Chapel

                                                                     White washed chapel
 

 

Dear Reader,

 

It was watching 'Civilization' narrated by Alan Clarke when I first realized that I hate ornate churches, statues with flying angels and gold displayed everywhere possible.  Those kind of places seemed to be in Europe, especially Italy, and so they are, in the main,  Roman Catholic.  I can't imagine that God or Jesus Christ wanted all that lavish display, surely his message was of simplicity, humbleness, and quiet peacefulness.  One we could all do with I think. Small chapels, often buried on a hillside, with plain interiors and a jug of wild flowers or daisies on the altar, I find are full of the Holy Spirit I am looking for when I enter to contemplate and to pray.  

                                                                                   *

From John Ruskin, July 26th, 1872, on the English Channel

'Breakfast in Paris - so to train.  Across in intensely calm water and sky.  The smoke of steamers on clear cliffs of England in a streak all round horizon.....I never saw the cliffs themselves so clearly from France.'

 

From Gilbert White, July 27th, 1780, in Hampshire

'Tortoise eats gooseberries.'

                                                                                   *

Chapel

Away with the cherubs
the angels, the painted ceilings
the high arches
the high ceilings
nudes male and female
the artifacts
the gold crosses
the ornate statures of the
Virgin Mary.

Give me a chapel with
whitewashed bricks
wooden pews
oak door with studs
daisies on the altar
in a china jug
a bust of St. Columba
and quiet peace
in God's house.

                                                                                     *

I hope you all managed to keep cool on those very hot days.  I stayed indoors with closed curtains and fans on - all day. 

Very best wishes, Patricia

Love unlocked

 Dear Reader,

My poem today is about love.  I don't think any of us really know what it is exactly.  Falling in love is, I would say, different from loving in general.  Prince Charles is said to have muttered when asked whether he was in love before marrying Princess Diana, said: "well, whatever love is".  Quite.  Whatever it is, it is difficult to define.  For me a feeling of love sweeps over me, looking and being with my family.  I also get this feeling when I am with Francis, sometimes when he has been particularly touching, and mended the bathroom tap for instance or made a delicious lunch. And my friends?  Well Fiona Montagu has been  exceptionally kind, loyal and generous to me over fifty odd years and whatever it is, that sweeping feeling comes over me when I think of her.  And my grandchildren?  Gosh I love them.  When I first saw them as tiny babies that sweeping feeling rushed into my heart and has stayed there ever since.  So is that love?  A sweeping feeling? I am still wondering.....and conclude it must be different for everyone.  Each of us has our own definition, know what love is for ourselves.

                                                                                   *

From S.T. Coleridge, July 19th, 1803, in Cumberland

'Intensely hot day - left off a waistcoat, and for yarn wore silk stockings'.

From Gilbert White,  July 20th, 1778, in Hampshire

'Much thunder.  Some people in the village were struck down by the storm, but not hurt. The stroke seemed to them like a violent push or shove.  The ground is well soaked.  Wheat much lodged (laid flat).'

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, on this very hot day,

Patricia

The Door

                                                                                    The closed door
 

Dear reader,

What a week we have had with all the government machinations.  So finally Boris had to retire and for my two penny's worth that was completely the right decision, and he should have made it sooner.  It wasn't really terrible for me that he attended a birthday party or didn't, it was the fact that he told lies. Oscar Wilde said: "whoever let the truth get in the way of a good story" an anecdote that Boris made his own.  I have met many men of his ilk tell stories of perhaps shooting achievements, or of the size of the fish they have caught, or just general exaggerations and, because it is often funny, nobody minds.  In fact often when I tell a story I exaggerate to make it more amusing, and my children often point this out.  But as Prime Minister exaggerating and distorting the truth just won't do. We need integrity in a leader, someone we can trust.  Let us hope that the next chosen one keeps to the truth, however difficult that may be.

                                                                           *

I know it is going to be very hot this week and so for me a week of drawn curtains and a very quiet life.  I have never sunbathed even when I was young. But for all you who may love the heat and the sun have a lovely time.  Enjoy, as they say.

                                                                           *

From William Cowper, June 13th, 1783 in Buckinghamshire

'The fogs..... still continue, though till yesterday the earth was as dry as intense heat could make it.  The sun continues to rise and set without his rays, and hardly shines at noon.  At eleven last night the moon was a dull red; she was nearly at her highest elevation, and had the colour of heated brick.....Dead ducks cannot travel this weather; they say it is too hot for them, and they shall stink'.

                                                                             *

The Door

needs oil, creaks,
is heavy to push open
into that shut, secret room.

The mind-cabinet
has been closed
to the mystery-blue subconscious
to creativity,
shut tight against thoughts
which disturb quiet sleep,
and assail unasked, imploring,
impatient to be heard,
burdened with things that need telling.

Then I heard a gentle voice whisper
in the warm summer night:
"Pick up your pen, start again,
let the words flow, write...."

