In Her Spare Room

Dear Reader,

                                                                              The Steam Engine

                                     

Several summers ago we decided to rent a cottage on the North Yorkshire moors and, as has happened before, the pretty cottage described in the brochure was, in fact, situated in a caravan park, and the weather was gloomy and the house was cold.   But nevertheless we had some good small adventures, and walking from Grosmont to Goathland after taking the steam train, a short twenty -minute ride, was one of them.  The railway line had been closed following the Beeching Report, but in 1967 a group of steam enthusiasts and local volunteers started its restoration, and today it carries more passengers than any other heritage railway in the United Kingdom.  It was an interesting walk with lovely scenery and great views of the steam trains hurrying by.  I always think steam trains are really romantic and would love to go on that long journey people enthuse about from Victoria Station to Vladivostok on the Trans-Siberian railway.

Dear readers, could you do something for me this week please?  I will have been writing this weekly blog for one year from the beginning of July 2015 and feel a rest might be in order at the end of this month.  So the question for you is: should I continue, starting again in September?  I would be very grateful if you could let me know your feelings by writing to my email address, which is:   

patricia.huthellis@googlemail.com

Just say yes go on, or we have had enough and I will take your advice.  Thank you very much.


                                                                      *



In Her Spare Room


I see these books,
draw in a breath,
as cherished memories
race into my head.

These are:

Akenfield
Portraits of an English Village
Swallows and Amazons
The Speckledy Hen
The Little Flowers of St. Francis
My Friend Flicka
The Wind in the Willows
Tales of Old Inns

The owner of this house
is unknown to me,
but her collection
of treasured books
tells me a little of her,
what makes her who she is,
what makes me who I am.

                                                                          *

Very best wishes,  Patricia
                                                                               


 

The Holiday Cottage

Dear Reader,

                                                                              May Blossom


I have seen with such pleasure this week beautiful hedges overflowing with hawthorn, a picture of white snow-like flowers, and the trees, their leaves all out now, mossy green and abundant.  So 
I thought you might like to read these two extracts, the first one from D.H. Lawrence in Cornwall (1916) and the second from Francis Kilvert in Wiltshire (1875) on their enjoyment of the lovely month of May.

'The country is simply wonderful, blue, graceful little companies of bluebells everywhere on the moors, the gorse in flame, and on the cliffs and by the sea, a host of primroses, like settling butterflies, and seapinks like a hover of pink bees, near the water.'  

'..........banks and hedges brilliant with pink campion......As I came home the western heavens were jewelled with pure bright sparkling lights of grey silver and pale gold, and overhead a sublime mackerel sky of white and blue in its distant fleecy beauty gave me a more intense and grand sense of infinity and the illimitable than I ever remember to have had before.'


                                                                             *

The Holiday cottage


The lone cottage is whitewashed,
a small wicker fence
with garden gate
leads to the shore,
to the sea.
Before breakfast I take a cup of tea
on to the sand dunes,
breathe in the salt air,
search the horizon
or watch the gannets,
seagulls, terns.
The wind blows softly.

But the cottage is not whitewashed,
does not sit by itself.
And the sea is far off.
This cottage is on an estate,
adjoining houses on either side,
loud music bellows from a window,
cars and trucks fill the drive,
a food store across the road
is the view.

                                                                         *

Very best wishes, Patricia

Misconception

Dear Reader,

                                                                              Camels in the Sahara

Camels have been in the news this week because camel milk is increasingly being recognized by the Food and Agriculture Organization for its health benefits.  Since the drought in Kenya is killing so many cattle, in an effort to commercialize camel milk and make it widely accessible to consumers, a small group of women in the town of Isiolo have got together and formed a co-operative.  As a consequence they can now send their milk to Eastleigh, the Somali enclave in Nairobi, where camel milk sells at more than three times the price of cow's milk, and they appear to be doing very well.  It is believed, too, that camel milk can make your skin feel silky, leading several small business owners to create their own beauty products using it.   Camel milk is now a growing industry with great potential to thrive, and although it is supposed to be delicious in a cup of tea, I think I will stick to dairy milk in my PG Tips.

                                                                                *

Misconception


The woman thought when she left
the office building would explode,
blood from her willing heart
would drip from the ceiling,
pieces of her goodwill,
her ready smile,
possibly her arms and legs,
would drop into waste bins,
flow out of filing cabinets,
strew the carpet with bits of herself.
The atmosphere would be dank
with tears for the loss of her.
She knew her worth.

In the spring, Sandra met her.
Karen, from Accounts,
now has her job, she said.
She is brilliant, everyone loves her.

The woman walked away,
mantled in her goodness,
surprised at what poor judgements
people make.

                                                                           *

Very best wishes, Patricia

A Grimsby Fisherman's Wife, Mrs. Ethel Richardson

                                          St. Mary's Chapel, Capel-y-ffin, Black Mountains, Wales


Dear Reader,


I have been staying for the last few days in Hay-on-Wye, meeting two good friends who live in Clyro, where cleric Francis Kilvert also lived and worked for several years in the nineteenth century.   On Monday and Tuesday it rained all day, as it often does in Wales, but on Thursday we were blessed with wonderful sunshine for our trip into the Black Mountains, to see an Augustinian priory at Llanthony.  The narrow road from Hay-on-Wye winds up and down through moorlands of windswept bracken, wild flowers in abundance, and only ponies and sheep to be seen.  This was, apparently, one of Dorothy and William Wordsworth's favourite walks, likewise Francis Kilvert's and, more recently, Bruce Chatwin as a teenager walked here and felt it was "one of the emotional centres of his life".  We stopped on the way back from the priory to visit St. Mary's Chapel at Capel-y-ffin, which as you can see is totally delightful, with a lop-sided belfry.    It was built in 1762,  is surrounded by ancient yew trees, and has two small headstones carved by Eric Gill.  The inside of the chapel is very small and the front pew is completely occupied by a range of teddy bears of different sizes.   I don't know why they were there, but they seemed quite happy.



