Reading and Flying

 These days it seems I never have enough time to read. What keeps me from it? At night it is the need to sleep; during the day, everything distracts me. I always bring a book (or two) when travelling, even if it is just to pick up the grandchildren. I do not mind waiting if I have something to read, no matter how long I am kept waiting.

Train journeys are another good opportunity to catch up on my reading. When I was at university, I always carried something entertaining, never anything related to my studies as that would have been far too dry. I was not the only one. Almost everyone travelling alone would be reading something, even if it was only a newspaper or magazine. I would always try to sneak a look at the cover of whatever book a fellow traveller was reading, and of course I would judge them on it. Nowadays, readers on trains are rarer, as most people are glued to their smartphones. If I do see someone with a book, I am impressed, no matter what it is.

On my most recent trip to London, when Zoe and I were travelling for Jonny’s funeral, I brought TransAtlantic by Colum McCann. It was a ridiculously early flight and we had agreed not to chat on the plane journey - there would be time enough for that later. 

Instead, I read. The first part of the novel centred on the pioneering flight taken by Jack Alcock and Arthur Whitten Brown in 1919 when they flew from St Johns, Newfoundland to Clifden, Ireland. That year alone was enough to captivate me, as my father was born in September 1919.

Alcock and Brown’s was the first non-stop transatlantic flight ever completed. They flew in an adapted Vickers Vimy, a former First World War bomber chosen for its ability to carry heavy loads. The plane was flimsy by modern standards and freezing cold. Of course, I knew they were going to make it, but even so I was gripped. The final push towards Ireland, when they hit a fog bank and briefly lost control, was nerve-racking, and the bog landing, rough as it was, felt like a triumph.

It was only a few days later that I realised, as I had been reading this thrilling account of an earlier flight, that I was actually sitting in a plane myself. Although it was nowhere near as precarious and uncomfortable as Alcock and Brown’s Vickers Vimy, the seats weren’t that comfortable and I did have some concerns that my hip might start to cramp. Which it did, but the walk from plane to train soon loosened it up. Compared with Alcock and Brown, we modern folk are softies - most of us, anyway, and I certainly am.  

Some Things That Happened In September: 1

Just over a week ago, Zoë and I travelled to London for Jonny’s funeral. We caught the first flight out of Belfast International to Stansted, which meant rising in the wee small hours. It was the second time in just a few weeks I had done that. 

The funeral was everything my sister had hoped for, a fitting farewell for her beloved husband. It was dignified and caring. My brother-in-law was deeply respected and greatly loved, and we are all going to miss him terribly.

Jonny is the first of our generation to leave our family, and it feels too soon. We'll go on without him, but we'll carry this forward  - his fortitude, his humour and wit, his kindness, and his unerring good taste in music have all left their mark on us. These are the things we'll remember, the things he passed on without ever meaning to.

Just one more thing. Jonny had an online radio show which streamed on Mad Wasp Radio. It played weekly for about eight years, ever since Mad Wasp began. He poured his heart and soul into that show and he really appreciated receiving interaction and feedback. 

The radio station (with London Sister's consent) are running his shows from the beginning and  I've been listening to it more regularly. It's such a bittersweet experience. I didn't listen often enough before - I wish I had.  Too late now, too late to give him the feedback he loved to receive. 

Focus on the Positive

 Well! That was very disappointing. 

My first instinct was to become despondent, but I didn't want to feel disheartened, so instead I deactivated Twitter/X (about time) and decided to take a day off from The News. I have made plans and a list.

Today I will read.

I will light a fire.

I will throw out clutter as I come across it. So far I've binned a worn-out tea towel, an oven glove and another pudding bowl.

I will shower, put on a nice outfit and take Vee shopping.

And I will upload my holiday photographs and recall the lovely time I spent with family in Norfolk and London.

Then I will watch a light-hearted show about a group of people with some strong opinions and no politics. Hello, Sheldon Cooper.

Two photographs taken at Pensthorpe.

Katy and I spent some time at the inspiring West Acre Garden Centre and walled garden. 

James was keen to show me around one of his favourite places - Wroxham Miniature World where I discovered that my grandson is an expert on British railway engines.

Halloween is a really big deal where Katy lives. Emily and I were on the door for Trick & Treating. 

