Category Archives: Blogging

A Tempest

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Summer is over, it’s official; the October gales are here. It’s hard to believe that just a few days ago we were out in our shorts, sweltering and slathered in sunscreen, as we painted the house!

Feeling chilly last night, I replaced the summer duvet with a winter one and slept “as snug as a bug in a rug” (and felt like a cocoon). Meanwhile something was brewing outside.

This morning I drew back the curtains and was greeted by a boiling sea with huge waves crashing against the sea wall below. Some of the waves pounded the wall with such a force that they escaped their normal bounds and flew high into the air as if reaching for an ephemeral ecstasy before dropping and being drawn back into the cauldron. Other waves didn’t reach the dizzy heights and, thwarted by the wall, returned back angrily to their brethren behind them and beat them in mid-air. Thankfully, the newly repaired seawall held fast.

Funnily enough, tomorrow night (5th October) we’re going to see “The Tempest” by William Shakespeare at the Pavilions in nearby Teignmouth. The play is on for one night only so secure your tickets soon or you may miss the opportunity. If the gales still rage there will be a tempest outside and a tempest inside at the same time.

A Brief Encounter

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It didn’t happen at a railway station, on a train or an aeroplane (although they are perfectly romantic meeting places); it happened at a kiosk which was selling cups of tea and coffee, and it was nonetheless exciting and romantic because the kiosk was in the marketplace of the bustling Devon town of Newton Abbot – in fact, that made the chance meeting even more unlikely and therefore more surprising and wonderful…

They had arrived at the counter at exactly the same time. Their eyes met and they smiled. She knew in that moment that there was something special between them. His face, though unknown to her, seemed familiar, warm and welcoming; he seemed to be neither young nor old – he was just himself. Looking into his eyes, she felt the thrill of his attraction for her. It was mutual. Things like this don’t happen very often – hardly ever – not as strong anyway. She had felt this way only twice before, not including her husband.

“Make that two cups of tea please,” she said to the man behind the counter, then turning to her soulmate, “I take it you will have a cup of tea.”

“How kind of you!” he was thankful that she had allowed the opening. “Let’s have our teas together.”

They found a table for two in the shade and spent an hour over their cups of tea. She was not altogether surprised to find that he knew the village of her early childhood and the area where she had grown up – they had so much in common.

At last they had to part and she gave him her telephone number.

