Category Archives: Blogging

A Case of the Blues

Posted on by

“Oops!” I said aloud, although there was no-one around to hear me (Chris was inside, up in his workroom, and he is a tad deaf anyway). Now if I’d had a bucket of water handy I would not have had to think twice – I would have put my foot in it straight away – but I didn’t… All I had was an old paint rag. I didn’t even have my mobile phone on me so I couldn’t take a shot of it (and it would have been a beauty of a photo).

To be honest with you, it was the second time today that I’d had a mishap with the blue paint, and rather thin and runny paint that outdoor wood paint is… In the morning it was just the paintbrush that fell, fully laden with runny blue paint, from the top of the landing by the bridge, down the magnolia-white garden wall, over the Diana statue and into the fuchsias; of course, on it’s way down the paint splattered everywhere. That time I acted swiftly by running down to the bottom immediately and grabbing the hose; with the water pressure on high I aimed the hose at the top of the wall and brought it down over all that had been zapped with blue, which was pretty much everything. And whilst I was about it I hosed the stones, the white garden table and chairs and the conservatory glass door, all of which had been dumb recipients of the drips of blue paint that had seeped through the gaps in the wooden planks of the bridge.

Ah, no lasting harm done except for a few spots of blue paint that had dripped through those same planks onto my back while I was hosing. My favourite white top went into bleach and my orange shorts into detergent; my apron was okay because the paint caught me only on my back (should have worn my apron around the wrong way!).

Later on, when I went up to admire our newly painted blue bridge, I noticed that some splashes of water from the hose had caused the paint to dry oddly. “That won’t take me long,” I thought to myself. I put on my still clean apron again and, armed with a rag and a small bucket half-filled with the left-over paint from earlier, went back up to the bridge a brush; the bucket used to contain yogurt and was just the right size for small paint jobs. Unfortunately, the yogurt bucket is made of quite thin plastic with precious little substance and the lid was on tightly, and when I managed eventually to pull the lid off… well, you can imagine…

What would you have done with half a yogurt bucket of runny blue paint landed on your foot? And no water in sight, just a paint rag? I dipped the brush on my blue covered foot and painted the bridge; then I put the rag around my foot and hot-footed it down the steps to the hose…

It’s funny how blue pigment is so difficult to remove. The worst of it came off. It came off my thong sandals and it almost came off the quarry tiles; it came off my skin, although three toe nails are still sky-blue (who needs nail varnish?); I fear it will never come out of my favourite orange pants but I’ll like them nonetheless as a painting outfit.

Now I’m done with painting for the day. I’ve had two showers (as have the walls, plants and the statue of Diana) and I’m not risking any more accidents. Am I feeling a bit blue? Not really, the bridge looks lovely and I’ve had a bit of fun recounting the tale to you.

The photos below were taken after second hosing down.

 

A Paler Shade of Blue

Posted on by

I was trying to think of a nice title for the lovely photos I took as I was walking home from my Mum’s house today, and “A Paler Shade of Blue” came into my mind. It somehow seemed fitting, given that the sky and sea were so blue and enticing for an artist with a camera phone in her hand. For a moment the old song “A Whiter Shade of Pale” played inside my head and I had to wrack my brains to come up with the correct title. Then I had the brilliant idea of checking out “A Paler Shade of Blue” in Google…

One should never feel too surprised when searching the Internet – of course, other people, too, had thought the words, “A Paler Shade of Blue” had a nice ring to it. Not only is there a 1992 movie of that title but also a beautiful song written by singer/songwriter/musician Michael Armstrong. I liked it so much that I copied and pasted for you. And here my photos of a paler shade of blue, not that they are especially pale – just very blue!

MICHAEL ARMSTRONG – ‘PALER SHADE OF BLUE’ PROMO VIDEO …

www.youtube.com/watch?v=_T0IiE4a1qw
12 May 2012 – Uploaded by Michael Armstrong

Shot on one camera, it echoes the lyrics of his debut single, ‘Paler Shade of Blue‘, which bemoans a failed …

 

Streamers in the Sky

Posted on by

The wind, the sun, the clouds, two dogs and a few startled pheasants danced over Rosie’s farm this afternoon and I was there to relish it, and to take some photographs to share with you…

At My Leisure

Posted on by
I felt like Maria Von Trapp when I took the younger dogs, Inca and Malachi, for a walk on the top fields today, but no, I didn’t sing “The Sound of Music”. Instead of singing I simply followed the dogs’ lead and, now and then, I just sat down on the grass, or lay on the grass, and soaked up the beauty of the day. We didn’t talk, we just sat and stared. Sometimes we had a hug or a snuggle up close but the main thing was that we were communing with nature.