It seems I didn't take that many photographs in London. Too busy walking, eating delicious food and catching up with my sisters. The bench is a memorial to the comedian Sean Hughes and is situated in beautiful Highgate Wood. The second photograph was taken at the celebration for The Day of the Dead in Columbia Road. The reason I didn't get many pictures was because I was too busy  having my own photograph taken. It was a novel experience to have at least twenty photographers taking pictures of London Sister and myself outside We Are Arrow. We weren't even dressed up! 

Places in Books: 19 Eldon Road, Kensington

 

Number 19, Eldon Road, where the art critic Brian Sewell and his dog Susie lived in 1972. Susie was the first to sense that they were not alone, trembling and howling on many occasions. Sewell himself became aware of a presence.

"...something disagreeable - a chill and a stench through which I could pass in a single stride, of much the same height and volume as a human being" (Sleeping With Dogs, Brian Sewell, p30)

It is to be hoped that the current residents are untroubled by hauntings and, if this is so, they can thank Sewell for it, because it was he on meeting the ghost on the stairs, sat down, talked to it and somehow persuaded it to leave, much to Susie's relief.

I am reading this book for the second time. Zoe loaned it to Hannah after Ziggy died and when she had finished I decided to read it again. By all accounts the author was a complicated man who held controversial views but I read him as a fellow lover of dogs and that will do.  

 

What I Did On My Holidays, Day 7

 My last full day in London and it’s another rainy one. Nevertheless, London Sister and I head out for a trip to Green Lanes. Our primary destination was the Dusty Knuckle bakery and coffee shop and it did not disappoint.

Of course, we didn’t traverse the entire length of Green Lanes. For a start the weather was inclement and secondly, it is one of the longest roads in London at slightly over 6 miles. The road’s origins are uncertain. What is known is that it originated as one of the old drover’s roads used to walk cattle and other livestock from the country to London’s markets.

No cattle or geese today. The part we went to was full of Turkish and Greek Cypriot shops and restaurants, bakeries shops displaying colourful cakes and pastries, lashings of honey and pistachios, windows full of bridal dresses and everything that could possibly be needed for the biggest, fattest wedding ever.

Then, it's time to return to Muswell Hill. We were damp but happy, looking forward to an evening of movies, quiz shows and yet another delicious dinner.

London Sister helped me make a meticulous travel plan for the next day then I packed my case for the morning and went off to bed with a Hilary Mantel.

The next day, I said a fond farewell to Mr S and LS and went for breakfast in Muswell Hill. Always going the extra mile and then some, my lovely sister accompanied me to Tottenham Hale for the Stansted Express. And that was London redd up for another while.

Of course, me being me, I spent most of that journey fretting that I might need to be farther up in the train because we airport passengers were supposed to be in the first 5 carriages. How glad I was when we arrived at the airport to find that the train door opened onto the platform and not some weedy waste ground, necessitating a big jump and a long, dangerous trudge to the airport. Yes - I know. Ridiculous.

What I Did On My Holidays, Day 6

 

 

London Sister kindly met me at King's Cross which was a good thing as it is a big and busy station. On the way to our prearranged meeting place, I passed a very long queue which I hoped was not for the toilet. It was, in fact, the queue to Platform 9¾ and consisted of excited Harry Potter fans, most of whom were accompanied by parents or other grown-ups. An expensive day out for the adults I guess.

From King's Cross to Muswell Hill where we passed a pleasant evening then an early night for me. Saturday was going to be a busy day.

We were going from Muswell Hill to have lunch with Ganching. Having set out in good time we found we were a tad early for our train connection so went for a wander in the direction of the Roupell Street Conservation Area consisting of several streets of housing dating from the early 19th century, built by a wealthy gold refiner, John Palmer Roupell. If the streets should look familiar that's because the area is often used on location shoots for films and television.

Ganching gave us a delicious lunch and after coffee, we set off for Greenwich. I think I was there about 50 years ago but I don't remember much about it. This time we visited The Queen's House which was lovely and despite giving myself a crick in my neck I did not manage a decent photograph of the famous Tulip Stairs. Never mind. I can always look at Ganching's.

Back to Muswell Hill to catch the end of my brother-in-law's Americana GMT show on Mad Wasp Radio. Then we were off and out again to a lovely Italian restaurant near Finsbury Park. All of us, Ganching too. I don't know how Londoners keep up the pace.

Right Place Right Time

 

My horticultural daughter during her early years. 

