Share this:

 

A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.

(Lou Holtz)

The greatest achievement was at first and for a time, a dream.  The oak sleeps in the acorn, the bird waits in the egg, and in the highest vision of the soul a waking angel stirs.
Dreams are the seedlings of realities.

(James Allen)

I don’t ask for the meaning of the song of a bird or the rising of the sun on a misty morning.
There they are, and they are beautiful.

(Peter Hamill)

When I was twelve, I went hunting with my father and we shot a bird. He was laying there and something struck me. Why do we call this fun to kill this creature who was as happy as I was when I woke this morning.

                                                                                                                                                (Marv Levy).

http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/

‘Life is sacred,’ cried Man,

‘A great gift from God,

And, as such, is the ultimate treasure,’

‘Many times have I heard,

That proclaimed,’ said the bird,

‘Tell me why then does Man kill for Pleasure?’

By my mum.

Snowdonia Was Slightly Chilly!

 

So, the sun was shining when we set off. It was…fresh. That’s the word, fresh. Except for the remnants of next door’s snowman, most our snow had disappeared so we were fairly surprised, because we all tend to live in our own little world and don’t expect anyone esle’s to be much different, to find that just wasn’t the case.

Of course, we were heading for Snowdonia and that should have given us a bit of a clue. Seemed like a good idea (it was) to go to Bala Lake. We’d done John O’ Groats in October, how bad could Bala be in April?

As we grew closer to the Welsh mountains, the fields turned from green to white, the roadsides were piled high with mini-mountains of the cold stuff and Snowdonia, laid out before us, was picture-perfect cloaked in a pristine cloak of winter white. Beautiful, we thought, while we sat warmed by the sun shining on the Bongo windows. Even when we stopped at Bala, we were intrigued as the lake and its surrounding hills seemed to bask in the much awaited spring warmth.

Did I say warmth? I did, didn’t I?

I meant to say, Bala Lake looked wonderful and the reason its waters weren’t being churned by too many speed boats, water skiers and swimmers was because, outside the protection of a warm van, it was bloody freezing!

We ventured out and then we quickly ventured back in. The wind! There are some winds that don’t stop when they come into contact with woolly hats. A north-east, direct from Siberia, stopping at Iceland to re-fuel, is one of them.

We took the coward’s way out and sat in the van eating fish and chips and admiring the world from a warm and comfortable distance.

But, conscience always pricks after fish and chips and we decided to brave the cold and take a walk – not just a fifty yard jog to the loo, but a proper walk, with cameras of course. Hats, gloves and scarves should slow down the prospect of hypothermia and the exercise would do us good. Anyway I wanted photos. Lots of photos. I would have had lots too if I hadn’t tried to take them with my gloves on.

We did a very healthy thirty minute walk and then dived back into the safety of the Bongo and headed for the campsite. It was about three miles away from the lake and when we arrived we were surprised at how warm it was. It was! Away from the lake, the wind had dropped and the sun was actually throwing out some real warmth. We took another stroll. What a difference without those icy blasts freezing your nose.

We were hoping to stay for two nights, though we’d only booked for one – just in case we couldn’t handle the cold.

Well, guess what. We couldn’t handle the cold. It was alright until the sun disappeared behind the mountains, then as it began to get colder, we hunkered down with the obligatory wine, huddled beneath a blanket and watched a DVD.

At ten-thirty the sky was clear and awash with stars – and we know what that means!

We bedded down and crossed our fingers. By midnight, the world was silent. Not an owl, not an animal, not a hint of wind…only the chattering of teeth told us that we hadn’t turned down the hearing aids. We turned on the heater and then, when we could barely breathe for the heat, we turned it off. With minutes, the chattering began again.

At John O’ Groats we were cold, so we bought an amazing blanket which aided and abetted the sleeping bag and numerous other blankets to kept us cozy for the whole ten days. We put it with the very important items which should not, under any circumstances be forgotten – and we forgot it. The discussion about whose fault that was, was the only thing that got heated that night.

