When my dad came home

 Dear Reader,

This year our sweet peas just didn't want to bloom.  These five in the photograph are the only ones that survived but they smelt wonderful and looked gorgeous.   I wonder what we did wrong in the planting?  Please let me know if you do know the secret to make them happy and produce.

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There are two great claimants to the invention of whisky, the Irish and the Scots.  But distillation, the process of using heat to separate liquids into component compounds dates back to ancient Greeks. 

William Grant founded the first distillery in 1887 to redefine the world of whisky.  In fact in 1963, Glenfiddich claimed to be the first single malt available in a sea of blends meaning that everything else before was exclusively blended Scotch whisky.

Single malt whisky is often considered the highest quality type of whisky, and it is usually more expensive than other types of whisky.  This spirit classification is often described as being smoother and more complex than other whiskies, and they are often used in mixed drinks or enjoyed on their own.

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From John Clare  September 10th 1824 in Northants

'The swallows are flocking together in the skies ready for departing and a crowd has dropt to rest on the walnut tress where they twitter as if they were telling their young stories of their long journey to cheer and check fears.'

From William Cobbett  September 11th 1826 in Wiltshire

'Between Somerford and Oaksey I saw, on the side of the road, more goldfinches than I had ever seen together; I think fifty times as many as I had ever seen at one time in my life.  The favourite food of the goldfinch is the seed of the thistle.  This seed is just now ripe.  The thistles are all cut and carried away from the fields by the harvest; but the grow alongside the roads; and, in this place, in great quantities.  So that the goldfinches were got here in flocks, and as they continued to fly along before me for nearly half a mile, and still sticking to the roads and banks, I do believe I had, at least, a flock of ten thousand flying before me.'

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When my dad came home

 

 

he nodded off

in 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 him about the war,

and he never said.

  

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With very best wishes, Patricia