                                                                           *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Acknowledgement

 Dear Reader,

                                                                                            Irish Holiday 1973

 

When you get old thinking back about your life seems to play a large part of your dreaming by day or night.  I often think about days gone by when I can't sleep which is quite a lot of the time.  This photograph of Eliza, my second daughter, and I, was taken on a holiday we took to southern Ireland with a horse drawn caravan, or two in fact.

It has to be said the horses for the two caravans were not in tip-top condition.  Rosy, one of them, was definitely lame and the other horse was just very old. Each night we had to find somewhere to park the caravan and find a field or a patch of grass for the horses.  This was not easy.  I think the local farmers had got fed up with tourists asking to borrow their fields and most of them were simply not going to do it. 

But looking back it was all great fun.  My then husband played the guitar in the evenings and we made a fire and cooked sausages and bacon for supper.  The children loved it, made games with snails to see which one was the fastest, ran about picking berries, but looking after the horses was the best entertainment, taking it in turns.  In those days there really wasn't much on the roads, perhaps there still isn't it, so we could plod along at a quiet and gentle pace.

Perhaps this was one of my favourite holidays of a life time.  The young family together and all having a good time.  Lots of more expensive holidays since, abroad and in the sun, have not been so memorable for me. 

                                                                                     *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, June 5th, 1802, in Westmorland

'A very sweet morning.  William stayed some time in the orchard....It came on to rain, and we could not go to Dove Nest as we had intended ......The roses in the garden are fretted and battered and quite spoiled, the honeysuckle, though in its glory, is sadly teazed.  The peas are beaten down.  The scarlet beans want sticking.  The garden is overrun with weeds.'

                                                                                     *

Acknowledgement

We walked along the woodland path
my grandchild and I
noting nature things,
pointing out early primroses, aconites, wild violets.

We crossed the stream, and headed up the hill,
"Look a rabbit", my grandchild said.
Together we saw one magpie, then two.
We shared a chocolate bar, drank from the stream
cupping out hands.

Kneeling in the rich earth I said,
"we are part of this
you and I, dear granddaughter,
part of this earth is us".

She nodded.

"Do you know Grandpa, Granny?" she said.
"He said nature is part of us, or ought to be".
She chattered on and
God forgive me, I didn't hear.

Do I know Grandpa?  Yes.  A bit.
We lived together for twenty years,
I do know of his love for wild things,
for nature, and of his quick eye,
and how he loved me once
and how I loved him.

Yes, dear granddaughter,
I do know Grandpa.

                                                                                     *

With very best wishes, Patricia

Afternoon Tea

                                                                    Wild meadow flowers
 

 

Dear Reader,

Francis and I had a big adventure this week we went to stay in Oxford for three nights  and had a wonderful interesting time.  Over the last two years we had been pretty well nowhere, just managed the local villages and a foray or two to the local pub.  So Oxford was a revelation.  I didn't realize that these days most young women wore very short shorts or mini skirts, and very pretty they looked too.  We did all the things that you do when you go to Oxford for a bit of culture and a bit of fun.  We went to museums and Francis loved the Science Museum, so much so he went three times.  And we went on a river steamer down the Thames towards Abingdon in the bright sunlight, accompanied by ducks and geese.  

We had lunch for two days running in the famous restaurant Browns and were able to sit in the window and could watch the world go by.  Lots of dons, scholars, students and everyday people rushed past and we spent happy hours looking at them.  I had forgotten how many people there are in the world or at least how many there were in Oxford last week.  I had also forgotten, or perhaps I didn't know, that big cities are very expensive.  One cappuccino and a croissant seemed to cost a week's wages.  Still it was all a good change and made me realize that we have to get out more, explore the world a bit, reconnect.

                                                                                   *

The photograph is me with my meadow flower garden planted there by Jessica.  Insects and bees seem to like it and I am wondering whether for next year to plant these meadow flowers all over the lawn.

                                                                                  *

From Samuel Pepys, June 28th, 1664, in London

'Put on a half shirt first this summer, it being very hot, and yet so ill-tempered am I grown, that I am afeard I shall catch cold, while all the world is ready to melt away.'

                                                                                   *

Afternoon Tea

If the woman had had
choice of mothers,
she would have chosen
one who liked afternoon tea,
with scones, strawberry jam,
sweet biscuits, and hot Darjeeling.

But the mother of the woman
did not like afternoon tea,
She liked cocktails, excitement,
after dark and its secrets,
stirring things up, mischief,
and life's excesses.

As the woman knew
that choice of mother
was not negotiable,
she chose her friends
with four o'clock in mind.

                                                                                     *

 

 

 

Memoir:  'Half a Pair of People' is now out on Amazon.  Look for it in books:    Patricia Huth  and click here and they will send you a copy if you would like one.  Sorry to boast here but I do have thirteen 5 star reviews and most people seem to find it amusing.  Hilarious in fact. As I told you last week I have to do this publicity against my will because I have no publicity agent. 