“Before I go I must kiss you,” he said, taking her face in his hands and placing his lips on hers and kissing her meaningfully, if not passionately.

~~~~~

“Are you going to see him again?” I asked intrigued.

“Oh, I don’t know. In one way I hope so but in another I’m afraid to. I’m worried it won’t be the same if I see him again,” she said.

“She” is my ninety-three year old mum and “he” is Brian, an eighty-two year old widower!

All in a Days Work

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We’re so lucky to have good friends for neighbours, and a good friend (Jo) going out with our good friend and neighbour (Caroline). We’re also lucky that they wanted to paint the bottom of Caroline’s house when our place needed finishing off too. Between us we nearly finished both of our houses in the one day. And I even managed to fit in a little painting of a different sort in the early part of the day. It was fun… but my back aches a bit.

One Good Painting Deserves Another

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Thank you Hugo (aged two) for the wonderful painting you sent me. And thank you Alex (his beautiful mum) for sending the prettiest and nicest smelling flowers ever!

The Whaling Wall

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The first I heard of it was when our visitor Clare asked if we had any binoculars because her husband Phil thought a boat had overturned out at sea. I couldn’t see anything in the dim light of approaching evening. A little later my friend and neighbour Caroline messaged me with news of a dead whale being carried in with the tide.

News travels fast in small places and, as a result, all day long people made their pilgrimages to pay their respects to the stricken whale; from our terrace I watched people go to and fro along our sea wall to the beach by Red Rock. I wasn’t sure if really wanted to see the huge creature in deathly deterioration at close quarters but eventually Chris and I were drawn by the same impulse that brought out everyone else in the town and surrounding districts. We met friends, neighbours, family members and acquaintances; the ones leaving wanted to stop and talk longer, and the ones arriving were eager to be on their way, as you’d expect.

We were glad we went though I can think of a happier occasion when a pod of healthy dolphins stopped off on our beach by the breakwater not far from our house – that was day I went swimming with dolphins. Rumour has it that I rode on the back of a dolphin but, in truth, I think they were a bit wary of me in my wet shorts and they circled me in a rather concerning manner.

The Professional

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Image result for the professionals

Image result for the professionals

If you are around my age, and lived in England in the late Seventies and early Eighties, you’ll probably remember the television series called “The Professionals” starring Martin Shaw, Lewis Collins and Gordon Jackson; well if you saw my title and the image of a young and curly haired Martin Shaw came into your mind, I’m sorry to disappoint because this blog post has nothing to do with “The Professionals” and has all to do with professional editor and famous wordsmith James Harbeck conjecturing on the word “professional”.

If you love words I don’t think you’ll be disappointed with this YouTube video (hot off the press all the way from chilly Canada). Chris and I chuckled as we listened to James for fourteen minutes while I was cutting Chris’s hair this morning (as a result Chris’s hair ended up a little shorter than he had requested!).

In mentioning “The Professionals” I’m reminded about the time I met the actor Gordon Jackson in Brisbane… The year was 1986 and my beautiful Norwegian friend Hege had suggested that we do “something special” (perhaps to mark the end of our legal stenography course, which we both hated). The most unusual and special thing we could think of was to take breakfast in the swanky Crest Hotel in Brisbane’s centre. Sat directly across from us, at the crowded large table by the window, was a familiar face.

“I think that’s the actor Gordon Jackson,” I whispered to my friend.

“Gordon Jackson?” she asked.

“He was Hudson the butler in ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ and he was in ‘The Professionals’, and the Bryan Brown version of ‘A Town Like Alice’ – he played the Scottish solicitor. You must know him, Hegbone (my nickname for her),” I said.

“Oh yes, I know – the butler from ‘Upstairs, Downstairs'”, Hege beamed, “but are you sure it’s him?”

“Absolutely sure,” I said.

“Why don’t you go over and ask?” she giggled.

So I did.

Gordon Jackson was a charming older man, quite tickled that two young women in a hotel restaurant on the other side of the world should recognise him. He told me he was in Australia filming an Australian mini-series called “My Brother Tom” and he introduced me to his family who were dining with him. I told them about our unusual breakfast treat and they all waved and said hello to Hege on the table opposite. The meeting made our breakfast more special than we girls could have imagined. I was saddened just over three years later to learn that the lovely urbane gentleman, and true professional, Gordon Jackson had died of bone cancer at the age of sixty-six. It doesn’t seem quite such an age to me now all these years later.

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And click on the image below to enjoy James Harbeck’s professional assessment of the word professional:

Word review: professional – YouTube

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=23aI_FSUBSM
10 hours ago – Uploaded by James Harbeck

James Harbeck of Sesquiotica reviews the word “professional“

 

The Little French Runaways

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In a hired house with blue shutters on a clifftop on the Brittany coast, three couples – friends and family of an Englishman living a short walk from that house – were soon to descend, independently, for the weekend….. (The previous visitors had left some time before.)

“Psst,” whispered a little voice, “ils sont allés (they’ve gone)”.

“Je connais (I know)”, came a hushed reply.

Now in English (for the sake of the authoress!):

– “‘Ow long do you sink we should ‘ide ‘ere be’ind sis bedroom door?”

-“For as long as it takes. Someone will come eventually – surely? – and zen we can make our getaway.”