It was the most relaxing two hours or more that I’ve had in a long time. As we walked back to the farmhouse I remembered one of my favourite poems (that we were forced to learn to recite when we were at primary school in Australia) – it’s called “Leisure” by the Welsh poet William Henry Davies.

Leisure – Poem by William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this is if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

 

End of Summer

Posted on by

There’s a sense of summer passing as I walk about the farm and fields. The sun shines but there’s a coolness in the air, a crispness from the north. The barley in the field up on the hill (I think it’s barley,) once so shiny and vibrant in a breeze, now looks white and brittle as if a stiff wind might break the etiolated stalks in half. The thistles and dandelions, formerly so colourful, are dying down to brown with tufts of seed heads ready to fly off in a gust of wind. The mushrooms have come and gone once but the fairy circles are still evident on the grass and may well burst into life again when weather conditions are right.

Yet the end of summer is also harvest time. There are sloes and rose hips in the hedges, along with the elder berries and blackberries. The orchard is full of heavily laden apple trees. I’ve eased the burden on one bough, almost breaking, as it touched the ground…. There is an apple crumble – one small corner missing – waiting on the Aga for Lily when she comes home from work. And there are some blackberries, washed and now frozen, waiting in my freezer for some time hence when it will be cold outside and I’ll remember there are blackberries waiting to be baked in a pie; and I’ll think fondly of the day that I took Inca and Malachi with me up the hill to the blackberry bushes. I daresay I will remember it as a warm day but one of the last days of summer nonetheless.

Two More Panels Painted

Posted on by

Sometimes other things get in the way of commissions but I hope Jess and Jim will be heartened to see that I haven’t forgotten them. The last two are works in progress. Meanwhile here are the boxing hares and the stoats and beehive…

My Dog and My Staff…

Posted on by

What could be more comforting than going out for an evening walk on the farm with a faithful friend? Two faithful friends!

It had been raining for most of the day and it was still a bit gloomy – nightfall seemed not far away – but I knew that Malachi and Inca, two of Rosie’s beautiful Black Labradors, would love to come for a walk with me. I wore my Wellingtons over my orange “Malibu” half-mast trousers and put on a pink zip-up jumper (we don’t worry about looks or funny colour schemes when we’re on the farm); it wasn’t cold but it seemed too strange to go out without a jumper during the dark evening of a rainy day. I remembered what my brother-in-law Geoff advised and I took a long walking stick, like a staff, from just inside the front door. I like to walk with a stick, especially ones like staffs – they make me feel like Robin Hood, and they remind me of my dad who made “thumb sticks” from willow, and carved the name of the recipient on each one before giving them to his grandchildren.

Malachi and Inca decided upon our route; I opened the gate where they had stopped and waited for me and we took the muddy path that leads to the sheep fields on the left. With the end of the path in sight, I noticed a public footpath sign with a yellow arrow that directed merry men with staffs and dogs through another gate and across a field, over a muddy cleft with running rainwater (thank goodness I had on my Wellingtons) and on to a well-trodden track that follows the hedge. Ungainly in my big boots and with my staff, I climbed the wooden style that spanned the hedge; the dogs jumped through it and ran off to the top of the neighbouring field made a luminous green by sunshine filtering through a thin cloud. A large brown hare dashed out from the long grass where the dogs had passed through and made it, unseen (except by me), to the opposite hedge.

About half-way up the hillside I found a good handful of mostly button mushrooms, which I put in my jumper pocket (no straw hat this time – and I don’t worry about my jumper smelling of mushrooms when I’m on the farm).

“Come on Malachi and Inca,” I called after a while of watching them running, tails up, through the long grass.

