What Kept Me From Blogging

On the day before Christma Eve Bert and I took the girls on separate outings. Martha and I went for a hunt around the charity shops and to find a present for Hannah. Bert and Evie went for a walk to the waterfall on Essathohan Burn. That turned out rather a damp expedition and they went home early to light roaring fires and watch telly.

But there was no stopping Martha and Granny. As always we had our traditional short-lived falling out which always clears the air and establishes that I just have to accept that we will be going into at least twenty different shops. And that Martha will dance. She does that – just starts dancing in the middle of a shop or on the pavement. Wherever there she sees a space she fills it with dancing. I don’t mind. She’s rather good at it.

Christmas Eve, I cooked, baked and wrapped the last of the presents. I had gifted Bert a promise that I would not get cranky with him on the three Christmas Days and found that I was able to share a kitchen with him as we each baked a cake. He was making a London Cheesecake, How To Be A Domestic Goddess, p152 and I was doing Sicilian Orange and Almond Cake, Penny Stephens Italian p234. They both turned out well. We had Bert’s on Christmas Day and mine on Boxing Day.

Christmas Day was all about the trimmings. Sad (not sad) that I forgot to cook the Brussels sprouts. We had Hannah and Fergus with us and afterwards, we played a rude and politically incorrect card game which was a lot of fun.

More cooking on Boxing Day. I did chicken and ham and made a couple of trifles, one alcoholic and one for kids and drivers. It was a family night and after eating we played charades, Truth or Dare and other silly games. Although Blind Man’s Buff was forbidden on Health and Safety grounds. 

Day after Boxing Day. We’d nothing planned and were looking forward to some peace and quiet. Then we weren’t as the Banjos were coming. More food! Jazzer brought her famous red pepper soup and a pavlova. After we’d eaten we enjoyed an entertainment we devised which involved taking turns choosing music on YouTube. This kept us entertained for nearly four hours and the music chosen ranged from the sublime to the ridiculous or, to put it another way, from Prince to Willie Drennan.

Marty Banjo introduced me to an amazing artist who goes by the name of LP. Somehow I’d never heard of her and, going by her androgynous and very fetching appearance, I actually had to go online to check her pronouns.

To finish, a good Christmas holiday but I’m awfully glad it’s over. We couldn't finish the pavlova though so Bert did something illegal and gave it to Rusty and Lily. Sorry DAERA but it was CHRISTMAS! The pigs loved it.

Christmas Eve

 Next year I'm going to buy the family Christmas presents early. In January I will buy Martha and Evie's papa a bottle of gin. In February I will again buy Martha and Evie's papa a bottle of gin. And in March...

Many, many hours later...

Holly de Cat, many Christmases ago.

Two Films and a Buck Idiot

Anything But Christmas

Funny how, when one is supposed to be preparing for the feast of the Nativity, that one will find so many other things to do. I thought I might go shopping for the last of the Christmas shopping today but I never went out the door - except to feed pigs and hens.

Instead of braving the shops I cleaned (a little) house and watched two films. The films were Four Hours at the Capital and The Power of the Dog. Both were intense. Better than Christmas.

I've just finished The Power of the Dog and it was an experience that I'm still processing.

Four Hours At The Capital

The documentary about the storming of the Capitol Building last January was a fierce watch too. One section that struck me was when people were evacuated from the  House of Representatives to their safe space there was phone footage of Marjorie Taylor Greene looking quite elated about the events that were taking place. I appear to have lost all the Trumpists who used to read my blog *so sad* so safe to say, Greene is a traitor to democracy.

Another thing that stood out was the person who helped the police officer Michael Fanone who was dragged into the mob, tasered and beaten. This man (and a few others) did what they could to get Fanone to safety. 

I suppose what I take out of it is that in that huge crowd there must have been many ordinary decent people, some who got swept up in the crazy excitement of the mob and a few, like the red-headed guy in the pic, who did the decent human thing. 

Watching the footage it was hard to believe that there weren't far more fatalities than had actually taken place although I hadn't realised that there were lives lost to suicide in the aftermath.

It was pointed out in the film that a considerable amount of people among the thousands in that crowd were believers of incredible and far-fetched conspiracy theories. 