-“What if nobody comes and we’re left ‘ere to rot?”

-“Come on, mon ami, I never took you for a pessimist. Where is that famous spirit of adventure of yours?”

-“Ooh la la, yes, it is exciting – isn’t it? Maybe the next visitors to sis ‘ouse will be from America… I’ave always wanted to go to America.”

-“Me too. I ‘ope zay will not be from China – I don’t know a word of Chinese…”

-“Who is zee pessimist now? Spain would be alright – nice and warm.”

-“Not much use to us zen.”

-“Oh, yes, of course not. Let’s pray they are from America… or England. Do you know they are called ‘Roast Beefs’?”

 

The runaways stayed for a very long time hanging around behind the bedroom door, so long that they had almost given up hope of escape or even being found. In fact, they were wondering, and worrying, about their reckless act of rebellion when they heard a noise. The front door opened and some new people, most probably visitors from abroad, came down the passage and opened all the doors.

“Roast Beefs, I sink,” came a softly hissing whisper.

“Sh…!”

The door opened and the runaways stayed stock still and quieter than a mouse. The door shut and they heard the muffled voices of English visitors settling in.

“We’ll never get away now,” the pessimist sighed.

 

Another period of light followed by darkness passed. Suddenly, the door opened again and an English lady and gentleman entered the bedroom. Immediately, they set about settling in; the man drew blue and white striped flannelette pyjamas from his small case (he travelled with Ryan Air) and put them under his pillow; his wife (presumably) took a pink flannelette nightgown from her minuscule case and placed it under the pillow on the other side of the bed. They left the rest of their chattels in their suitcases, apart from two toothbrushes, soap and a razor, which went into the shared bathroom. And they left.

“So zat is what zee English people wear to bed?” whispered the pessimist inquiringly.

“I never knew,” came the response.

“No chance for us zen,” whimpered the pessimist.

 

The English couple paid little heed to the runaways. And when the door was shut tight for the night they seemed not to notice the strangers in the room, nor even in the light of morning when the ‘Roast Beefs’ repacked their tiny cases and departed.

 

“Strange,” said one small voice.

“Very,” agreed the optimist.

 

At last the other visitors were ready to go and a woman opened the door and put her head around as if to check that all was well.

“What’s this? Hey,” she said excitedly, “I guess that you two belong to our friends. Fancy them forgetting you! Don’t worry, we’ll take you home with us and we can send you on to them.”

 

And that is exactly what happened. We brought the stylish French pair of runaways home with us only to find that they didn’t belong to our friends in London after all. I have taken them out of the padded jiffy bag (with the address of the couple printed on the outside) and now they are draped around my camera’s tripod in my studio. Well, it seemed a trifle unfair to keep the chic chicks holed up in the dark; I say let the well travelled scarf and jacket see a bit of England and have a breath of fresh Devon air before they are extradited back to Brittany.

 

 

Real Tasty Guy-sers

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“J’espère…J’espère…” I said, appearing to be full of hope but painfully aware that I was without hope.

“Tu espères?,” asked the gorgeous French doctor called Guy (pronounced Ghee).

“Oui, j’espère…. I hope…” I said, slipping into my native tongue.

“En Français,” Guy urged.

He was so handsome and he looked at me so encouragingly that I didn’t want to let him down. Unfortunately, neither my French phrase book nor my English/French dictionary were of any use at all; the first being inappropriate because I had no wish to talk about the weather or the direction of the railway station, and the latter because the print was too small, and besides, it couldn’t help me with sentence construction. Quite early on at the party held by my brother-in-law Glyn and his wife Roly who live in Le Conquet, Brittany, I had realised that the French contingent would not be enthralled by my conversation in school-girl French for I remember little more than the nouns concerning ceilings, floors, crockery, cutlery, tables, windows; and the verbs “to be”, “to put”, “to play” and “to go” (and I’m not even too sure about those).

“J’espère… tu ne pense pas que je suis la fou,” I said.

“Tu,” Guy corrected my pronunciation (apparently I said “two” not “tu”, which is altogether different).

“J’espère… tu ne pense pas que je suis la fou,” I said again, this time attempting the correct pronunciation.

“La fou?” the good-looking doctor’s brow furrowed in bafflement.

“Oui, la fou – you know, mad,” I said, making a circle with my index finger in the air beside my head.

“Ah, la fou – mad – yes,” Guy recognised the words but seemed not to understand my meaning (by which time I had forgotten what I was trying to say anyway).

A silence followed.

“Tu es tres beau,” I resorted to the first thing that came into my mind.

“Moi?” he smiled and kissed me on both cheeks for about the tenth time.

“Sally, ca va?” another Guy (this time Portuguese rather than French) came up beside me and kissed me on both cheeks.

“Ah, Guy-two (ghee-two, to distinguish between the two Guys),” I said delightedly, “Tres bien.”

Guy-one slipped off to slip his arm around another waist while Guy-two slipped an arm around me.

“Parle moi en Francais (speak to me in French),” handsome Guy-two said, looking dreamily into my eyes.

“Il est le plafond et le plancher,” I laughed pointing to the ceiling, then the floor.

Guy-two seemed inordinately pleased at my prowess in speaking French. Meanwhile my husband Chris beguiled the doctor’s wife Gael, and Clementine and Laurence, with his schoolboy French to similar effect. We had a lovely weekend in beautiful Brittany.

 

 

Gone Off Fishing in Teignmouth

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No matter how busy I am, I can always find some time for fishing when the opportunity presents itself. Admittedly, last Sunday wasn’t the sunniest of days for fishing (I’m usually a fair weather fisher-woman – not to be confused with “fishwife”!); in fact it was grey, windy and drizzly – especially out on The Point where several members of our family and some friends had agreed to meet up at two o’clock.

