millais  October 16th 1851 in Surrey

 

'Worked on my picture; painted nasturtiums; saw a stoat run into a hole in the garden wall; went up to it and endeavoured to lure the little beast out by mimicking a rat's or mouse squeak...Succeeded, to my astonishment. He came half out of the hole and looked in my face, within easy reach.'

 

 From Francis Kilvert  October 18th 1878 in Gower Peninsula, Glamorgan

'St. Luke's Day.  This week has indeed been the summer of St. Luke.   Five of us drove in the waggonette to Oxwich Bay ....We had a merry windy luncheon on the bank near the churchyard gate, and great fun and famous laughing.  An E. wind was blowing fresh and strong, the sea was rolling grey and yeasty, and in a splendid sunburst the white seagulls were running and feeding on the yellow sands.  A wild merry happy day.'

                                                                                   *

 

If you have time and the inclination do give me some feedback on the poem.  I would love to know what you think.   email address:  

patricia.huthellis@googlemail.com

                                                                                    *

With very best wishes, Patricia

 

The Date Jar

Dear Reader,
 

 Do you know this lovely story?  Here it is if you don't.

Grayfriars Bobby (4th May 1855 - l4th January 1872) was a Skye terrier who became known in 19th Century Edinburgh for spending 14 years guarding the grave of his owner until he died.

Bobby belonged to John Gray who worked for the Edinburgh City Police as a nightwatchman.  When John Gray died he was buried in Grayfriars Kirkyard in the Old Town of Edinburgh.  Bobby then became known locally as he spent the rest of his life sitting on his master's grave.

Bobby is said to have sat by the grave for 14 years.  He was buried just outside the gate of Grayfriars Kirkyard, not far from John Gray's grave.

A year later the English philanthropist Lady Burdett-Couts was charmed by the story and had a drinking fountain topped with Bobby's statue erected at the junction of George V1 Bridge and Candlemaker Row, opposite the entrance to the churchyard to commemorate him.

                                                                                         *

From Francis Kilvert  1871  October 9th in Radnorshire

'There was a frost in the night and this morning the tops of the poplar spires are touched, are turned to finest gold.'

From Gilbert White 1787 October 13th in Hampshire

'We saw several redwings among the bushes on the north side of the common.  There were swallows about the village at the same time: so that summer and winter birds of passage were seen on the same day.'

                                                                                         *

The Date Jar   (after cancer operation)

On the breakfast table I noticed
the date jar,
hiding a little behind the cereals,
the milk, the marmalade, the sugar bowl,
and a small jug full of early daffodils.

The date jar?

My throat constricted.
It was the thought he had had,
laying things out,
that I might like a date,
that touched the chord.

                                                                                       *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Forever Love

 Dear Reader,

                                                                       Autumn Gear

I haven't quite got to grips with this weather.  I thought it was supposed to be autumnal now with the leaves starting to fall and cold or frosty nights starting to make themselves known.  But no such thing has happened.  I was so hot in bed two nights ago I threw off the blanket and just had one sheet over me.  Then I went out to lunch with two of my grandchildren on Friday and was too hot in a cardigan and jacket. 

So I assume all this warm air is the result of global warming.  Gosh what are we all to do with global warming throughout the planet?  Obviously everyone is worried about its consequences and I often wonder how it will all end as I am sure many people do. At 83 I haven't too long to worry about it but I do worry for my children and grandchildren. 

                                                                              *

The news this week about knife crimes all over England is pretty horrific. What on earth is going on?  Why isn't the punishment for a knife crime more severe?  I despair of British justice and am very glad that I am no longer a magistrate.

                                                                                 *

 From Dorothy Wordsworth  1800   October 2nd in Westmorland

'A very rainy morning. We walked after dinner to observe the torrents....the lichens are now coming out afresh, I carried home a collection in the afternoon.  We had a pleasant conversation about the manners of the rich - avarice, inordinate desires and the effeminacy, unnaturalness, and the  unworthy objects of education....a showery evening.  the moonlight lay upon the hills like snow.'

 

From Francis Kilvert  1874   October 7th in Radnorshire

For some time I have been trying to find the right word for the shimmering glancing twinkling movement of the popular leaves in the sun and wind.  This afternoon I saw the word written on the poplar leaves.  It was 'dazzle'.   The dazzle of the poplars. 

                                                                             *

Forever Love

They meet at church,
wander through cow parsley fields
red poppies, buttercups,
talk of life
hold hands
fall in love,
grow up together.

Then Josh goes to Uni,
Lola still at school
invites him to her Prom.

Too undermining
thinks Josh
and didn't go.
They part.

Both old now,
think of those days
of love, freedom and joy,
with regret,
with sadness.

                                                                             *

With very best wishes, Patricia