But I've Done My Research

We all know them. Why only this evening one of Bert's acquaintances (one I usually avoid) was spouting nonsense about the dangers of Covid inoculations as it's a government plot to murder us. He hasn't been to a Chinese takeaway for two years because the Chinese are so very clever and have been developing diseases in their state-of-the-art labs for 1000 years. Scores of people in Limavady have already taken brain bleeds from the vaccine. He also came off with the shite that how come they can get a covid vaccination in a few months and they still haven't found a cure for cancer? Also, they give us cancer through the water supply.

Needless to say, I put him out of the house and told him not to come back until he's been double-vaxxed, boosted and wearing a mask. Don't expect to see him anytime soon. He'll be too busy getting his Ph.D. from the University of Facebook.

Ownsome Lonesome

 

It's been a very family-orientated few days. Ganching was here Friday-Monday and Leitrim Sister Sunday-Tuesday and last night we had Martha, Evie and their parents for supper. All good. 

This morning Leitrim Sister and I went out for breakfast. Not too far as Cully has two cafes. We chose Toast and as we went in I asked LS,

Shall we have the full relish?

She knew what I meant. An Ulster Fry with additional toast. How could we not?

The previous morning we had hoped to go to Middletown for a slightly more sophisticated breakfast but it seems they take Mondays off so the Leitrim one, the London one and myself went to Cameron's coffee shop for scones and coffee and a nice view of Slemish. Afterwards, we had to say goodbye to Ganching as her mini-break was coming to an end and she was off to the airport. 

Today it was Leitrim Sister's turn to head back and I found myself home alone as Bert was off doing Christmas farming with Clint. It felt very odd. Also good. Just me and the dogs and the cats and the pigs and the hens. Tomorrow I will get back to fretting about Christmas. Just 12 days to the best day of the year - the day after Christmas. Can't wait.

Visitors

 

This pheasant visits us every day. I don't always see him but I'm sure the spot under the seed feeder is part of his daily round. I call him Herbie. He is difficult to photograph as the slightest movement spooks him and even though he mostly walks, he is pretty nippy on his feet.

There were other visitors these past few days which is why I've not been blogging. Mick and Linda (co-grandparents) from Norwich were staying. There were some doubts if they'd be coming because of Covid but as we're all double-vaxxed and boosted and tests were taken prior to flying it all went ahead. I'm glad they came as Martha and Evie would have been very disappointed not to see them.

Anyway, all went well, the girls stayed too so we watched a lot of movies, Peter Rabbit 2 and another one called The Croods which I'd never heard of. Then, as if that wasn't enough screentime, Mick and Linda took them to the cinema yesterday to see the latest Ghostbusters.

The co-grandparents headed back to England this morning and overlapped with yet another visitor. Swisser had dropped Rex off as she's working in Bradford for a couple of days. I'd forgotten this arrangement and didn't see her. I came downstairs to find Rex in the sunroom and Mick fresh out of the shower. He said, 

There's another dog. I don't know where it came from.

Recycled Post: Granny

 Anyone know exactly where Linford is? It's near Sallagh Braes. John Steen my g-grandfather lived in Linford in 1901/1911 while his father Jacob Steen was in Sallagh in the 1850s.

Posted on Facebook August 2014

Linford, Sallagh Braes and the surrounding area

In the census years 1901 and 1911 my great grandfather John Steen was living in Linford. John Steen was a shepherd and he and his family were the only people in that area. He worked for a landowner Campbell Tweed whose descendant, also called Campbell Tweed, still owns and farms the land. Linford is a hilly place not far from the Sallagh Braes. I was curious as to what it must have been like to live and work in that bleak country. Lonely and bleak it may have been where the Steens lived but Linford and the surrounding area is now designated an area of outstanding natural beauty.

I got a few responses from my Facebook post but the most helpful was from my cousin Clare who put me in touch with local historian, Felix McKillop. I spoke to Felix on the phone a few nights ago. The first thing I learned was that he is kin to me. His grandmother and my great grandmother, Rose Steen nee Campbell, were sisters and that makes us second cousins, once removed.

I also learned that the herd's house where John Steen lived is still there, the only dwelling house in the townland. I had imagined it fallen down but remembered that the house belonged to a gentleman farmer and that the gentry do not abandon their properties. It is very likely that the house where Granny spent her childhood was pointed out to me when I was a child for we were often taken for drives through the Glens of Antrim. Sadly I was not interested then and consequently have no real memory of it. Ancestral tales did not make much of an impression on me when I was young. John Steen was a shepherd. That was all.

