The mother duck was a little anxious when I approached with my mobile camera and she told me where to go… A few minutes later some children came along and I recorded their experience, which, as you can see, was rather different to my own…
Monthly Archives: August 2015
Field Painting From Start to Finish
I’m happy! I’ve just finished my latest commission – a painting of the Parson and Clerk, the magnificent headland which we observe from our house. Invariably, the large field on top of the cliffs catches shafts of sunshine, even on cloudy days, and is a source of wonder and pleasure to those who see it (especially residents of our terrace). Caroline asked me to paint a couple of figures on that hillside and this is what I’ve come up with…
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- The end of day one.
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- The third day
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- The result of four days work
SoulBird Art Market
A little bird told me that there is going to be a beautiful art market on tonight (it begins in just less than an hour) and you don’t even have to leave the house to go there – you can peruse the market from your PC, tablet or mobile devices. The little bird who is the talented artist is also our beloved youngest daughter Bobbie, who has been painting professionally in London for a couple of years now. I know I’m biased but look for yourself and see if you don’t agree with me that her work is wonderful.
Just click on any of the blue link words and you’ll be in… Be there or be square!
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Mission Impossible
“Jus’ Rol ~Â Pastry to be proud of ~Â Bake-it-fresh – 6 Croissants. This message will self-destruct in five…days” – that’s what it said on the outside of the tin (all except for the bit about self-destructing in five days!). Yes, bake your own French Croissants come in handy tins these days, and rather attractive they are; at least Chris thought so when we were at Lidl’s supermarket at the weekend.
“Let’s get a few tins,” suggested Chris excitedly, “then we’ll be able to have fresh French croissants whenever we wish!”
It’s quite a coincidence that on the same week that Chris wanted to “go French” I also wanted to “go French”, just in a less delightful, and hopefully, more lightful way by means of the good Doctor Dukan’s diet, yet again (I have to brace myself every so often).
This morning, with a heavy heart (and step to match) I entered our kitchen and wondered what to have for breakfast. I didn’t have to wonder for long because I well know that when I’m on the Dukan diet porridge is nearly always on the menu, and there was a bucketful of it in the fridge (I find it’s no more vile reheated over several days). But while I stopped momentarily to ponder on the subject there was an almighty sound of an explosion or crash, which came from one of the cupboards.
“Are you on a crash diet again?” Chris asked, getting up to check out the cupboard. “Ho, would you believe it? Just look at this…”
The tins of bake-your-own croissants had each exploded at one end and the dough had burst out like three giant, silver-faced witchetty grubs (Australian wormy caterpillar things) too large for their cocoons.
“Let’s have a French breakfast,” said Chris joyfully, “and we can give the ones we don’t eat to our neighbours.”
So being an obliging wife, I put on the oven and flattened the fat witchetty grubs with a rolling pin before cutting them into triangles and rolling them into crescent shapes.
“Do they need to be covered in beaten egg?” I asked Chris, who had the instructions.
“Not that I can see,” he answered squinting – he didn’t have his glasses on.
Fifteen minutes later I opened the oven door and a rush of hot black smoke hit me in the eyes. The fat witchetty grubs might have fared better by going straight into the oven; sadly, a spell in the furnace had turned the deflated crescent shaped pieces of dough into things that resembled burnt sausages –  matt, fat-less sausages at that!
Doctor Dukan would have been pleased to see us empty the trays into the bin. After eating a tiny bowl of three-day-old porridge reheated in the microwave I joined Chris in having a slice of nice raisin toast with butter; I couldn’t resist – it was mission impossible. Tomorrow it’s back to the bread board.
Hairy Eyebrows are Back
I expect you think “You’re worth it!” – we’ve been told that so many times by L’Oreal that we actually believe it – but, honestly, how is one to keep up with the latest trend? All the big names in showbiz and modelling now seem to sport enormous hairy eyebrows – and the bigger the eyebrows, the bigger the success! I read in the Daily Express recently that the actress Emma Watson has the best eyebrows, closely followed by Keira Knightly and the model Cara Delevingne (whoever she is). Ah, but now I do know who she is – she’s the model who has eyebrows nearly as good as Emma Watson’s!
