Cardiff to Crickhowell

It’s been a while. I took a trip.

For eight days I was in Wales with my sister. She drove from London while I flew to Cardiff. I’ve been back for a week now and, despite some life stuff going on, I’ve been in decent form. Holidays really are restorative. It wasn’t just what we did while we were in Wales, but how being there made me feel.

First, the trip.

London Sister planned it all, as she’s good at that sort of thing, and knowing that, I was confident it would be a good plan. We met in Cardiff and drove to a village in the Brecon Beacons where we stayed at the Kestrel Inn, a former coaching inn believed to be more than 200 years old. We were sleeping in a building that has welcomed travellers since the coaching era. I’m willing to bet the beds we slept in were a vast improvement on those offered in the late eighteenth century!

When I complimented our host, Richard, on how comfortable they were, he let us into the secret: the mattresses came from John Lewis. Despite the heat, we slept like logs. There’s nothing quite like thick stone walls for keeping a room cool during a heatwave.

We caught the tail end of the hot weather in Wales, and the day we climbed Crug Hywel (Table Mountain) was still very warm. It was a tough walk, especially at the beginning and again near the end. I hadn’t done a proper hike in ages, but I reminded myself that Mammy had climbed Slemish well into her seventies, and that this was a similar elevation to our own local hill. And in addition, our host told us that his Mum had climbed it recently and she in her eighties! 

Even so, I was exhausted when we made the top for the last half hour had been quite a scramble. But, as promised, the views were excellent and to make things even better, there were early bilberries to scoff and a small herd of mountain ponies to watch. 

So we descended, which was thankfully much easier than the climb up, returned to the inn, got changed and headed out for a walk around Crickhowell, then dinner.* Then it was back to those wonderfully comfortable beds for a second night.

The next morning we said goodbye to Richard and continued our journey. A good start to the holiday. Next stop Dolgellau.

*Food excellent, service abominable disappointing. 

Nepeta or Catmint

 

 

When we first introduced nepeta, or catmint, to our garden, the intention was to bring pleasure to our cats Fred and Holly, and it certainly did. They both adored it, Holly in particular. Those beloved pusses are no longer with us and now it's Woody and Pippin who enjoy it, especially Pippin.

But it's not just the cats. Bees, hoverflies and butterflies are also attracted to the flowers. I was delighted to spot a painted lady on it about a week ago. Just one, rather tattered at the wing edges but not too faded. It may have travelled a considerable distance, perhaps as far as France or northern Spain. I really hoped it would find a mate.

A few days later it returned, recognisable by those ragged wing tips, and this time it was accompanied by another painted lady. The newcomer looked much fresher. Since then I've seen them feeding on the nepeta most days.

Yesterday they were joined by a hummingbird hawk-moth, a delight to see. There was no point reaching for the camera because these moths are such speedy visitors, in and out in seconds. It's said they return to the same flowers at roughly the same time each day. I kept an eye out this morning, but I must have missed its usual visiting time.

I was so pleased with my hawk-moth sighting that last night I decided to put out the light trap, just to see what was about. The most exciting visitor was a poplar hawk-moth.

It's forecast to be a good year for painted ladies and I hope that's true. Unfortunately, it hasn't been a good year for long-eared owls or spotted flycatchers. The loss of the big spruces at the edge of the wood, damaged in winter storms, has probably put the owls off. As for the flycatchers, I don't know what has happened to them. We still have the swallows, though, one brood is already on the wing and perhaps there will be another to come.

A Message From My Father (revisited)

 

One from June 2016. I was right about Brexit and wrong about Trump. He has turned out even more of a disaster than I feared.

Sorry Reader. I cannot settle myself to properly update Nelly's Garden until this bloody referendum is over. Who cares about Trump? Even though I have detested him since first becoming aware of him. He'll be a disaster for the world and the USA if he gains the presidency but, at worst, it's only eight years. For us, leaving the EU will be irrevocable. I just can't understand why anyone, anyone with a grain of intelligence would think leaving would be a good thing to do. I hate what the debate has become, the exaggeration, the lies, the fear of  'the other'. I also hate that Northern Ireland's particular position has been almost totally ignored.