Johnny's brother Father Joe Byrne was a Catholic priest and in 1911 he was living in Altmore Street in the village of Glenarm. Felix told me that Father Joe was a regular visitor at his father's house where friends and neighbours would gather together to play cards. John Steen would also have been part of that group. That is probably how Johnny came to meet Jeannie. I cannot be sure when they met but they got married in 1913. Hugh McKillop (Felix's uncle) and Jeannie's sister Agnes were their witnesses.

Jeannie Steen was only eighteen when she came to live in the comparatively lush pastures of Lisnevenagh. Johnny was twelve years older. She was, by all accounts, very innocent when she married. Matty told the tale that when she first became pregnant she had no idea how long it would be before her baby was born. Yet she was an intelligent woman and had been a pupil monitor at her local national school in Feystown. That would be a post similar to that of a classroom assistant today. It was an unpaid position but it offered her the opportunity to continue with her education.

Johnny, Jeannie and their firstborn son

Coming from where she did, it is no wonder that Granny was so austere. She abhorred waste and despised new clothes. Yet going by the only photograph I have of her as a young woman, she could dress well and she had a tiny waist but I only remember her as a big woman who wore a man's grey gaberdine coat for Sunday best.

Matty had a very telling story. Once, during my parent's courtship, she was visiting his home place and wanted to help out. It was a busy farm and pub and there was always plenty to do. She noticed the scullery sink could do with a clean and set to with a cloth and scouring powder. The job was completed and the sink gleaming when her future mother-in-law crashed through the back door, Jeannie was wearing a hessian bag as an apron and was carrying a big creel of freshly dug spuds. She looked at the sink, scowled, elbowed my mother out of the way and tossed the potatoes into the sink, clods of earth flying everywhere.

Granny was such a fierce woman. And fiercely nationalist. She'd quiz us on the history of the Easter Rising and cried bitter tears that our knowledge of Ireland's martyrs often fell short. She blamed the educational system for that. She spent her later years keeping a petrol station (always called The Pumps) where she sat with a huge stick at her side and if we annoyed her she'd wave the stick at us. I made sure never to get too close to her. I was so scared of her. I certainly never felt any love either for her or from her. She had 26 grandchildren and I always felt that our part of the family came far down the pecking order.

Granny at the Pumps

Both my grandmothers had large families of their own and lots of grandchildren. Jeannie had her 26 living grandchildren and Granny Mac had more than 40. Each granny seemed to have their favourite family of grandchildren. It was never us so I did not have that experience of grandmothers being very special people in a child's life. Perhaps it's a generational thing for both my grannies had hard, hard lives. My own children had loving grandparents as do Martha and Evie. 

Some of these days I'm for driving to Linford and I'll have a good look around and I'll remember my cross old grandmother. I may even take a walk. It's a beautiful part of the world.

Sallagh Braes

P.S. Attention Game of Thrones fans - apparently they were shooting in this area today. Brienne of Tarth and Pod were being filmed riding down the Braes.

A Flock of Tree Sparrows

 

So I got my wish. That pair of tree sparrows that turned up at Hannah's last April stayed, bred and multiplied. Back then I was excited to spot them, and more excited when the young ones started to appear.

Now there are fourteen (at least) of them and they are champion scoffers. Seed feeders are emptied in a couple of hours and they do tend to hog them. The tits manage to get a bite to eat but I worry about the finches. I'm looking at setting up a sparrow free site at the back of the yard. More bird feeders are needed.

Now, if anyone reading is from Northern Ireland you will know that all adults here were able to apply for a SpendLocal card worth £100 to help local businesses recover from the Covid lockdowns. Bert and I gave a lot of consideration as to where we would use ours. Wanting to get into the spirit of the thing, we decided to spend our windfall in locally-owned shops. I was explaining to Bert what he needed to do.

All you need to do, the first time you use it, is enter your pin number into the card reader and afterwards, you can use contactless.

He said,

I don't even know what any of that means.

And I realised, he has never used a card reader in his life. He was going to find it difficult to spend his largesse as spending for spending's sake is not his idea of a fun time. 

Then we looked out the window. As usual, the feeders were hooching with tree sparrows. I'd already bought three more seed and fat ball dispensers from Montrose with some of my SpendLocal card. It was obvious what Bert needed to do.

The next day we went to Broughshane and spent Bert's entire card on seed, peanuts and sunflower hearts. Now I need to look into the feeders that sparrows cannot access to give the finches a chance.