This time they obeyed me and came bounding on down, catching me up and overtaking me; but every so often, perhaps realising I couldn’t walk as fast in my Wellington boots, they would stop and wait for me. And when I stopped to observe the hazelnuts that had dropped in the wind and scrunched like snails under the tread of my boots, or when I took photos of the toadstools, Malachi and Inca stopped and waited too. They seemed to take comfort from my proximity and, every time I caught them up, and my hand stretched towards them casually, it always found one soft ear or a sleek shoulder; or a long tail slid through my fingers.

Just beyond the last gate, the one that opens onto the stable and farmyard, who should be waiting for us but another faithful friend – Hunter the cat (who also answers to “Horsey” on occasions). Hunter lagged behind the other two in order to get in a couple of nice strokes and rubs on the chin, and then we all went inside and I made mushrooms on toast for dinner – my dinner – neither cats nor dogs eat mushrooms, although I can’t deny that all four dogs enjoy a crust of buttery toast.

“I’ll Eat my Hat…”

Posted on by

“Can you reverse?” asked the young woman who had got out of the car behind me and, unnervingly (for me), bent her head down into my car (which had the top down).

At the time I was on my way to Rosie’s farm. I had met an enormous green tractor that occupied the whole width of the country lane, and the kindly farmer, being closer to a passing point, had been reversing until a car with a trailer caught up with him and halted his excellent backwards progress. I turned off Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony (Part 1), which was playing on Classic FM, and which had hitherto made the experience of meeting the gigantic green tractor in the lane less stressful; and now, with a young upstart’s head peering down at me, I felt vexed. What did she mean? –  “Can you reverse?” How did she think I passed my driving test? (Admittedly, reversing was my least strong point.)

“Of course I can reverse,” I replied. (I refrained from adding “You cheeky monkey!”)

“I’ll eat my hat if I can’t reverse!” I said to myself as Miss Smarty-Pants went back to her car and I put my sporty car into reverse gear.

The country lane was rather winding, which meant that sometimes I had to pull forward to realign the position of my car before reversing again; in truth, it was a fairly slow process and, all the while, the tractor was advancing. Unfortunately, the nearest passing point behind me was about a quarter of a mile back. Embarrassingly for me, the young blonde had zipped back to that point in no time at all and, in fact, had left her car and walked down to my car to offer her assistance yet again.

“Do you want me to reverse it for you?” she asked in a manner that would brook no refusal as she dipped her head into my car again.

I looked at her dirty boots and her braided blonde hair, and decided, reluctantly, to relinquish my car to the formidable horsey girl.

The farmer smiled pleasantly as he passed; the driver of the car-with-trailer cheered and waved to the horse-girl as he passed. I got back into my driving seat and zoomed off ahead of Miss Horsey – I’d show her who could drive! (Luckily, I didn’t meet any more tractors!)

Before long all thoughts of narrow roads, impasse and the impatient horse girl had faded into memory, and I was following the two black tails belonging to Malachi and Inca as they rushed ahead through the long grasses to the top of the hillside. Happy to keep me in their sights for company, they were eager to press on to the top fields where the sky meets the hedgerows, where lavender grows and a crop of golden barley is ready to be harvested; and wild daisies, like tiny dabs of white and yellow paint, add to the scene of pastoral paradise. I was equally happy to trail in their path at my own rate and pick mushrooms to my heart’s delight.

The upturned straw hat in my hands was overflowing with lavender and mushrooms as I wended my way back down to the old farmhouse. I thought of my father who, when we were little children in Gumdale (Australia), would sometimes awaken us before sunrise and whisper:

“Want to come with me and hunt for mushrooms?”

“Yes, Dad!” we used to thrill.

“Well put on your Wellington boots then…”

I had a few tears, as I often do when I think of nice things we did with my late father, but I was joyful, not sad. Malachi and Inca were waiting for me by the gate and I put down the hat full of mushrooms while I patted and cuddled them. Picking up my hat again I smiled to myself and thought:

“I’ll eat my hat… well, what’s in it!”

 

 

Mission Impossible

Posted on by

“Jus’ Rol ~ Pastry to be proud of ~ 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.

 

Out of the Blue

Posted on by

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, “I could hardly believe my eyes….”