Sometimes online shopping doesn't work out. My gardener daughter asked me to buy her a particular pruning knife as a Christmas gift and I was glad to oblige. But because this thing was exceedingly sharp and pointy and I was ordering it in Antrim and having it delivered to Norfolk I was unable to satisfy the requirement for age verification. I phoned the company and they were lovely about it but said it was a tricky one, rules and all that. 

Then it occurred to me that the company's main shop is on a rather posh street in London and that I know someone who is not unfamiliar with upmarket shopping areas. Reader, I called Ganching and amazingly she was out and about and not tremendously far from the sharp things shop. A few hours later she messaged me saying the job was a good one. And she's doing the delivery too! Everyone should be so lucky to have a Ganching in their life.   

The Prince's Birthday

There are some dates that stick in one's mind and today is one - Prince William's 40th birthday for I was in London the day he was born. There was no internet, or instant news back in those days. Instead, walking down a North London street, my own recently born bambino in a sling, it was seeing the signs outside newsagents - IT'S A BOY! I was so silly back then, that I let the thought enter my head, that perhaps, someday, my baby would meet him and they might marry and she'd be Princess Hannah. She dodged a bullet there. I mean, I know we are a tad on the dysfunctional side - but... that crowd?

Hannah with Aunt Gan.

It was Hannah's first visit to London. I was taking her over to meet her Aunts, all of whom lived at the same address in Crouch Hill, although in two different apartments, the older ones top floor, and the young ones below. I remember being shocked that some or other of the four of them (probably Kerry Sister) would go down to the shop below in her pyjamas. Such carefree behaviour had yet to reach dour old Ballymena town.

I don't remember Vancouver Brother being around even though he was based in London at that time. Perhaps he was in the Falklands as he had two stints there after the war, re-building the airport, him and a few other Irish lads. 

I look pretty chilled in that picture. I wonder why? And me with a nine-week-old bambino. I'd not a worry in the world. The Aunts had everything taken care of.  All I had to do was feed the child. It was a lovely holiday.

It was 1982 - there was no internet, no smartphone, no digital cameras. All I had was a cheap Kodak, point and shoot. And then there was the trip to the chemist with the film, and maybe a week later, a fresh folder of photos and most of them were shite. No filters either. You got what you shot. Come 40 years later the damn things are fading, turning orange. Even so, I love this photo of London Sister. When I get Photoshop and a few lessons from Baby Hannah (all grown up now) I'll make a better job of my photographic memories.

 

The Old Dairy

London is not like Northern Ireland, you wouldn't even know there was a General Election coming up. No posters anywhere, except for a few in people's windows, and all of those were supporting Labour. Somehow, I managed to avoid meeting any obvious Tories while I was there.

You'll be wondering if I went only to Islington North and stayed put but that is not what happened for I travelled widely around the capital beginning in Tottenham Hale, passing through Finsbury Park on the way to Muswell Hill. People sleep rough under the bridge at Finsbury Park which is a sobering sight. From Finsbury Park to Muswell Hill we passed the Old Dairy in Crouch Hill, which in the eighties was opposite flats where all four of my sisters used to live. The building has been gentrified and is now a restaurant.

Deirdre and Bert in Crouch Hill, the Old Dairy, sometime in the 1980s

The Old Dairy dates from the early 1890s. This recent photo is from Google Maps.

I decided this time that I wouldn't visit galleries or museums. Rather, I would walk lots and just soak up the atmosphere and history of the city. History is everywhere.

I remember Matty was very taken by the dairy. I think it tickled her that a building associated with farming was located in the heart of a huge city. But city folks like milk too and back in the 19th century it just wasn't possible for everyone to have their own cow. London contained a good number of dairies and herds of milking cows were to be found throughout the city. The Friern Manor Dairy Company which owned the building in Crouch Hill was one of many. Their cows were grazed and milked in Peckham, the milk distributed from churns and ladled into the customer's own jug.

London Sister, who once lived in Crouch Hill with Ganching, Kerry Sister and Leitrim Sister, is still not that far from an old dairy. In 1915 Manor Farm Dairy sold milk and poultry from this building in Muswell Hill.

One hundred years later, yet another of life's basic essentials was being sold from the same building.

I definitely preferred the original entrance.