Did I mention that tree sparrows are also messy feeders and drop lots of seed on the ground? We've got a gleaner who deals with that. We call him Herbie.

Recycled Post From Thirteen Years Ago

 And why not? Sure some of my current followers weren't even born thirteen years ago. Yes, Martha - that is you I'm talking about.

The Fifties Baby

Bert in his lemon romper suit that Big Fat Fred recently peed upon. Cats! When they're not asphyxiating infants, they're befouling their vintage garments. 

In the 1950s expectant mothers knit bootees, bonnets, cardigans, matinee jackets and leggings for their babies. The favoured colours were white, lemon and pale green. Blues and pinks were for when after baby was born. It was held that anything brighter than pastels would hurt baby’s eyes. There were no scans in those days so the only way you’d ever know the sex of an unborn child would be by swinging a gold ring on a thread over the bump. If the ring went clockwise it was going to be a boy and anti-clockwise indicated that a girl was expected. But it was still best not to get the pink or blue wool out yet as this test often proved unreliable.

As well as his wardrobe of hand-knitted garments baby would also need lots of little woolly vests, at least three flannel nightgowns with embroidered ducklings marching across the bodice and two dozen terry-towelling napkins. Baby wore plastic pants over a big napkin and this made his bottom look very large indeed. Baby also needed a soft white shawl for swaddling for there was no central heating in those days. Summer wear would have been romper suits for boys and smocked dresses for girls.

Prams were gigantic, pushchairs were merely large and car seats were non-existent. Baby travelled on mother’s lap, who sat on the front seat beside father, who always drove. Mother and father might both be smoking but mother would be very careful not to drop her ash on baby’s head.

Fresh air was considered essential for baby’s wellbeing and he’d be well happed up, settled down in his gigantic pram and left in the garden for at least three-quarters of an hour be it snow, hail, rain or shine. If baby cried it was considered to be good for him as it strengthened the lungs. The only thing that mother worried about while baby was in the garden was that a crow might come down and peck at his nose or that a cat might climb into his pram, curl up on his little face and smother him. Mother’s vigilance was constant.

Baby did not have the toys that the modern child depends on. A rattle was considered sufficient amusement. Those were simpler days and who is to say that they were not better times. Is today’s child any happier with his primary colours, his designer wardrobe, his Cat boots, his baseball cap, his baby-walker and his pram that cost twice as much as Nelly’s current car? Will he grow up more contented than his grandfather who was taken for walks in a rattly old pushchair or left in a freezing garden determinedly waving his rattle in the air to keep the crows and cat at bay? I think not.

Maybe there is just one area where the modern infant is more fortunate – none of those rotten, scratchy, itchy, woollen vests.

Boiler Suit

 

My oldest grandchild likes to shop in charity shops. She will usually be looking for something interesting to wear. But she also has a practical side so when she spotted this hardly-worn boiler suit she snapped it up and, as you can see, she is putting it to good use as she cleans out the hen house.

This isn't even Martha's first boiler suit. 

She has always been a hard-working outdoor girl. Long may it continue!

Cake

 

Another birthday today, as Evie and Martha's Daddy just had a significant one. I hope he was well pleased with Ireland's win this afternoon. Not a bad way to spend a birthday.

Evie is pictured above waiting for the first of her birthday cakes but then, she's always waiting for cake. The two girls made their Dad's birthday cake today, their favourite, Chocolate Guinness Cake. For Dave's birthday tea this coming Monday I will be attempting to emulate the delectable ginger cake served at Angel and Cathal's wedding party last week. I did have the opportunity to speak with the baker but she gave nothing away apart from the fact that she used three times the amount of ginger she'd normally use. Luckily our birthday boy is a big fan of ginger and as his tastebuds have been slightly impaired by his recent brush with the dread virus, three times the usual amount of ginger will likely be the right amount.

I'm not sure if Martha didn't think that having to bake her father's cake was an imposition akin to forced labour but I assured her that she needed the practice as I am expecting her to bake my cake next September. For I'm never making my own cake ever again. If this does not happen there will be a soup course served instead. And, as everyone knows, soup doesn't work with birthday candles. 

It's a long way from Clare to here

 

On Thursday last we drove to Doolin in County Clare to attend a wedding party. The drive down was delightful apart from Bert's worry that our vehicle wasn't up for it. The engine sounded a bit funny, the speedo wasn't working and the wipers could have used new blades. Bert fretted a lot but the old girl got us there in the end.