And another thing, you people, you otherwise good people who do not exercise your right to vote - it is time to grow up. Opting out is Not An Option. Opting out is not you being too fine a person to get involved in ugly old politics. Opting out is letting the bad guys win. It's Father's Day today and my father Seamus Byrne would metaphorically kick your arse. He always said that those who don't vote are like beasts in a field. Think about it.

Seamus and Bert. They always voted.

Appreciating nature.

 Sure, there’s not much else to do when you’re standing in the mud beside a stream, making sure the cows don’t escape again.

This tiny patch lies between two fields, one being ours, the other belonging to a neighbour. There is a spring burbling here, though the water is contaminated, thanks to modern farming practices. In April, the ground was carpeted with pretty wood anemones, now it is just green vegetation churned into mud by the wandering cattle.

I'm waiting for Bert to contact the farmer. The cows cast baleful looks at me. They had been thoroughly enjoying their brief excursion onto the road, nibbling the tastier herbage from the hedges and verges, completely unconcerned by the growing queue of cars and vans unable to get past.

Around them, swallows swoop and dive. Where there are cattle, there are always flying insects.

At last the farmer and help arrives and I am relieved of my post. The cattle are driven to another field further from the road.

Bert had referred to the beasts as ‘replacements’. They were young dairy cows, Holsteins, famed for their wandering ways. As older cows become less productive they are sent to the abattoir and replaced with younger animals. It seems that the adventure they had on our road was not going to be a part of their future.

We do tend to think of milk and milk products as being fairly benign but it all comes at a big cost to the animals involved, constantly pregnant and never allowed to keep their calves because we want the milk, the cream, the butter, the cheese and the yogurt. And I do love those things. But when faced with those young cows, just wanting to explore the world and live their life and knowing what their future holds I cannot help but wonder if Vegans have the right idea.

Pig Dream

 I dreamed I stole a little pig that wore clothes. Not on his nether regions of course as that would be impractical, just a little jacket and a scarf. Bit Beatrix Pottery.

Anyway, I felt very guilty that I'd stolen this pig and decided to return him to his owner Mrs Hanna, the farmer's wife who in real life always baked cakes using Stork. Coincidentally Mrs Hanna was also the mother of a teacher at Cullybackey High who was there in Bert's time and was violent and slightly insane. Or so they said.

The Hannas were a very nice and respectable Protestant family who lived next door to us in Cannonstown. I have some very good memories of them and some not so good.

I remember Mrs Hanna being very kind. And George, her husband was the first person who showed me the stars above and told me about the constellations. I've gazed skywards ever since.

Their youngest son Alan would invite me over to watch children's programmes on their black and white television for at that time we did not have a TV. The only programme I can remember seeing was Captain Pugwash. Those were good memories.

Then there was the time I took their grandson Samuel Alexander for a walk. I'm not sure where but it wouldn't have been too far away. But it must have been very muddy because Samuel Alexander got his bright white socks and his shiny black shoes completely filthy. George was very cross with me. I was devastated as he'd never been cross before. I realise now that he was probably going to get into trouble with his son and daughter-in-law.

Mrs Hanna had a fruit garden full of currant bushes and gooseberries which she used for jam-making. She used to give my sister and me ripe gooseberries and I thought they were delicious. Once the family had planned a day to Portrush and I, ever wicked, said to my sister that we should go to Mrs Hanna's garden and pick gooseberries. We did and ate the fruit off the bushes. The next day we had upset stomachs and Mammy mentioned this to Mrs Hanna. She said,

That will be all those gooseberries they ate yesterday.

I was mortified. It turned out that only the men of the family had gone to Portrush. Mrs Hanna watched from her kitchen window as Jean and I stole her fruit.