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Brompton Oratory

The last time I was in London I went with my sister to the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, better known as Brompton Oratory. That was where our Grandfather Ned attended Mass when he lived and worked in London back in the mid-1940s. Granda worked on building sites as a plasterer and the work was long and hard but Sundays were his free day and it must have been a pleasure for him to be part of the Oratory congregation with its fine tradition of choral music. My grandfather loved sacred music and was a longtime member of the choir in his local chapel.


Granda was working in London when he got the word that his sixteen-year-old daughter Peggy was seriously ill with meningitis and not expected to survive. He got the train to Liverpool to catch the Belfast boat but when he got to the docks he discovered that his pocket had been picked and his wallet was gone. There wasn’t enough money for the boat fare and he had no other choice but to return to London. When he got back his workmates had a whip round and gathered enough money for him to make the journey again. Ned arrived back just in time to spend a night at Peggy's bedside before she died.

All these things went through my mind as I looked at the gorgeous beauty of the church. It must have seemed very special to that wee man from Randalstown and perhaps went some way to make up for the loneliness of the migrant worker far removed from home and family. Then the organ music began. I didn’t recognise the piece but it was wonderful, so beautiful that I thought I might cry. My sister was just as moved as I. When it was over we left, almost in a daze, for our actual destination the Victoria and Albert Museum. We’d just called to the Oratory on a whim. I’m so glad we did.

Curly Baps

It has taken me a little while to get back in the swing of things since my sojourn in England and London. I learned while I was away, that the capital and the country are actually different places* or, at least, so says LS who declared to me that she could 'never live in England' despite having lived in London ever since she graduated. Myself, I couldn't live in London but I very much love to visit it.

But first, there was Norfolk where I stayed with my daughter Katkin and her family. Master James was a delight, utterly obsessed with trains and other modes of transport but mainly trains. Unfortunately, he wasn't entirely well when I was with him - treated us all to a spot of projectile vomiting, a skill he has inherited from his mother. If it were an Olympic sport she could have been a gold medallist. Thankfully, she grew out of it and so will James.

And, like his mama, he has lovely curly hair. Apparently, it had been due for a trim but his parents decided to postpone it so I could enjoy his curls. I was reminded of my old friend Sheena who doted on children with curly hair and would often snip a keepsake lock with or without parental consent. It seemed a harmless hobby back then. No doubt, these days,  she'd have been prosecuted. Sheena would have adored our James.

Katy and James at Brancaster

*This might explain the Brexit vote in London where 59.9% voted to remain. Very much at odds with England as a whole.

First Day of July

Just because I live this idyllic life in rural County Antrim doesn't mean that I don't give consideration to what is going on in other parts of the world, or even in other parts of the British Isles. The first thing I do each and every day is check the BBC news site to see how World War III is coming along. North Korea's sabres are being well rattled and the Orange President continues to shake his tiny fists. That doesn't stop me pining for my Spotted Flycatchers who flew away from their nest on Thursday. Since then the weather hasn't been great and I really do hope they will survive.

I read Guardian Online most days and even buy the actual paper on Saturdays but today I can hardly bear to read it. Maybe when I'm feeling stronger. Instead I'm scanning photographs from 1990 and feeling quite amazed at how incredibly attractive Nellybert was back then. Why did no one tell us?

I did read that household income is falling at its fastest rate since 1976 and people's savings are at an all-time low. Perhaps I should crack open my own wee piggy bank before things get even worse. Brexit doesn't seem like it was such a good idea now, does it?

And I read this blog post, written by my sister who lives and works in London. It's to the point and chimes with my own feelings about that terrible disaster at Grenfell Tower.

The News

There is always too much news. Sometimes it comes from a distance and sometimes it is closer to home. Yesterday there was the news of the carnage at Westminster, too soon to say much about, just the hard facts, four people dead and many more injured. Anyone who has ever been to London will have walked or driven over Westminster Bridge. Indeed, my sister, until recently, walked over it regularly as part of her commute to work. Like all do, in this time of almost instant communication, I established that both London sisters were safe. And watched as the television news went round in circles showing the same sad and terrible footage over and over again.

And today's big news in Northern Ireland will be the funeral of Martin McGuinness, former Deputy First Minister at Stormont. Opinion on his legacy is, as might be expected, divided. We are a divided people here in these six counties but I'm happy to declare that I am on the side of those that respected him. I came late to that stance but then, we're all on a journey, are we not?

In Drumrankin, our wee bit of it anyway, the news is homelier. The chickens are free again and we are observing all the orders guidelines laid out by the government to protect them from avian flu. My main contribution will be to never set foot in a commercial chicken farming establishment. Should be easy enough to keep to.