                                                                          *

With best wishes, Patricia

 

 

 

 

Loss

 Dear reader,

Sarah Knapton, the Science editor of the Daily Telegraph, wrote a piece about the bones of the fallen Waterloo soldiers, which I thought was interesting.  These bones may have been ground down to be used as fertiliser and spread on Britain's crop fields, research suggests.  Almost 50,000 people are believed to have died in the battle - which took place on June 18th, 1815 and marked the end of the Napoleonic Wars - yet virtually no remains have been found.  There were detailed descriptions of mass graves containing up to 13,000 bodies, but the graves were never found because the pits were raided by fertiliser salesmen and the bones removed. One of the main markets for this raw material was the British Isles.   Accounts from the time said Waterloo was besieged with grave robbers and opportunists after the battle.

                                                                                   *

Gosh you never know what you are walking on, do you?

                                                                             

                                                                                   *

From Dorothy Wordsworth, June 20th, 1802, in Westmorland

'We lay upon the sloping turf.  Earth and sky were so lovely that they melted our very hearts.  The sky to the north was of a chastened yet rich yellow, fading into pale blue, and streaked and scattered over with steady islands of purple, melting away into shades of pink.  It made my heart almost feel like a vision to me'.

From William Cowper, June 21st, 1784, in Buckinghamshire

'We have now frosty mornings, and so cold a wind, that even at high noon we have been obliged to break off our walk in the southern side of the garden and seek shelter, I in the greenhouse, and Mrs. Unwin by the fireside.  Haymaking begins here tomorrow'.

 

                                                                                    *                              

Loss

The old woman
totters slowly down the path.
Holding her hand we
go into the field
pick daffodils and buttercups.
Spring is on its way.

Later in her kitchen
she tries to say something, to find words
which seem to flutter away,
escape her, but she manages:
"I don't live
in this house, I live elsewhere."

She lies down on the sofa.
"I like looking at the sky" she murmurs,
and closing her eyes she falls asleep.
I kiss her on her pale, cold cheeks,
and weep........

                                                                         *

 

 

My memoir:  'Half a Pair of People' is now out on Amazon.  Look for it in books:    Patricia Huth  and click here and they will send you a copy if you would like one.  Sorry to boast here but I do have thirteen 5 star reviews and most people seem to find it amusing.  Hilarious in fact. As I told you last week I have to do this publicity against my will because I have no publicity agent. 

 

                                                               *

Very best wishes, Patricia

                                                                             *

Inheritance

                                                                                          Gloucester Old Spot pigs

 

Dear Reader, 

The Gloucester Old Spots can only be dated to the early 20th century.  Whilst there are many paintings of spotted pigs it is not clear what these pigs were and if they were any relation to the Gloucestershire Old Spots of today.  They were known as the Orchard Pig in the Berkley Vale of Gloucestershire based on the fact that they lived quite happily outside amongst the orchards eating the fallen apples.  From being a very small breed some 40 years ago it is now the largest numerically of the pig breeds listed by The Rare Breeds Survival Trust.

The reason I wrote the following poem was because I had visited a farm in the Cotswolds and had spied these pigs.  They really are wonderful and I think beautiful with their brown spots.  My father had many brown spots on his hands and so have I, and they made me think about what we inherit from our parents. Often when I look at my hands I see my father's hands and think about him.  I loved him dearly but he died when I was in my early twenties so I didn't get a chance to find out about his life when he was young. Although I know he fought in the first World War. 

                                                                                    *

From Francis Kilvert, June 15th, 1873 in Wiltshire

'The sun and the golden buttercup meadows had it almost to themselves.....One or  two people were crossing the Common early by the several paths through the golden sea or buttercups which will soon be the silver sea of ox-eyes.  The birds were singing quietly.  The cuckoo's notes tolled clear and sweet as a silver bell.'

From James Woodforde, June 19th, 1799, in Norfolk

'Very cold indeed again to-day, so cold that Mrs. Custance came walking in her spencer with a bosom-friend.'

NOTE. Mrs. Custance, as a lady of fashion, would have worn her gowns low cut, in the bosomy manner so often drawn by Rowlandson: in cold weather she would have needed the fashionable item of clothing known as the 'bosom-friend.

                                                                               *

Inheritance

What was it that made me
think of you, who
are bone-dust now,
with no statue or monument
to bear your witness?
Was it the apple-bruised spots
on the Gloucestershire Old Spots pigs,
their legacy from apple orchards, long ago,
to mark them out?

In the afternoon sunlight
as I bent to touch their skin
I saw that my hands, brown-spotted,
were your hands, identical.
Was this your legacy to me,
something to say you were here?

More precious than possessions,
you passed to me our inheritance
from some ancient eastern shore.
Your browness, your hands, brown spotted,
which marked you.

                                                                                       *

My memoir  'Half a Pair of People' is now out on Amazon.  Look for it in books:    Patricia Huth  and click here and they will send you a copy if you would like one.  Sorry to boast here but I do have eleven 5 star reviews and most people seem to find it amusing.  Hilarious in fact. As I told you last week I have to do this publicity against my will because I have no publicity agent. 

                                                                             *

 

With very best wishes, Patricia