We did sleep, fitfully, eventually. Once I woke up because my nose was cold and I was tempted to find my hat. I’ve never had the need to sleep in a woolly hat with my nose in the finger of a glove, but at that point, I could see it might be an idea. The only thing that stopped me was the thought of putting my hand out of the sleeping bag. I pulled the covers up and hoped for the best.

Six-thirty a.m – a respectable time of day – and we were ready for a cuppa. Fortunately, because the Bongo is a very small house on wheels (about the size of a dog kennel – a very large and wonderful one, but you get the idea) the kettle, tea, sugar etc. was all to hand. A steaming hot cuppa was just what we wanted. Now normally, while sipping this early morning delight, we’d open the blinds and enjoy watching the wildlife. But we’re not that stupid. Normally. Sometimes. We chanced a peek. The cold poured in. Couldn’t get the blinds down quick enough.

I have to say, at this point, that the site was excellent. All Camping and Caravanning Club sites are. The people who run them are invariably helpful and pleasant and if you wimp out and run back to your central heating, they don’t laugh at you. Much.

That’s what we did. Wimped. We decided to spend the day in the area and then hit the road, get home and sleep in our bedroom, next to the radiator. We’re excused, we’re getting old – ish.

Anyway, good trip, even if it was short. We are now searching for the next one, scanning long term weather forecasts on various websites and comparing each one to see which we want to believe.

The weather will do what it wants in the end and the only thing that matters has been dealt with – the really good blanket is now safely stored in the Bongo next to the whiskey, so bring it on – we’re ready.

 

http:/

Share this:

There’s something about books that have already been read. It’s as though each reader leaves a little of themselves between the pages. The older the book, the more worn its cover, the more yellowed its pages, the better loved it’s been, the more prized it becomes, especially if there’s an inscription, a ‘well done’ a ‘much love from’, that touches on the lives others.
Bamber’s Bookshop is a combination of memories of every dusty second hand book shop I’ve ever been in. The person browsing its shelves is looking for something she hadn’t realised she’d lost.
But then, at times, aren’t we all?

BAMBER’S BOOKS

The faded sign at Bamber’s Books creaks gently in the wind,
Its tantalising secrets hide behind its yellowed blind
Where flies lie dead and washed out books,
Put there for those who choose to look,
Insidiously seek to draw me in.

Down worn and narrow wooden steps, uncertainly I tread.
The tang of dust and scent of must is swirling round my head.
The dimness matches my dismay,
I watch a single light bulb sway,
And wonder at the power that drew me in.

The titles stretch from by my feet to way above my head.
Some, familiar comrades, thousands more, I’ve never read
Are crowded in that tiny room,
Their presence hazy in the gloom.
Their very essence seems to draw me in.

I wander browsing book to book; trail fingers through the grime,
Seeking things I thought I’d lost down passageways through time.
Beseeching that that led me there,
That futile hope, that fear, that care,
To show me just why I was tempted in.

Was I pulled in naively to these riches from before,
By half-remembered memories and long forgotten thoughts?
By resounding echoes fading,
Falling victim to times shading.
Could this be what it was that drew me in?

Then, to sooth my agitation in this unfamiliar place,
A long past, treasured volume, well remembered, stills my pace,
Its ghostly, faded cover,
Reminiscent of no other
Than that which I feel sure has lured me in.

I slide the book from where it lies, its cover torn and tattered.
But if this book is what I hope, its cover never mattered.
I turn the page, my heart stands still,
While years flash by as if at will.
Now there’s no doubt why I was tempted in.

Inside the ragged cover, in a scrawl I recognise,
The words that I’d forgotten, dancing strange before my eyes.
‘Lots of love my darling daughter,
May your life be full of laughter!’
The reason clear why I was tempted in.

I feel the world grow brighter as a light begins to glow
And I read that special message from a time so long ago.
‘Happy Birthday, Love from Dad’,
The last words I ever had
And I feel the energy that drew me in.