I had been thinking before we went that Bert and I would probably end up sitting with the old folks and I wasn't sure what I thought about that. But it turned out that the person at the do who was the best craic was ninety years old and, unlike us, she was well up for the next afternoon's session in the pub.

For unfortunately both Bert and Leitrim Sister were incapacitated the next day by a stomach bug. Which meant that we did not get an opportunity to visit the flaggy shore lauded by Seamus Heaney. So, as other guests worked on their future hangovers, Bert and I rested in our room. He slept and I finished My Name is Lucy Barton and on closing the last page, reached for my phone to order Anything Is Possible.

Poor Bert and Leitrim Sister were still too unwell to go to dinner that evening and I found myself seated with my Glaswegian brother-in-law and his dear ma, she who is ninety. We had a good old time discussing family life and politics. B-in-L opined that the best start on dealing with climate change was to round up the government, get 'em up against a wall and... well you know the next bit. 

By the next morning Bert was feeling better but still very anxious about the van. So I took the time to say the Memorare before we left. Ominously, I forgot some of the words but made it through on the second try.

My prayer must have been heard because not only did the van get us home in six hours, but the wipers worked beautifully and the speedo started working again just after Lisdoonvarna. Miraculous. We gave Mary a nod as we passed Knock.

And on passing St Mary's in Bellaghy, I made a promise to Seamus that another time, we'll drive out west again, along the Flaggy Shore.

Late Autumn

There is so much I love about this deliciously uneasy season.  

The last of the summer fruit has withered on hedges and trees and the animals that perished in the woods last winter and early spring have rotted away leaving skeletal remains mossy clean. 

It is the season of fungi, mushrooms and toadstools reminiscent of those scary fairie folk in their underground dwellings.

Late autumn is decay yet with all the promise of fresh new growth to come.

It's time to rest.

The Scary Woods

If Nellybert were very brave (we're not) we'd go for a late-night wander in the woods this Halloween. We won't.

The top picture is Hannah's bone collection which she displays on two big stones in the middle of the wood. I took Ganching to see it and she said it was rather Blair Witch Project. That was in the summer months - how spooky would it be at the end of Autumn?

The bottom picture is the most recent addition to the bone collection, part of the skull of the buzzard found dead at the edge of the wood last April. All's left now are the bones and a few feathers.

Friday Saturday Sunday Monday

Friday

We had Lulu from Leitrim staying with us for a couple of nights while her humans attended a wedding in Belfast. Friday was her last day so I took a few photographs to mark her visit. Her humans arrived earlier than expected (looking rather tired, if I may say so) and as is always the case with dog visitors she hopped into their car with nary a backward glance at the woman whose bed she had shared for two nights running. Never let it be said that I don't give visiting dogs a warm (1) welcome.

Saturday

Bert finally got around to putting up the nesting boxes that Dee Mac made for us. 

This one is ours. 

And this is the one that Hannah picked. It has an elemental and slightly malevolent look to it and that is probably why she chose it. I'm hopeful that the birds will find and use them in the spring. 

I hate to say it, but Judy, Jess and Ziggy were glad to see the back end of Princess Lulu. Ziggy was also sleeping over and he was not at all pleased at having to share Aunt Granny's bed with an entitled Jack Russell terrier. Still, he had me all to himself on Saturday night.

Sunday

Ziggy and I collected Hannah from the airport on Sunday morn. They were very pleased to see each other.

I spent the rest of the day doing chores and even managed to drag myself outside for an hour. I chopped down most of the tomatoes (they are still fruiting!) and pricked out snapdragons I grew from the seed Les gave me. I also checked the fruit on the chilli bush (another gift from Les) and wondered if I should make more chilli jam.

It's a Carolina Reaper, supposed to be the world's hottest chilli. 

Monday

The weather forecast for the rest of the week promises temperatures of up to  19°c in some parts of the UK. Here in Northern Ireland, we can expect rain and lots of it. The rest of the news all seems to be about climate change, no doubt because of the coming Cop26 conference in Glasgow.

Meanwhile, in my kitchen,  my main concern is for this evening's family meal. We are having Tagliatelle Bolognese and I'm trying out a new recipe for coconut cake. It's a Nigella and is supposed to have Malibu in the icing but dearie me no. Malibu on a Monday? My Presbyterian (2) great-great-grandfather would turn in his grave up there at the Sallagh Braes. 