Luckily, I didn’t have £4.50 on me for The Point car park so I wasn’t tempted to be ripped off. It was two-thirty but were not late – in our family we always agree a time and add at least half an hour. Roland went off with his rods to the beach while I drove to Mary’s house where I deposited the car and together we sisters walked on down to the beach an hour or so later. Well, there was no rush as there weren’t enough rods for everybody and we didn’t anticipate that anyone would catch anything anyway.

We enjoyed the walk even though Mary’s broken leg still isn’t completely back to normal after her accident last year; perhaps I should say that I liked the walk while my sister endured the trek but enjoyed our chat. By a patch of grass at the end of the seafront we observed a couple laughing and taking photographs of what appeared to be a pile of rubbish in black plastic, which had been arranged into a form resembling a giant caterpillar.

“What is it?” I asked as we approached.

“Just look at the sign,” the young man sniggered into his hand.

I, too, chuckled and took out my camera.

“You make us feel normal,” I called over my shoulder as we went on in opposing directions.

Still laughing, they waved.

We resisted the temptation to throw something at the plastic “sculpture” and heartily approved of the illiterate, yet discerning, seagull that landed on top of the caterpillar.

Shortly, we were on the beach and putting on our raincoats and scarves (like just about everyone else except for the hardiest of children). In the distance was a huddle of paraphernalia: a picnic table and folding chairs; bags, Tupperware boxes and blankets were propped against a colourful pram; and, above the collection, the Union Jack was flying high beside the Spanish flag (representing the recently sanctified union of Katie and Javier). Babies were in their mother’s arms and children and menfolk were dotted along the water’s edge. A black Cockapoo (not to be confused with a cockatoo) called Bengie (not Bungee) ran between the children and, upon seeing us, ran to us. I found him a bit of scotch egg from a Tupperware box and he stayed by my side until I could no longer justify feeding him the fare that was intended for hungry fisher-folk.

Roland had had both good luck and bad luck; already he had caught a sea-bass… but it was too small and had to be sent back. Struck with a glimmer of hope, I asked for a go with his fishing rod. My hopes were somewhat dashed when, upon reeling in his line, he said the quarter of a worm still on the hook would suffice. I fell onto my bottom as the damp bank of red sand gave way under my feet – it didn’t bode well. Nevertheless, within moments of casting out I felt a tug, a very strong tug.

“I’ve got a bite, a big bite,” I said excitedly.

Our friend Roland smiled and shook his head.

“Honestly, I can hardly reel it in,” I revelled.

Indeed, my line was so heavy that Roland had to assist, with a good yank, to draw my catch the final few feet to the shore. Seaweed is incredibly heavy!

It wasn’t exactly my best fishing day. I didn’t stay to test my luck any longer. The wind sprang up sharper and I joined the ladies and babies. We all had a nice cup of tea around by the beach huts where the wind was less chafing; well, it would have been a nice cup of tea if someone hadn’t left the teabag in the cup…

 

Something in the Air

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Yesterday there was something in the air that my lungs didn’t like, so much so that I had an asthma attack in the night (and smokers think I’m over-reacting when I say I can’t take cigar smoke!).  I’m not generally an asthmatic – just around cigars and things that make me allergic – and you’ll be pleased to know I was fine after taking my inhaler.

There was something in the air today that made me feel a little wistful. At the time I was in the heart of the countryside, at Rosie’s farm, and Inca and Malachi were out for a walk with me. Inca, the younger and more impetuous of the Black Labradors, raced ahead while Malachi, ever faithful and true, stayed near me unless I threw a stick for her to catch. The older dog never seems to mind that I stop now and then to take photographs, or simply to enjoy the view; in fact, I think she likes it because I talk to her and signal that I’m ready to go on again by running my hand over the back of her head and ears (what soft ears she has). I think she feels we are kindred spirits for we appear to like the same things (although it would be fair to say that I’m not so keen on putting my nose down rabbit holes!). I wondered if, like me, Malachi had noticed the difference in the air.

It was sunny and warm. There was a gentle breeze, slightly cool and not unpleasant for walkers in the countryside, and there were bees and butterflies flitting from one side of the path to the other; but the hedges were not as verdant as the last occasion I had been on the same route, for the green was in the process of giving way to yellow and brown. Thistle heads, no longer purple, were waiting soberly for the inevitable – a stiffer breeze to whisk away the shocks of white and leave them bald. No more the tall spikes of magenta foxgloves, the red campions, or the blue periwinkles; even the cow parsley has become “sparsley”. The ferns were browning off or had already wilted with heat exhaustion. It felt like summer was nearing its end and autumn was in the air.

Malachi and I were a bit sad. We like all the wild flowers. I don’t much like walking in Wellington boots, although Malachi and Inca have no objection to larking about in the mud (another area where we differ!). We found some blackberry bushes and I picked all the ripe berries I could reach without getting stung by nettles and shared them equally between us. Coming back we took the higher path to the orchard and noted that the trees were laden with apples. We remembered that we love picking apples.

“I expect the mushrooms, too, will come up soon,” I said to my faithful friend.

And when we fed the chooks (chickens) the old porridge (glad someone likes it – I don’t) and stale bread I had brought along for them we were delighted to find a fresh egg. I kept this for myself and added another two from the basket in the farmhouse kitchen. Upon arriving back to our home in Dawlish I found Chris sunbathing on the terrace. I don’t think he’s noticed that autumn is in the air.