I paid the man whose chair was worn, whose shirt was frayed and torn,
Whose face was everyone I’d met since the day that I was born.
‘This book,’ he said with tender care,
‘Must not be lost – its very rare.’
And I knew he knew what power had pulled me in.

The tantalising secrets Bamber’s hides behind its blind,
Are tempting someone else now in some other space or time.
‘Julie’s’ now the sign declares,
‘We’ll tan you fast; we’ll do your hair.’
The bogus brilliance of its windows draws them in.

But my enduring dog-eared book sits proudly on my sill,
Reminding me of those I’ve lost, whose presence haunts me still.
Their echoes, never fading,
Complimented by time’s shading,
And I know now who it was that drew me in.

© Lynn Smith  March 2006

DOGS CAN’T READ!

So, the Bongo needed a run out and we needed a change of scene.  We swapped the snow in the back garden for the snow at Carding Mill Valley.  Beautiful.  It was colder, if that’s possible, but the river (it was a stream really – but a big one!) was a welcome change from our little fish pond. The wind was icy and we wore the obligatory six layers of clothing. (We’re old and wrinkly according to our grandchildren – you can’t be too careful.)

First job when you’ve reached that wrinkly age and it’s less than 5 degrees outside, is to find the loo.  No problem.  Good toilets, clean and plenty of them just next to the shop and cafe.

Second job – hot coffee and biccies in the Bongo.  Got to be better than sitting at home watching Jeremy Kyle and wondering why anyone would volunteer to participate in his show.   Then a walk.  The roadway was cleared of snow and if we walked backwards, the wind didn’t freeze our eyebrows.  It was bracing.  Sometimes when you walk in a cold wind, you get rosy cheeks.  My jaw froze.  I couldn’t speak.  Rude words from hubby absolutely acceptable under the circumstances.

We nodded to passing dog walkers and hikers, presumably they couldn’t speak either, and we relished being out amongst the sheep with their lambs, then back to the Bongo for lunch and more people and sheep-watching.

All along the roadway are notices telling you that there are sheep wandering free, so please keep dogs under strict control.  Everyone did.  Well, nearly everyone.  There was a woman – young – with a pretty old and weary looking spaniel on a lead and two very young, very excited and very active spaniels running loose.  Now sheep and dogs should never be allowed to socialise unless they’ve been shown how to do it.  They hadn’t.  The two dogs made an Olympic-type sprint for the sheep  and the sheep made a dash for the hills – the lambs struggling to keep up where the snow had drifted.

We wondered why this woman didn’t think the notices applied to her.  Maybe her dogs were different.  Privileged in some way we didn’t understand.  It happens everywhere, most people stick to the rules knowing that they’re there for the good of others, whether human or animal,  but there are always one or two who think those rules weren’t written for them.

Respect.  Such a small word, such a big meaning.

A good day though.  It’s well worth a visit, as are most National Trust/English Heritage sites.

Next week – knowing British weather, we may just need bathing cossies and deck chairs.  We’ll see.

Share this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

There’s a certain satisfaction in sitting in a field surrounded by nothing but nature.  It’s a neanderthal yearning satisfied.  It’s a thumbed nose to the hustle of life.

However (still my favourite word) I consider a persistent icy east wind and yet another 8 inches of snow sufficient reason for throwing an extra duvet on the bed and curling up next to a radiator, listening to the comforting click of the central heating timer, knowing that the switch on the electric fire is but a stretch away, drinking copious cups of coffee laced with brandy and giving in to the luxury that is modern living.

I love it.  For a day or two.  But this winter seems to have gone on for ever.  I am fed up.  Can’t settle to write, have no interest in reading, can’t find a single interesting thing on the telly.  I have fallen victim to a winter lethargy that threatens to settle in for the foreseeable future.  The only consolation – and it isn’t really a consolation at all – is that I’m not alone.  We all seem to have had enough. 