Nigella has this great idea of soaking the desiccated coconut in boiling water and it has made for a soft and delicious cake. Someday that's not a Monday I will soak the coconut in Malibu.

(1) Lulu really appreciated my electric blanket.

(2) There is a rumour that Jacob Steen might have been Jewish. I have 6% Eastern European ancestry in my DNA so perhaps he was.

Horse Chestnut Tree

Our horse chestnut tree right now.

The horse chestnut's gorgeous spring blossom. 

Conkers. The seeds of the horse chestnut tree.

We had visitors on Tuesday, Willy John and Annie, Bert's third cousins. While they were here Annie told us this lovely tale. Bert's Aunt Lizzie, who died at the beginning of the year, was a regular visitor to this house when Pearlie was around. Lizzie always had a great love for the natural world and she would always take an interest in what was going on around here. She gathered conkers from the tree and gave a bagful to Annie who, like Lizzie, had a passion for growing things. Annie sowed the conkers and as they grew, she planted the saplings into ever bigger containers. Eventually, they were big enough to plant out and now they have a row of horse chestnuts growing down the side of their lane. It was so pleasing to hear that. 

Bert intends to plant about a hundred or so horse chestnuts this year. Hopefully, ours will grow just as well as Annie's did.

Talking Dogs

Swisser called in yesterday and the conversation moved along predictable lines, our health and the health of other people. She said,

Listen to us going on about our maladies and the medication we take. We sound so old!

I answered,

We are old.

The chat moved on to the Guardian.

So what do you think of the new Saturday layout?

I don't like it! I had different places to put it all. The TV guide went beside the TV.

She continued.

Food section went in the kitchen, the magazine to my bedroom and the Review in the bathroom.

But it turns out she read the review whilst actually on the toilet. I would never do that. I read mine in the bath - it was the perfect size for it.  

Bert and Locky came in so the conversation changed. One thing we all have in common is an attachment to dogs so Swisser (not reading the room) started telling a tale of the abuses some dog breeders commit. I won't repeat it. Too horrid.

We moved on to the current fad for designer dogs and pedigree pooches. Swisser lamented the scarcity of 'proper dogs'. She meant the sort of mixed breed dogs of our childhoods when neutering was unheard of and dogs mostly roamed at will chasing cars, biting children and having sex with each other.

In those days dogs were rarely pedigree unless they were working dogs or belonged to people from the posher classes. Our sort of dogs would have been collies, terriers or other crossbreeds. Those pedigrees liked to have their fun too. A common type of dog would have been a little stiff-legged terrier, usually sandy coloured with one droopy ear and another pointing skywards.

Swisser told the tale of a colleague who acquired a dog during the lockdown, a pedigree that cost her friend a small fortune. Apparently, things are not going well and despite a further fortune being paid at dog-training classes this dog is still crazy. Swisser says it has a pointy head and is possibly brain-damaged. I have my own thoughts about this.

Swisser said,

She'd have been far better off going to a shelter and getting a mongrel or if she must have a pedigree, something small like a Lapsang Souchong.

I pointed out that that was a tea but she ignored me.

Despite all the extolling of mongrel dogs, Locky remained unabashed even though he is the only one of us with a pedigree pooch. We forgive Phoenix her papers as she is a lovely and darling husky. I've already forgiven her for killing two of my hens - murders which were committed years ago. We think she might be getting too old now for that sort of thing.

Me and my very first mongrel dog.

 

Autumn Colour

 

I'm bringing this fig (a present from Zoe) into the tunnel for the winter. I considered planting it out but have decided to give it a bigger pot to live in. 

These anemones came from the Wees. They had been a feature in his mother's garden but had to go when they built a shed. I moved then this spring and they haven't really come back from that. Next year will be better.

The begonias were a gift too. We were given so many this year that we had to share them out. A good few went to Belfast to console hard-pressed social workers. In return, I was given wine (shop-bought) and homemade chilli jelly and some other things. I like that way of doing business.  

Bert got these Michaelmas Daisies as a freebie last year when he was delivering climbers to a garden shop. They were rather bedraggled and had mould but they grew out of it. They add a nice splash of colour to the autumn garden. That's a beehive at the back of the shot. The bees are still very busy gathering pollen and evicting drones. No honey though. The beggars scoffed it all. I don't mind. They need it more than we do.

