Identity

Dear Reader,

                                                                                          Donkeys

In the summers of the 1950's I spent numerous holidays on beautiful English beaches where many a donkey ride was to be had.  My sister and I found this to be a great treat and thoroughly enjoyed our selves.   Beach donkeys and donkey rides have been available since 1886 in Weston Super Mare and since 1895 in Bridlington.  The tradition started in Victorian times and it is thought that the donkeys on offer were originally working draught animals in the cockle industry around the coast.  I do love donkeys and so apparently did Charles Dickens, Jane Austen and Karl Marx. A final fact I can share with you is that since 2005 donkeys in Britain have been required to have a passport.

                                                                              *

Identity

"Why hello", she said, "how are you.
what have you been doing,
how are the family, is your sister
still writing.  I love her books
and George, I expect he is as
busy as ever, and the twins, heavens
how are they, and your grandmother, does
she still live in Acapulco, breeding
donkeys, and your dog, is it alive and well?
Ah good, good, good.
Gosh look at the time -
I really must fly, but so
lovely to hear all about you,
and your life".

The woman scratched her fingernails
down her cheek,
a spot of blood
splattered in her hand,
she pinched her arm, sensed the pain,
she stamped the ground,
felt paving stones beneath her feet,
and drawing near she saw a 23 bus.
These things were proof of her
existence, weren't they?
So she was alive, was there,
just invisible.

                                                                      *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Small Moments of Warmth

Dear Reader,

                                                                                Pony and Trap


Peeping into other people's gardens this week I noticed that the one flower flourishing and still giving colour was the Michaelmas Daisy.  Michaelmas, the Feast of Michael and All angels, is celebrated on the 29th of September every year, and as it falls near the equinox, the day is associated with the beginning of autumn and the shortening days,  in England it is one of the quarter days. There is something old-fashioned and charming about Michaelmas daisies,  they are mostly blue and purple which look exceptionally good in the  low autumnal sun.  Michaelmas daisies banish autumn blues, they are vibrant, cheerful, and loved by butterflies.


Someone wrote to me last week asking for more stories of my eccentric Irish grandmother.  So here is a snippet.  She used to go shopping at Fortnum and Mason every morning, although what she needed or bought goodness knows since she was living at the Ritz Hotel at the time.  To go there she wore a long red velvet coat with a train trailing behind her, and on her head a black hat with a veil.  She also carried a walking stick which she pointed at people who were in her way, and stopped buses in their tracks when she wanted to cross the road. But however strange she was, she did live until she was 98.

                                                                           *

Small Moments of Warmth

I remember a little warmth,
Joey trotting the family through Norfolk lanes,
the small yellow trap swaying in the sunshine.

I remember picnics on Yarmouth beach
with enough blue sky "to make a sailor's trouser".
We ate cucumber sandwiches.  Penguin biscuits.

I remember dark evenings,
the small warm flame from a Tilly lamp
lighting the kitchen, and sometimes for supper
we had chicken, chocolate mousse.

I remember a warm holiday in France
squeezed into the back of a car,
singing old thirties love songs.

But will these small moments of warmth,
at the end, be enough to heat and split
the heavy stones that circle the human heart,
allow salt tears to trickle through the cracks?

                                                                             *

With very best wishes, Patricia                          

Loved Unlocked

Dear Reader,

I know that this is one of your favourite pictures of a summer field in the Cotswolds.  In it, as I have mentioned before,  Ratty and Mole can often be seen having a picnic, and sometimes Badger comes too.

I heard a funny story this week about the ubiquitous seagulls and I thought I would share it with you. Seagulls apparently love eating worms so, in order to attract them to the surface of the ground, the seagulls pad their feet up and down to resemble the sound of rain.  The worms who do not like rain in their burrows wiggle up to the surface and get snapped up by the seagull.  Rather a clever ruse I thought.

I wonder if you remember me writing about my eccentric grandmother who lived for eighteen years in the Ritz Hotel, London?  Thinking about banks last week I suddenly remembered that Granny was the last woman in this country to bank with the Bank of England.  Each week she used to go down to the Bank taking the bus from Piccadilly, to inquire after her fortune.  When she had found out what it was she took the bus back to the Ritz.   If things had gone well, and she was in the money when I visited her, she would give me half a crown instead of the usual two shilling piece.


                                                                         *


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, Patricia

Grief

Dear Reader,

                                                                        A Mill owner

From Francis  Kilvert's diary - October 23rd, 1874

'When the Squire came to see John Hatherell last Sunday he reminded the old man of the nights they patrolled the road together 45 years ago during the machine-breaking riots.  Robert Ashe led a patrol of six men one half of the night, and Edward Ashe headed another patrol of equal strength the other half.   One night when Robert Ashe was patrolling the village with his men and keeping watch and guard against the machine-breakers and rioters, who were expected from Christian Malford and other villages, he seized by mistake old Mr. Eddels, taking him in the dark for a machine-breaker or incendiary.   The old man had come out at night in the innocence of his heart to get some straw from his rickyard.'