I’ve even booked a holiday for next year.  Never been done before.  I generally like to get at least half the year over before making plans for the next one.  But the continuous whistling of the wind through the dodgy seal in the window where my computer and I hang out is driving me nuts.  I refuse to spend another winter without at least a couple of weeks respite.  (Or we could just get a new seal.  Shan’t mention that – I’d really rather have the holiday!)

I can almost guarantee that those two weeks will be the mildest, driest, sunniest of the whole winter.  At least they will be where we’re staying!   I know, kiss of death.  Even foreign climes have windy days and rain. 

In an effort to shake myself out of this winter despondency, I have decided to have a bit of a clean up.  No, not the duster in hand type, that would just be silly, I’ve decided to clear out the pictures on my computer.  I’ve just checked and I’ve got 12,940.   Time to get strict. I’m just going to save the really, really important ones.  Like the children.  And the grandchildren.  Hubby.  Holidays.  Cats.  Friends.  Parties, weddings and those nights we have in the garden when the neighbours bring a bottle and we all tell jokes our children would be proud of.   Flowers, I love flowers.  Butterflies – there are a few.  Goats, I’ve got goats!  And meercats.  Sandcastles.  My mum…my dad…grandma, great grandparents…

This isn’t going to work is it?  Maybe I just need a few more folders.  And I’m sure there are some I can delete.  That word – delete.  How can you delete your own grandchild – even if it is the forty fifth photo of the same giggling child being pushed by the same weary granddad?

So – decided.  Quick sit hug of the radiator, one more brandy-laced coffee and then to work.  I’ll start with the flowers.  Or not. 

Break – phone yelling at me.

O.k.  New plan.  Friend tells me there’s a new holiday site I haven’t explored yet.  I’ll just have a little look, then I’ll get back to work – of some sort.  Maybe after tea.  Maybe tomorrow.  Never’s looking a good option.   I’ll spring clean in spring.  Whenever that may be.  In the meantime, there’s a pair of blackbirds scavenging for crumbs around the bird table.  Camera’s handy, got to go. 

 

 

 

 

 

Share this:

SHE WAS JUST A CAT

She was just a cat
Her dignity demanding she was
Treated just as that.

Untrusting
Without charm
She didn’t like humanity’s
Inclination to do harm.

Now she’s gone
There’ll be no more
Unlucky birds, absurdly torn
Beside the kitchen door.

No more feeding ritual
No more need to groom
No cat hair on the furniture
In this slightly lonely room.

She was just a cat
Her dignity demanding she was
Treated just as that.

I barely knew that she was there
And yet, sometimes,
Her silence grows too loud to bear.

Share this:

A mother’s love is something we keep locked deep in our hearts, always knowing it will be there to comfort us.