Borage is one of nature's freebies. It's self-sown and pops up all over the place.  I love its little hairy buds and it's a big favourite with pollinators.

The streptocarpus was a present from Bert's Aunt Lizzie. She told me it was difficult to keep going but, so far, I've found it easy. It spent the summer months outside. I divided it, repotted and brought it indoors. I'm very pleased with it and it is nice to have something to remember her by. The only thing is, I really hope it's not one of those plants that produces an amazing flush of flowers before it dies. We'll see.  

But It's Only Eleven O'Clock

This afternoon, when I got back from running Martha and Evie back home I saw Karl's van in the yard. Surely it cannot be Sunday again? It was Sunday about 5 minutes ago.  It's become a regular thing on Sundays - Bert has friends around with high-powered archery kits and they shoot arrows and guns at targets in the long shed. They're using Clint's straw bales to back up the targets but he's not supposed to know that. Don't tell him. 

It must be great being a boy. All the fun they can still have in their forties, fifties, sixties and beyond. I hope they are still at it in their seventies, eighties and nineties. 

I didn't have a bad weekend myself as we had Martha and Evie for a sleepover. We debated takeaway on Saturday night but decided on Granny's home-cooked tacos and salad. I'm getting better at Tex-Mex thanks to Martha's constructive advice. Her only beef this time was that there should have been tortilla chips and sour cream.

Afterwards, we watched back to back animated films, The Willoughbys and Hotel Transylvania. I enjoyed both but it was having the girls that made it fun. I can't imagine watching those films without grandchildren. 

When the second film was over I said, 

Expect you're tired. I know I am.

And Evie said,

But it's only eleven o'clock.

Nevertheless, they were both sleeping moments after climbing into bed. So was I.

No photographs this weekend but here's one I took earlier. About eight years earlier.

Playing for Dogs

 

Evie sets up the cello for practice. Luckily our dogs are fond of music. 

Jess settles down behind Evie, Judy dozes in the chair next to her. That is Judy's favourite chair. Ten pounds from the charity shop that raises funds to educate (indoctrinate) children in Kenya. I should take it out and burn it except the environment, and Judy. Evie calmly continues with her set-piece. The cello is very easy to listen to. Posie looks like she is ready for mischief.

Here comes Martha, on a mission (not the indoctrination of African youth). She is looking for Posie who needs some outdoor exercise.

Maya and Rex would like some outdoor exercise too.

Evie continues to play while Posie is fastened into her harness. Posie is not (yet) a music fan.

Off you go Posie. Bert will play you the clarinet later while you bark in time and finish on a high-pitched puppy yowl. You will learn to enjoy music in time.

Bread

Tuesday night is Bert’s music night at Les’ house (Thursday is Les’ music night at our house) and Bert will often come home with something edible as Les and Dawn love to cook. Last Tuesday it was half a loaf of fresh-baked bed and a few cubes of the fresh yeast he’d used to bake it. The bread was really delicious.

This fresh yeast had to be tried. The recipe was a farmhouse cob (found on the side of the flour packet.) The yeast was crumbled into warmish milk, added to the dry ingredients, given 20 minutes with the Kenwood and dough hook attachment and left to rise in the bowl for several hours.

Now it was time to turn on the oven. Nothing happened! I checked the fuse box, everything was fine there. Bert checked the fuse in the switch, replaced it, still no joy. Then the phone rang. It was our friend the master engineer asking if he might call round. I was delighted. Great timing, I informed him, our oven just stopped working.

Meanwhile, I headed up to the attic where I found a little mini-oven that had come with the shepherd’s hut. I’d never used it but now was the time to try it out. If it worked, great – and if it didn’t we could feed the bread to the pigs.

The first thing the master engineer said when he entered the house was,

Where’s this oven?

And he was straight at it. Ruled out a few obvious issues and decided it was all going wrong at the back of the oven. There was a burnt-out wire and he had it all safe and sorted in less than ten minutes. I was so pleased and delighted with him that I believe Bert was jealous.

And what of the farmhouse cob in the mini-oven? Baked to perfection and tasted very good. Not quite as good as Les’ loaf but decent enough. I had it for breakfast the next morning, toasted, buttered and spread with homemade marmalade. When Bert got up I mentioned again how great it was that our friend the master engineer had fixed the oven. He said,

Y’know, I would have worked it out eventually and fixed it myself.

And I said,

I know.

.