The Luddites (machine-breakers) were a group of English textile workers and weavers in the 19th century who destroyed weaving machinery as a form of protest.  Luddites feared that the time they spent learning new skills of their craft would go to waste as machines would replace their role in the industry.  But it is a misconception that the Luddites protested against the machinery itself in an attempt to halt progress of technology.   The Luddite movement began in Nottingham and culminated in a region-wide rebellion that lasted from 1811 to 1816.   Mill owners took to shooting protesters and eventually the movement was suppressed with military force.

I myself feel very Luddite about modern technology.   I know it is marvelous in many ways, especially where medicine is concerned, but I dream of a world with less technology, but simpler, kinder and more considerate, more thoughtful.  Ah well....

                                                                            *


Grief

Grief bridles you
holds the reins
is an unwanted guest in your head
releases uncontrollable torrents of tears

is ever present
your albatross

you glimpse a slipper
under the chair
study the wedding photographs
count the claret bottles
no longer wanted
and you weep.

                                                                              *

The Perfect B&B

Dear Reader,

                                                                                             B&Bs

I have had many an enjoyable stay in England's and Scotland's B&Bs, they are cheaper than hotels and, in many ways, better and more fun.  The tradition of extending hospitality to strangers goes back to the earliest recorded history for almost all religions and cultures world wise.  Other than soldiers or religious pilgrims travel for business or pleasure started in the 1700's.  Lots of stagecoach inns common in England and the eastern United States provided stabling for horses and lodgings for travellers, but these accommodations were extremely modest (at best).  The advent of the railroads provided a huge boost to travel comfort, and hundreds of hotels were built close to train stations to accommodate growing numbers of travellers.

Travel to Europe boomed after World War II,  a strong dollar allowed millions of Americans to discover England's and Ireland's B&Bs, and equivalent accommodation on the continent.  Throughout the 1980's, the seeds for the B&B growth were planted.   Interestingly although B&Bs in the United Stated began as informal, inexpensive places to stay with shared baths and minimal amenities, they are largely now luxurious and very comfortable, with a high level of service and delicious breakfast food.

                                                                                *


The Perfect B&B

Soft red brick, covered in roses,
the hall floor Cotswold stone,
the doors and furniture
applewood, mahogany, old pine,
chintz curtains in pretty bedrooms,
thick woollen carpets
and large white towels,
long and lovely views of distant hills,
sweet smells of lilies and lavender,
fresh asparagus for dinner,
duck and strawberries.

On the garden table,
its soft green feathers
ruffling gently in the wind,
lies a dead linnet.

                                                                              *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Universal Truth

Dear Reader,

Autumn

Autumn has arrived, Keat's 'season of mists and mellow fruitfulness', is here.  Certainly the Cotswold's are looking very beautiful at the moment, full of very colourful red and gold trees.  This year's harvest moon  - the name for the first full moon that occurs closest to the autumn equinox was a classic, bathed in rose gold.  The name 'harvest moon' derives from the fact farmers used to rely on its light to work late into the night collecting crops ahead of winter.  In autumn the moon's orbital path in comparison to the earth means it rises sooner, and brings noticeably more illuminated nights.  At the time of the harvest moon it rises almost as soon as the sun sets, hence the bright orange overtones.
When the moon shines full above our heads, humans react in strange ways.  In some hospitals and psychiatric wards it is still an accepted school of thought that full moons lead to busy nights.  That is why we refer to a state of madness as "lunacy".

From Dorothy Wordsworth's journal, 1800 (Westmorland).

'We pulled apples after dinner, a large basket full.   We walked before tea by Bainriggs to observe the many-coloured foliage.  The oaks dark green with some yellow leaves, the birches generally still green, some near the water yellowish, the sycamore crimson and crimson-tufted, the mountain ash a deep orange, the common ash lemon colour, but many ashes still fresh in their summer green'.

                                                                             *

Universal Truth

Everyone knows that Philip Larkin wrote:

"The fuck you up
your mum and dad,
they may not mean to
but they do".

And what Philip Larkin knew,
I know to be true.

                                                                            *

With best wishes, Patricia

Unfettered

Dear Reader,

                                                                                     Julius Caesar

                                                                                 The Rubicon River

 Not sleeping very well at the moment I was listening to the World Service at 3.30am (about) last week when I heard a very interesting talk about Julius Caesar 'crossing the Rubicon".  Not knowing much about 'crossing the Rubicon' I investigated and found a little something about it.  Here it is for those of you who don't know already.

It means 'crossing the Rubicon River' (between Italy and Gaul) in 49 BC, thereby starting a war against Pompey and the Roman Senate.   On January 10th General Julius Caesar crossed the Rubicon River, the boundary between the Cisalpine Gaul province to the north and Italy proper to the south, a legally proscribed action forbidden to any army-leading general.  Caesars Civil War (49-45   BC) is also called the Great Roman Civil War where Julius Caesar fought against the senate supported legions of Pompey the Great.  This war lasted for four years until Caesar finally defeated Pompey and became Dictator of Rome.  The famous moment in the war was when Caesar crossed the Rubicon river.  This meant he was going to war against Rome.   Today the term "crossing the Rubicon" is still used to say that someone has reached the point of no return and cannot turn back.               

                                                                                 

                                                                            *
Unfettered

I need to unbind myself
to let him go free
to fly away
on angels wings

return to me
settle his soul with mine
unfettered with ties
each of us single

each of us to be
paired again in
God's heaven

one day

                                                                              *


With very best wishes, Patricia