Big is beautiful!
Cocoa is the winner by a hair!
This oil painting (12″ x 16″) of Cocoa the dog is the result of my recent artistic endeavours. Cocoa simply had to be painted – she’s such a high brow!
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.
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!
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.
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 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.
My oil painting of Mamhead Church
Deep in the Devonshire countryside (yet not too far from the sea), situated in the grounds of the Mamhead House estate (where singer Peter Andre had his wedding reception last year), is charming St Thomas Church. In fact it is the same little church where my niece Katie was married in June, also the church where our friend Rosie is a churchwarden. Strangely enough, I was commissioned by proud parents of a bride to paint this quaint church several years ago, well before I ever attended a service, wedding, violin recital or Evensong there.
Sunday services come but once a month and are held, alternately, by The Reverend Canon Ken Parry and Rev Mark Lord Lear (very apt name), both of whom are revered by the parishioners, if not cherished (perhaps even more so because they are in short supply).
When Rosie asked my sister Mary and I if we’d like to attend Evensong last Sunday I had no idea what a treat was in store for us. Our party arrived a little late (as usual) so we missed the consecration of the new graveyard but we saw Bishop Martin Shaw (not the actor who starred in “The Professionals” – see previous post – but nonetheless highly professional!) emerging from behind the hedge and watched him walk up to the church. The Bishop, a tall man, was taller still in his mitre, and he cut an imposing figure in his colourful vestments. He stopped to talk to Mary holding baby Annalise and I took a sneaky couple of photos.
“You look nice!” I said as he approached.
“They came from Exeter,” the Bishop smiled modestly.
We followed into the church and found a pew large enough for our family group of six, including baby. Stoically, I went first along to the end where a stone pillar obscured my view of the pulpit, the altar and all of the choir, apart from the lady and gentleman at the far left; never mind, my sister sent baby Annalise my way and young James and I were vastly amused by her antics and her sweet little face framed in a cute pink bonnet her paternal grandmother had made for her.
The “Heritage Singers” were a revelation (even though I couldn’t see more than two of them). The sound of their singing was rich, beautiful and uplifting, and tears pricked my eyes twice. The two readings, which came from members of the congregation, were sufficiently short to remain interesting and paved the way for the amazing sermon given by Bishop Martin Shaw.
I could see only his elbow over the edge of the pulpit but I could imagine him as his clear voice rang out:
“I want to talk about Bradley Wiggins – you’ve no doubt heard about Bradley Wiggins retiring but still wanting to win in whatever field,” (or something along those lines), the Bishop began, “But what about the unsung heroes? Are they any less worthy? What about the stonemasons who built this church? Do you know their names? Are their names glorified in this church?”
“No,” we in the congregation thought to ourselves as we looked around for any special plaques (although I could see a bit of only one wall). I thought of my forebears – the Porches who were the stonemasons who built Wells Cathedral (according to my dad) – and I wondered at the humility of a bishop who rated a humble stonemason as highly as an Olympic gold medallist. I liked this Scot with the love for his fellow man. He reminded me of Abou Ben Adhem in the poem of that name by Leigh Hunt.
The congregation were left with a good deal to conjecture on, especially on the subject of modesty and doing good deeds whilst hiding one’s own light. A short time later I was bringing my cup and plate back into the washing up area when Rosie introduced me to the lady washing the crockery.
“Do you know Sally?” Rosie asked. “Sally Porch is our famous artist!”
“Oh Rosie,” I lowered my head, “you make me want to hide.”
Actually, that’s exactly how I feel in front of compliments but, secretly, I am always rather pleased.
And if you’re interested in the Humble song (I like humble pie myself):
Humble Lyrics
[Chorus]
Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble
When you’re perfect in every way.
I can’t wait
To look in the mirror.
Cause I get better looking each day.
To know me is to love me.
I must be a hell of a man.
Oh Lord It’s hard to be humble,
But I’m doing the best that I can.
I used to have a girlfriend,
but I guess she just couldn’t compete,
With all of these love-starved women,
Who keep cowering at my feet.
Oh I probably could find me another,
But I guess they’re all in awe of me.
Who cares?
I never get lonesome.
Cause I treasure my own company.
[Chorus]
I guess you could say I’m a loner.
A cowboy out lone, tough, and proud.
I could have lots of friends
If I wanted.
But then I wouldn’t stand out from the crowd.
Some folks say that I’m egotistical.
Hell I don’t even know what that means.
I guess it has something to do
With the way that I fill out my skin tight with jeans.
[Chorus]
I’m doing the best that I can.
Songwriters
MAC DAVIS
Published by
Lyrics © BMG RIGHTS MANAGEMENT US, LLC
Read more: Davis Mac – Oh Lord It’s Hard To Be Humble Lyrics | MetroLyrics
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.
And click on the image below to enjoy James Harbeck’s professional assessment of the word professional:
Word review: professional – YouTube
James Harbeck of Sesquiotica reviews the word “professional“
I know that’s a strange title for a very innocuous blog post about apple-picking but you’ll see the point when you look at the pictures.
There are few things more enjoyable to do on a sunny late afternoon in September than picking apples on Rosie’s farm, if you like the simple pleasures in life, as my sister Mary and I do. After a nice cup of tea, and catch up with Rosie, we took the dogs, Inca, Malachi and Sasha with us over to the orchard by the original farmhouse: and after sampling the eating apples lower down in the field we wandered up the slope to the Bramleys – the cookers, which we prize above all other apples because we’re thinking of baking apple pies and apple crumbles.
The larger dogs ran around as if they were in Heaven before settling themselves in the shade of the apple trees so that they could best delight in the views on such an evening, while sensible Sasha, the tiny Yorkshire terrier, took it upon herself to guard the apples we had collected into carrier bags.
Soon we were joined by Ian, a nice chap who brought Rosie a file containing information on Internet banking (how incongruous when you’re in an orchard!); and naturally, he tried some of nature’s bounty, and didn’t mind having his photograph taken. Unfortunately, whilst I was photographing everyone I stepped back onto the file which had been left on the grass… I say “unfortunately” because there were some sheep droppings near the same spot… Oh dear!
“Oops, sorry Rosie, I apologised lifting the soiled file, wiping it off and handing it to her.
“Not to worry,” Rosie smiled, “it’s all about ‘Business Telephone Banking’ anyway!”
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.