Keep safe everyone, no matter where you are and don't believe everything you hear, even if you hear it from me.

The Olden Days Revisited

Last day of the month and, boy, was it a stinker. Lashing rain, sleet and high winds. thankfully, apart from a little bit of yard work, I was able to stay indoors for nearly all the day. We had few callers (yippee!) just my brother and partner collecting their Jack Russell we'd been minding while they had a little break. And Clint but I managed to avoid him as I was watching House of Cards which is beginning to find its form after a slow start.

Tomorrow is the first of April so there will have to be more seed-sowing action in the poly tunnel. There are a few bits and pieces sown but the to-sow list is rather long.

Today Flickr's 31st most viewed picture is this house in the olden days.

Springhill in the Sixties (596 views on Flickr) 

The 31st most interesting picture is of Nelly in the olden days. The long hot summer of 1977, my first trip to London. Still rocking plaid flannel shirts. 288 views on Flickr.

I remember the photograph was taken by Margaret Donnelly, a young innocent  from County Kildare. She confessed to me that the reason she befriended me was because she wanted to learn how to drink alcohol, smoke cannabis and have sex. On our return to London we wrote for a while. Imagine it! The days of writing letters. She was planning to enlist in the RAF and, eventually, I lost touch with her. No Facebook, y'see. Those were certainly the days.

James Blunt: He's A.....

D asked me today what I thought of James Blunt. Something happened, maybe that was when Gracie rolled in a dead fish or some such thing, and I never got round to saying. Anyway, for the record, I can't bear the wee get.

Today was one of those days when you remember exactly what you were doing a long time ago.

In 1977, on this day, I was in London. I was working as a chambermaid in the Inverness Terrace Hotel in Bayswater, living in grotty rooms in Holland Park (bet it's not so grotty now) and it was in a friend's flat in Paddington that I heard that Elvis was dead.

I must confess that I wasn't a huge Presley fan and it took a while for his death to affect me. It was 2004 before I realised what we had lost.

Muswell Hill

My sister the bride observed the tradition of not meeting with her husband on union day until the very moment they met before the registrar. So the groom stayed at a hotel in Muswell Hill the night before the wedding. He wasn’t too lonely as there were ten of the wedding party staying there too. I can report that the condemned man ate a hearty breakfast.

Where We Stayed

Muswell Hill is a good place to stay. It’s very good for cab-riding pensioners who have no intention of getting on a tube. Which was just as well as the nearest tube station is a smart ten minutes walk away from where we stayed. On the other hand the hotel was a five-minute stroll from a fine shopping area full of excellent shops and restaurants. To Matty’s delight there were even three charity shops. To Aunt’s delight there were lots of much more expensive shops. Uncle was stoic about it all as he can’t be bothered with any kind of shops at all.

As you’d expect it’s rather steep up around Muswell Hill and Highgate. It means that you can look down on the Thames valley and the City. I got my first glimpse of the Gherkin from Muswell Hill Broadway.

City View

The hotel wasn’t far from Highgate Wood. On the hottest June day in about a hundred years I took a relatively cool walk through the woods. But even the squirrels in there were lolling around fanning themselves.

Highgate Wood

Of course the area is steeped in history. Muswell Hill was once part of the Forest of Middlesex and the present day wood is a remnant of that ancient forest. Its views over the Thames and Lee valleys have made it a very pleasant place to live over the centuries, providing a rural, wooded retreat for those who could afford it. It escaped urbanisation until the very end of the nineteenth century.

But the Muswell Hill area has had some recent unpleasant history too. Just around the corner from the hotel is Cranley Gardens, where Dennis Nilsen’s career as a serial killer came to an end.

The hotel is circled red. The wood begins on in the SW corner of the map. Cranley Gardens is just across the road. I didn't go there.

Katy

I heard the news about London whilst driving to Castlerock. Dede and I had only one creditless mobile phone between us. When Dede said that Katy was in London the only way I could handle it was by refusing to believe it. No. She was in London for Live8. She's in Norfolk today. So I was just worrying about Ganching and JB and their loved ones. We stopped at a hotel and phoned home - and everyone is OK. Thank God. We're selfish really aren't we? We must be sure that our own loved ones are well before we can think of the wider implications. Poor London. It didn't get long to feel happy about the 2012 Olympics.