Harmony Ferrario

THE RIVER

Its 7.30 – a.m. that is.  And it’s cold.  Morning cold.  Misty cold.  I could turn on the car heater, but that would seem like a cop-out.  A cheat.   And anyway the sound of the engine in this almost total silence would be an intrusion.
Today the river is tranquil. It glides past, majestic in its serenity.  Yesterday it was manic, hurtling past on its way to the ocean, colliding with its banks, carrying with it fallen branches, whirling them around like sticks; an indication of its rage further inland.  But today, its tranquility is as awesome as its power.
For the moment this is all there is – and all there needs to be.  The river, the sky and the quiet. And the lone black scavenger strutting around some hidden hoard nearby. I don’t know what  provided his breakfast this morning,  and I don’t want to know.  A link in the food chain.  One death – one life.  What kind of creator chose the way it has to be?
It’s not difficult to imagine living here, next to this river; back to basics, living in a shack by a river in the Scottish Highlands. In this almost perfect calm, I am able to slide easily from one thought to another. Effortless wanderings through a mind cleared of appointments and schedules and other people’s needs.  And there is that one thought that always comes easily when I find myself in a world of uncluttered reality and raw beauty. My mother would have loved it here. 
She would.  She would have loved its peace, its solitude and the genuineness of it. She would have delighted in the warmth of the sun and the bite of the wind.  It is as I lose myself in thoughts of her strolling along the banks of this river, that I am beginning to know and admire and respect, that my father glides, uninvited, into my thoughts.
Not that he isn’t welcome – he is.  It’s just that I don’t find him there very often.  Then I realize – and it shocks me – that it’s years since I thought of them together. It’s so long since I saw them together in life, that I have separated them in death.  Despite my mother’s unfaltering belief and her desire that we should never think of them as ‘gone’, but merely re-united in another place or another time, the years that separate their deaths have forced them apart in my thoughts.
Now, with the clarity that comes only with peace, I see them as she always had, side by side, mum and dad re-united and I imagine them the way she always wanted me to. I see clearly for the first time in years the strength in my father’s face and the ready laugh in his soft brown eyes.
Now I remember hands that were always sure and always gentle; running to keep up with his long stride and being lifted onto his shoulders when my legs grew tired and failed me; his voice, his sense of fun and the way he looked at his new-born grandson as I placed him in his arms.  And his kindness, his never-ending kindness.
For years I have done my best to push his memory away because when I did let his face into my mind, it was a face I didn’t recognize, lined with the ravages of the illness that stole his strength and his laughter before it stole his life. I have re-lived his end and forgotten things like his warmth and his humour and nights spent in the semi-dark listening to some obscure concert on a crackling battery–powered wireless. Or sitting on the floor leaning against his legs, laughing at jokes I couldn’t understand just because he found them funny.  And feeling safe.  So very, very safe.
I had forgotten everything he would have wanted me to remember, because I had not been able to get past that last terrible time I saw in his face the fear and the pain and the end of everything I had thought would last forever.
But now, with nothing to disturb me but the gentle lapping of the water against the banks, and the whip of the fishing line as it snakes through the air and the occasional splash of a salmon as it leaps to tease the lone fisherman, I find that I am at peace with all I know and all I have known.
Now, I treasure the memories that come easily. Those that I have always had and those that, for years, sat gathering dust in the attic of my mind, waiting for their time to shine.

The day is too quickly done and the sun slides behind the hills as I collect the flasks and the remains of the sandwiches and pack them into the boot.  My husband slumps in the passenger seat.  He is tired.  He is deflated.  All day he has battled the fish – and the fish – as they so often do, have won.
His week has been a mixture of highs and lows.  For now he feels the lows.  After a hot bath and supper, he will revel in the highs.
I start the car and refuse to look back at the shadows beginning to form in that no-man’s land between day and night, because I don’t want to be disappointed.
I desperately want to see two familiar figures, walking beside the river, arm in arm, or hear a gentle laugh carried across the stillness, and I know I won’t because they are memories and they belong only in thoughts of my perfect world.
I negotiate the dirt track, which boasts a huge array of potholes.
“You enjoyed your day?” my husband dutifully asks.
“Oh yes,” I tell him. “Quiet and peaceful, just what I needed.”
And then he repeats my thought – the one that has become a joke between us.
“Bet your mother would have loved it here.”
“She would,” I answer.
He sighs as he leans back against the headrest.
“Do you know what crossed my mind today?” he asks, “I never took your dad fishing.”
“No you didn’t.  He would have enjoyed it.”
“Funny that.  I haven’t thought about your dad for ages.”
And then I do look back, through the dimness of the evening light and I see – I’m sure I see…
“What’s wrong?” asks my husband.
“Nothing – just having a last look,” I tell him.
“Till next time,” he says, closing his eyes, weariness overtaking him.
“Yes.  Till next time,” I say, trying to avoid the largest of the potholes.
Then I gather the happiest of my memories and lock them away in my heart.  The new ones and those I’ve always had and those very precious ones that I’ve just found again – the ones I didn’t know I’d lost – the ones whose time to shine is just beginning.