Gone are the days when cruel people used to mock the hairy girls – thank goodness – but now that we all want hairy eyebrows, will the less hairy girls be excluded or ridiculed? I certainly hope not… Unfortunately, I’m not all that hairy. However, I reckon I’m worth it so I’m thinking of having an eyebrow transplant (well, if Elton John can have hair transplants…?); the problem will be – how far should I go? I would hate to be outdone by those hairy models and actresses… My mind has been dwelling on Russian presidents and English Chancellors, all from the seventies… But no, at last I hit upon a cheaper solution (although I’m sure I am worth more), and if you look at the photographs you will see what I’ve come up with…
(I had better tell Chris to stop trimming his beauties. I wonder if hairy ears will be the next trend?)
Out of the Blue
It’s not everyday that you see them… and I didn’t see them at all (I was on the farm) – and Chris hasn’t seen them here before – but yesterday he saw them come, flying out of the blue. They must have jumped off the cliffs along by the bridle path where we ride our bikes down into Dawlish Warren – Chris could see them in the distance, flying on our side of Red Rock. What a wonderful surprise it was for Chris to find that they were flying his way. They dipped and soared with the wind as it took them over the rooftops, and Chris’s head – they even waved at Chris.
I was sorry to have missed the spectacle. My all-time-favourite dreams are flying ones. In the past I have flown with “The Beatles”, the pop group from the sixties, not insect beetles (that wouldn’t be very nice), on top of a gigantic yellow kite; like a huge flying carpet it took us, at our behest, high into the clouds, then it dropped down to the height of the tops of the poplar trees and flew over vineyards, sunflower fields and red-gold pantiled roofs – I knew it was France, although I had never before flown over France at such close quarters (especially on a kite).
The French dream was my only flying dream involving a kite, at all other times I have been perfectly capable of flying under my own steam, if a little nervously at first. I usually do a bit of a jump and hover about six feet above the ground, then, amazed that I can fly, I return to terra firma (just in case it’s a fluke). By the fifth jump I’m confident enough to go up to about twelve feet, just above the roof height of a small rustic dwelling, and from that altitude I’m overjoyed to find that I can fly around at will without fear of falling. Like a big Tinkerbell without wings or grace, I flit about, and linger only when I see something interesting below me. Largely, I fly about, unseen or unnoticed, under the cloak of darkness and if someone chances to see me spying on the scene below, perhaps of a party in progress, and that person doubts the evidence of his own eyes, I get nervous and fall to the ground. Then I have to go through all that hopping and jumping around again in order to prove that I really can fly. Ah but the elation when I take off again…!
“It’s not a dream!” I think, and then I wake up.
But the disappointment is worth it because I have known the pleasure of flying.
I wish I had seen the para-gliders that flew over our terrace yesterday. Luckily, Chris had the presence of mind to grab his camera.
“I was strimming in the garden when I saw something amazing,” Chris said as he began to tell me about the strange occurrence, “IÂ could hardly believe my eyes….”
A Farmer Goes to Court (A Joke)
A farmer joke came my way this morning, which was a strange coincidence, and most apt, since I was going to Rosie’s farm for the day.
A Farmer Goes to Court
A farmer, who had been involved a road accident when he was taking his horse and pig to auction, was in court claiming compensation.
“Tell me,” said the lawyer for the other side, “is it true that you told the policeman who appeared at the scene shortly after the accident that you had never felt better in your life?”
“That’s absolutely correct,” answered the farmer.
“Well, how can it be that now you are seeking compensation for your injuries?” asked the lawyer.
“I shall explain,” began the farmer, “you see, when the policeman saw that my horse had a broken leg, he shot him. The same thing happened with my injured dog –Â he shot him too; even the poor pig in the back had the same treatment. So when the police officer came over to me and asked me how I was feeling, I didn’t feel I had any alternative but to say, ‘I’ve never felt better in my life!’ ”
And here are some photographs of Rosie’s farm and some gorgeous animals. Note how the baby llamas are growing. Now they can run ride the wind… in a cute sort of lamb-like gamboling way.
A Cool Chick
I’m not much of a Facebook person (although I do put my blog posts on Facebook) but, just occasionally, I dip in and see what my friends and family are up to.
I know why I’m not much of a Facebooker… you plan a quick dip but find yourself completely engulfed and two hours later you come out of it with a couple of the hilarious photos you came across during your fascinating excursion into other people’s lives!
Thank you to someone on Facebook (can’t remember who) for these gems.