I was very, very young when I first encountered the future teacher. Maybe three or four and despite his chosen career path I don't think he had a lot of time for children. I was annoying, kept knocking the front door and he came out and chased me down the path. I thought it must be a game and called him a bugger, a word I was trying out for the very first time. Where I heard it, I don't know, as my parents did not swear. Well, maybe Daddy did, among other men but not in front of children. Mrs Hanna told my mother and she brought me home and smacked me around the legs, very hard. I was heartbroken as I didn't feel as if I'd done anything wrong. But I had. I had embarrassed her in front of her respectable neighbours.

The very worst memory was the day they killed the pigs. I don't even know why I was there. The most horrific part was how they screamed when they were being brought to the killing place. I cannot bear to write the details of what happened next but it is imprinted in my memory and will be forever.

I was seven when we left Cannonstown for the Murphystown Road. It was only a few field lengths away but I never saw much of Mrs Hanna after that. Her oldest son, the very handsome Josie, used to do contract work for local farmers and would be around our place occasionally. I had a big crush on him when I was about thirteen. They are all gone now, every one of them.

In my dream, when I took the stolen piglet back to Mrs Hanna, she listened to my apology in her quiet and familiar way then she said,

You can keep it. I don't really want it. It's far too much bother.

First posted, October 2018

The Last of Them

It's my father's 21st anniversary today and it occurred to me that when he died I was almost exactly the same age as my oldest daughter is now. I thought I was a right old age when Daddy died but these days when I look at my first born I think she's just a slip of a girl.

Also, it was today that I learned that I have completely run out of uncles as my father's brother Dessie has just died in Australia at the age of 95. He was the last of his generation. I never knew him as he emigrated to New South Wales when he was very young. A family story has it that when he left his family home on the now Lisnevenagh Road the only one of his family who waved him off was his older sister Mary. His mother did not even come out to the bus stop to see him on his way. I don't believe he ever returned to Ireland again. His mother was a hard woman.

Anyway, Dessie made a good life for himself in Australia. Married, had two sons. He is the only one of my father's siblings to have made it to his nineties.

My mother knew him. She said he was a bit of a teddy boy. I think when they talked about teddy boys they meant any young man who didn't dress just like his da and his granda before him. There is one photo I have of Dessie, probably taken by Daddy and he's along with Mammy. It would have been taken in the early 1950s.

Photograph taken just up from the Wayside Halt, Dessie's home place. I think he looks more like James Dean than a teddy boy.

Myself and the da when he was in his prime and I just a slip of a girl.

The Hidden Orchard and Other Rooms

I really should have posted this a few weeks ago because the apple blossom has fallen from the trees and, if successfully pollinated, the fruit should be starting to form.

We have an orchard of sorts closer to the house but it has been neglected. It contains one ancient cooking apple tree and two crabs. There used to be damsons but they are broken down now. Recent plantings of fruit trees have not been successful. A greengage and pear never took off. The Katy apple tree that Les planted is doing OK and the currants and gooseberries are reasonable if we can get to them before the blackbirds. For the past few years Bert has been planting other trees in there including a tiny apple that Mammy grew from a pip. Who knows how that will turn out.

A few years ago we applied for and received a number of native Irish apple trees from Trees on the Land which were not planted in the orchard. They are in an out of the way spot and I'd forgotten all about them. Then, a few weeks ago Bert said that I really ought to go see the apple blossom before it dropped.

What apple blossom?

He reminded me where it was so I grabbed a camera and went out to see.

I've heard that professional gardeners advise making 'rooms' in a garden so that all is not visible at once. It's a good idea. But I'm not sure that they mean that the rooms are hidden by overgrown raspberry canes, great clumps of nettles or fallen laburnums. That's what here is like. Our outside is packed wih rooms. For instance, if you want to see our climbing hydrangea you need to go round the back of the long shed where it grows profusely with a clump of yellow welsh poppies at its feet. Bert put it there because it prefers a north facing aspect. He wasn't bothered that it faces a big dungheap.

We seem to have forgotten the 'room' hidden under the sweeping branches of the big beech trees. This was a den created by Martha and friends.

Why we can't have nice things

Five years later