                                                                         *

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 summer 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.

                                                                           *

With best wishes, Patricia

For You, Everyman

Dear Reader,

                                                       The Hedgehog


I have two interesting things to share with you this week: one is about hedgehogs and the other something new to learn about those pesky dormice that I wrote about in November last.  The hedgehog, I learnt, can climb up trees but he cannot climb down.   So, when he has climbed to the top of the tree he rolls up into a ball and hurls himself to the ground, suffering no pain whatsoever, then scampers off unhurt.   The hedgehog was named because of his peculiar foraging methods as he roots through hedges and undergrowth in search of small creatures that compose the bulk of his diet: insects, worms, centipedes, snails, mice, frogs, and snakes.   As he picks his way through the hedges he emits pig-like grunts, hence his name.

In the Middle East, and especially among Bedouins, hedgehog meat is considered medicinal and thought to cure arthritis and rheumatism.  In the 1980s "hedgehog-flavour" crisps were introduced in Britain, although the product contained no hedgehog.  Anyway,  I am sure we all know and love Mrs. Tiggy Winkle and wouldn't want her in a crisp.

Now to the dormice.  The bridge that had been built for them to travel over, above a by-pass near Pontypridd in Wales, so that they could have a more enjoyable social life with the dormice on the other side of the road, without being killed in the process, was blown over by strong winds in February and still hasn't been put back up.   This structure cost £190,000 and, in my opinion, was not money well spent, but the dormice probably wouldn't agree and are missing the freedom to frolic and socialize with dormice from the 'other side'.

                                                                       *

For You,
Everyman


My smile is for you.
Yes, you, the man on the omnibus,
You, the woman in the crowd,
You, the small child, playing in the dust,
You, the homeless, the tramp unbowed,
You, in the business suit, you in kaftan,
You, the tall, you, the short,

Yes, You, Everyman.

The exchanged smile
acknowledges shared humanity
in this fleeting recognition.
No words needed.

                                                                      *

With best wishes,  Patricia

In this Salford Street

                                                                          A Working Sheepdog
                                                          

Dear Reader,
                                                                
I know I wrote about a dog last week and apologise to those of you who, perhaps, don't like dogs, as I am writing about another dog this week too.  But this story is just so astonishing I felt I had to mention it, so those of you who didn't read it would  have a chance to enjoy it.  

A working sheepdog called Pero who lived in the village of Penrhyncoch, Ceredigion, Wales, was sold by farmers Alan and Shan James to a farmer in Cockermouth some 240 miles from his original home.  They thought he might be happier there where he would have much more individual attention instead of being one of sixteen dogs.  However, he obviously wasn't happy there and decided to trot home to Penrhyncoch.  So he did, taking twelve days to somehow get across motorways, including the M6 and the M62.  His route is likely to have taken him through the Lake District, the moors of the Forest of Bowland, and the old industrial towns of Lancashire, before passing Merseyside, Chester, and the mountains of Snowdonia.  Mrs James thought it was a complete mystery how Pero found his way home and so do I.  What kind of instinct was this, and do humans have this same instinct, I wonder?  Certainly I don't and can get lost in a small wood, and I find this journey of Pero's incomprehensible but absolutely incredible. 

As Shakespeare wrote :  'There are more things under heaven and earth, Horatio, than in your philosophy' ......  Quite so.

                                                                       *




In this Salford Street

the houses have no eyes,
windows and doors, boarded up.
These houses were home
to someone,
people grew up here,
played life's games,
made love, made babies,
made friendships last to the end.

They are all demolished now,
other people saw to that,
damp bricks and mortar,
which had served their time,
dispensible.

Nothing is left.
No shops, no pubs, no parks,
no prettiness,
nothing but rubble, dust, sadness
everywhere,
and a river running with tears.

                                                                    *

With best wishes, Patricia

The Date Jar

Dear Reader,

                                                                                  A Glossy Labrador


A woman who lived in Kenya was puzzled as to why the glossy coat of her labrador dog was often remarked on.  She simply didn't understand the reason for this admiration because she didn't feed him a special diet, in fact, nothing out of the ordinary.  But she did discover his secret.  The dog had taken a liking to avocados and was eating the ones that had fallen from a tree in the garden. Hence his glossy coat. 

In the 16th century Spanish explorers travelling to Mexico, where avocados grew in profusion, became the first Europeans to eat them.  By the time of the Spanish Conquest avocados had spread from Mexico through Central America into parts of South America.  The Spanish eventually brought avocados to Europe and sold them to other countries including England.  The first written record in English of the use of the word "avocado" was by Sir Hans Sloane in a 1696 index of Jamaican plants.  The word 'avocado' is believe to be derived from the Nahuatl (Aztec language) word 'ahuactl', which means 'testicle' and obviously described the shape of the fruit.  It is also likely that the Nahuatl speaking peoples believed that it was an aphrodisiac.  So there could be all sorts of excitements in store if we all ate more avocados.
                                                                            *


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.


                                                                              *

Very best wishes, Patricia