Bonjour! Bienvenue sur le marché St Renan. What better thing to do on a cloudy Saturday morning in Brittany?
I didn’t think I would cry. The last time I saw Lorna she was not herself, but, even with dementia, she had retained her mannerisms and the softly spoken voice of a gentlewoman. That was two or three months ago, when Chris and I were passing by Lorna’s house and Peter was in the front garden, and he urged us to come in and say hello to Lorna.
There were some pretty blue flowers – I can’t remember what they are called – growing in profusion by the front gate; Peter pulled some out by the roots and gave them to me as we were leaving – “Lorna would love you to have them” he said. As soon as we reached home I planted them in pots.
I did cry. The Reverend Chas Deacon spoke so nicely about Lorna. He didn’t rush. He told us of her not so humble origins (which Lorna had never discussed with her young art teacher) and her later life; he read the heartfelt words written by members of the family who were too distraught to speak themselves and twenty-one people wept.
The Reverend Chas Deacon did not interrupt the service when the chief pallbearer collapsed, quietly, at the back of the chapel; the mourners were unaware that anything was amiss – that the ambulance had been called or that the poor man had suffered a stroke or heart attack.
One of the plants that Peter had given me took to its new surroundings. I have it in a pot on the front steps and I every time I pass the plant I think, “Oh good, it grows well – it’s strong.” And I think of Lorna. It hasn’t flowered yet but it will flower next summer.
Yesterday a viary nice green Scaly-headed Lorikeet called in to see the Birdman from Brisbane. He has a way with the birds – you could say he has them eating out of his hands!
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This joke about fronds came from my naturalist frond friend, Roland. Likewise, he took the photo of a funny sign on the cheese counter of a shop in a country town called Beaudesert.
Yesterday’s blog post about chestnuts brought back treasured childhood memories to at least one my readers. This evocative poem came from inspired poet Mr R.U.Shakespeare (previously barred) who lives in Australia…
Chestnut (Not an Old Chestnut)
A magnificent tree with big strong limbs and broad leaves that could blot out the sun,
As well as its splendour that magnificent tree gave bounty and hours of fun.
I knew where the trees were and what to expect,
And I knew what to gather and what to reject,
Green spiny husks lay all around,
Some half split open after hitting the ground.
My anorak pockets full to the fore
Of shiny brown nuts, and my hands so sore,
And so on my bike – no ifs or buts –
There’s light enough still to roast my nuts!
The flames diminish but the embers host,
And it’s time for me my nuts to roast.
Four young lads gather round the fire,
Eating roast chestnuts skewered on a piece of thin wire.
The once shiny skin now charred and black
Is only a reminder that I will have to go back.
This one came from Roland in Australia….
The afternoon high tide brought big, restless waves with it. Apparently (according to one of my neighbours) the waves were smaller by the time I had ventured onto the terrace to take these shots.
I am, in case you’re wondering, referring to the tempest that raged outside last night whilst we slept, or tried to sleep. It was the first of the “October gales”. Unless you are a newcomer to my site you will be aware already that our house is part of a Victorian terrace built into the cliff above the railway line and sea wall at Dawlish. You will also remember that our beloved sea wall, which protects our homes, thus enabling us to enjoy living with a constantly changing panoramic view of the sea, fell prey to the ravages of the storms early this year; and actually, the repair works are not yet finished. Listening to the wind and the wild waves as we lay in bed, Chris and I hoped that the machinery and equipment left on the sea wall would not be swept off.
Cocooned in winter bedclothes I felt cosy and safe, and it did not take long to fall to sleep. Every so often I was roused by the sound of turbulence beyond the double-glazing but I pulled up the covers and snuggled back to my slumbers. During the small hours, when deep in dreams, I awoke with a start to the crash of tons of water hitting against sea wall… and the earth shook (or rather the sandstone cliff, the foundations of our house shook and our bedroom, on the lowest floor of our house, shook).
In the morning Chris drew back the curtains to welcome the day; through the streaks of rain on the glass was a scene of grey mist – no sky, no horizon, no out-to-sea – and waves, discernible only because of the white spume as they tumbled in on their way back out.
Three hours later the sun came out and I took some photographs of a completely different scene… Incidentally, the rig and all the equipment for sea wall repairs appear to have survived the storm.
