Dandelions

Driving to Antrim last Saturday I noticed that the dandelions were in their full flush. It brought back memories of those days eleven years ago when Mammy was living out her last days and everyone was at home. I drove out there every day, sometimes just to sit with her, sometimes to take whoever else was minding her out for a bit of respite. We were all ready to say goodbye to her and, at the same time, nowhere near ready to have her leave us.

Eleven years ago we were all there at her side when she died and Martha the first, and at that time the only great-grandchild was there too. 

Martha (her namesake) brought her such great joy in the last year of her life. This picture was taken only a few weeks before Matty died.

It seems we are not one of those spreading out families. Matty's children (seven of us) produced eight living grandchildren. six girls and two boys.

My six siblings and I with our mother. 

Then there were the grandchildren.

Again, just two boys. A third boy, Mark William was stillborn in 1993.

On to the next generation. Matty only got to meet Miss Martha although great-granddaughters Ava and Evie were both on the way when Mammy died.

These are Matty's great-grandchildren, the ones she never met. Including Martha, there were nine of them and just the two boys. Their great-grandmother would have adored each and every one of them.

The last baby, Séanaí, is happed up in a crocheted blanket made by his great-grandmother Martha. she would have been delighted so I shall be delighted in her stead.

   

You Cannot Make An Omelette...

 ...without breaking eggs. Not quite sure what that actually means but it came into my mind today.

Another thing I'm not quite sure about, even after nearly eighteen years, is Nelly's Garden a diary, or not? Because, if it is a diary then I should be making much mention of recent family visits from the Norfolk and Muswell Hill branches of the family. Both visits meant a lot to me but while they were going on I was much occupied and did not seem to have the time or energy to make diary entries. I will get back to that.

Instead, back to the breaking eggs thing. Some years ago we removed a number of overgrown conifers from the front of the house. One brute of a thing left a two-pronged stump which we decided to leave in place. I envisaged it covered in clematis and eventually one was planted (a viticelli) which took about five years before it blessed us with a few sparse flowers and then died. Today Bert decided to remove the stump.

Considering ourselves to be conscientious of the needs of wildlife our aim was to remove the decaying stump to another area where insects etc. could continue to enjoy it.

Ropes were attached to the tractor, and the removal was underway.

Then Bert cried, Oh SHIT!

A tiny egg had rolled to the ground.

A closer investigation found the little nest, six eggs one broken.

The eggs were cold and we hoped it was an abandoned nest.

Looking into it afterwards Bert reckoned it was a tree creeper's nest. The coldness of the eggs meant nothing as the birds had fled the nest as soon as he roped the stump. The eggs, being tiny, would have cooled rapidly.

Our only consolation is that there are at least three pairs of tree creepers breeding here and hopefully the pair whose nest we destroyed will go again. 

The moral of this tale is to avoid all kinds of wrecking projects in our gardens during nesting season.

Happier times fifteen years ago when the stumps were newly made. The girl is in her last years at grammar school. The boy (Ben) is in his twenties and the pup (Frank) is buried a few metres away.

Corners of My Home

 

There are a lot of things I like about this phone picture. The light, the two young ones at my PC, the Ikea knitted blanket giving a nice splash of colour, Zoe's painting on the wall. Young Loveheart's husky watching the screen, the old-style broom lying on the floor...

Really, I should be catching up with last week's exciting (and exhausting) visit of the Norfolk branch of the family. Maybe later this week when I have more time. The Muswell Hill branch arrive tomorrow. Can't wait.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow my Katkin and her family are coming to stay with us, all the way from deepest, darkest Norfolk. They will be here for five days. Not long, I know, but we shall make the most of it.

It's been a week since I blogged here. Too busy making food, preparing rooms, knitting and watching Vikings. Sometimes all at once.

Bert started me off on Vikings. One evening I brought my knitting into his man cave to keep him company. Something very terrible was happening on the TV. I did not look. It is easy not to look when one is knitting. The thing that was happening was execution by blood eagle. If my reader does not know what that is and has a strong constitution, feel free to look it up.

I came late to Vikings. One of my Facebook friends was a regular extra on the show and recommended it to me years ago. And Bert seemed to be enjoying it. Katkin said that she and her husband watched it for a while but stopped because it got 'stupider and stupider'. Bert dropped out too but I kept going. It seemed to go with knitting. When it all got a bit rough I just kept my eyes on my stitchwork. I expect, had I lived in Paris during the French Revolution I'd have been a regular at the guillotine.

Day Out In Derry 2/2022

A few weeks back Jazzer and I took a day out in Derry. The main reason for our visit was to visit the Museum of Free Derry. I was also on the lookout for a craft shop where I hoped to acquire some lovely new knitting yarn. Somehow we managed not to find it.

On Wednesday last I decided to try again. Up early, chores all done and was wearing an actual dress, nice wee boots and some red tights as I stood by the door waiting for a lift to the train. Bert said,

Doesn't take you long to get ready for a day out in Derry.

I waited for the compliment that was sure to follow.

Instead...

When are you going to get your hair cut?

I was raging. 

It's true that a visit to Rhonda was well overdue. But that was not what I needed to hear. It's not as if I could do anything about it at that point. I made my feelings on the subject very clear and he was contrite. As we parted at the station I told him that I'd have forgotten his careless comment by the time I got to Ballymoney. This wasn't entirely true but it made him feel a little better.

Where devout Derry people get their holy statues, holy pictures and rosary beads. It seems to have survived lockdown. I can't imagine that such items of holiness would be considered essential. Maybe I'm wrong.

 Flowering currant in the grounds of St Columb's Cathedral.

Jackdaw on Derry's Walls

St Augustine's Church on Derry's Walls. This is a beautiful little church but, unfortunately, it was closed the day I was there. I would have liked to get a closer look at the glorious magnolia by the door.

There was a selection of painted garden benches outside The Yellow Yard. I liked the pastel stripes but couldn't have got it on the train. 

I did find that craft shop and it was a big disappointment. The one in Ballymena is miles better.

And two days later I managed to make it to Rhonda's to get the whin bush sorted. Bert paid.