My Week

 Monday - shopping with Vee. We also went to the Secret Garden at the Ecos Centre where we found a shared interest in birds of all sizes.*

Tuesday - date with the oldies. The oldies aren't the oldies because we're old. No sirree! We are the oldies because we are old friends.

Wednedsay - a free day which I spent reading and doing chores.

Thursday - Buckna to return an antique scythe we had on loan. Martha and Evie came too and had an interesting conversation with the owner of the scythe about working in movies. 

Friday - the Bonnars called. Old friends and fellow descendants of the Family Robinson we swapped a Chilean Lantern tree for pansies. I believe we got the better deal. 

Saturday - I went to Martha's dance school's recital at the Braid and had the best time. It was so pleasurable and my face ached from smiling. The entire thing was a delight and Martha made us proud. She shone. No doubt, all the other parents and grandparents were just as proud as we were but... she shone.

The Banjos were here when I got back home. Jazzer made a delicious dinner but she lost it at the rice. So I made the rice. There was music (YouTube) and dancing (Jazzer). I wish I could dance. Still, I give it the occasional go. Bert never, ever dances in public. I asked him today if he ever danced when no one was around and he admitted he did. If it's a good tune. Jazzer might be able to dance but, as usual, her music choices are shite. Gabrielle? Taylor Swift? 

Sunday - a quiet day which I needed. Finished reading my Tana French and can now speak a version of snotty-nosed teenager. Apparently, I only need to say Hello? and Excuse Me! a lot.

Tomorrow I go shopping with Vee. I have to buy a new kettle.

*There are a nest of coal-tits nesting at the top of my window. A few feet over from that, over the front door, the spotted fly-catchers are sitting on eggs. And at night we can hear the young long-eared owls calling for food.

My Week

 On Monday I picked Vee up and we went grocery shopping. I had my list and whizzed around Tesco in no time, then raced out to the car and read my book (The Axeman’s Carnival). Vee must have been in nippy form too as I only had a few pages read before she was out piling bottled water into the back of the car. I never buy bottled water. Am I odd? Afterwards we went to the Ecos Centre coffee shop to find it closed. Why do places close on Bank Holidays. I find that odd. So, it was on to Creative Gardens for a light lunch. I took a photograph of mine and sent it to Bert for complete badness. Am I a bad bitch? Answer – yes.

Back home I baked Bert a birthday cake and made a start on a curry, Mangalorean Catholic style. Don’t know about you but it was new to me. And it was hot!!! The reason I was preparing Tuesday’s food on Monday? I had a coffee date.

So up on Tuesday morning, chores, shower, ironing… Ironing? Yes. Ironing. Meeting one’s peers one wants to look one’s best. As I was about to leave the house there was an issue with a mouse. A shrew mouse in the slavering jaws of Woody de Cat. I saved it and deposited a protesting Woody in the house. I was going to be at least 5 minutes late and me well-known for my punctuality.

Off to Portglenone, found the coffee shop, a new one. Despite being slightly late I was first to arrive. Again. I bagged the best table in the shop. (Won’t they be pleased.) Settled down to wait. Five minutes pass. Then another five. I had a little niggle. I knew I was in the right place but was it the right time? I checked our WhatsApp group. It was the right place and the right time but I was early. A whole week early. All I could do was laugh.

Back home to finish the preparations for Bert’s birthday supper. Frosted his cake (chocolate orange cake, Nigella recipe) and complete the curry. It was hot, hot, hot. Decided to make a milder one for the girls, Thai red curry. They do like spicy food but not too spicy.

All went well. The curries were good, and the cake was rich and delicious.

Waiting for the cake

Wednesday was an at-home day. I started cleaning the larder and became overwhelmed. So much stuff came out of it, I wondered how I was going to fit it all back in, although dumping all the out-of-date stuff helped. I abandoned the project and had an early night which I needed as I’d been wakened by the dogs at five am and hadn’t been able to get back to sleep.

Thursday. I finished the larder and was so pleased with the achievement that I kept opening the doors, looking in and feeling delight. The rest of the house a tip but the larder was clean, fresh and well-ordered. Then off to pick up the girls who are very happy to have finished their summer exams. They asked if the could have Netflix and I agreed and half an hour later I found them watching Bridgerton. Oh dear. If I remember rightly the first season was quite risque in parts. M said she was coping but that E was finding it a little cringey.

Friday. This morning, when I woke up I found myself recalling a not unpleasant dream. I tried to bring it back – something about Donald Trump in court, being found guilty of crimes. Then it dawned on me that this had really happened. What a way to start the day.

Despite this, I was irritable this morning. My larder joy had dissipated and I had to deal with other chores. Of course, just as I’d finished mopping the kitchen floor, Bert got up and he and the dogs trampled all over it. I told him about Mr Trump and he said, Who told you? This annoyed me. It’s as if he thinks I am not capable of finding out things for myself and must wait until someone else informs me. Which is how he (mostly) experiences the world. 

Later on we were called upon by two young lads, one anti-woke and the other fearful of Islam. They annoyed the fuck out of me. I wonder where they get their news?

 

Best part of the week? Finding that the spotted flycatchers have taken up residence in their old home above the front door.

The Big Old Sumach and the Snail

 

The big sumach that I see from my window must be around fifteen years old now. It didn't turn out to be the sumach I wanted, the Stag's Horn sumach that has furry new growth and is gloriously coloured in autumn. I wrote a plaintive post about this some years ago and was sent a sumach from my cousin Dermot. It is doing well but planted too close to a bloody rhododendron hedge. The hedge might have to go, but the birds do love it so. Dilemma.

The old sumach, pictured above in a photograph taken last July, is also very popular with garden birds. Probably because it is usually hung with feeders. They never nest in it but they do like to congregate there. It's where I take most of my bird photographs - which reminds me - time to give the window a wash! Especially as I've just spotted a big snail slithering down it.

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.

Rare Bird

It was dusk when I remembered that the polytunnel seepers were still running. Ground mist was rising in the field next to the tunnel. Taps off, I stopped to look and saw a hare, moving fast and close to the edge of the wood. It heard my noise and stopped still. I watched it until it moved and disappeared into the trees. A lovely moment.

Earlier today I came across a picture of a bird that I could not identify, not even with the help of Collins Birds of Britain and Europe.

Checked the photo info. It was taken in Norfolk, October 2017. Looked like a wader. Where was I that day? Wells-next-the-Sea watching curlews? 

Completely stumped I turned to social media and contacted my most bird-savvy Facebook friend and previously my A-Level. English teacher, Brian. He was quick to identify my long-legged friend as a black-winged stilt (juvenile). I was very impressed. He'd only ever seen them in Lanzarote so it appeared to have been a rare sighting. But I was doubting myself, not even completely convinced that the photograph was actually mine. (it was). I investigated further and found that the black-winged stilt had been photographed at Pensthorpe Natural Park, Fakenham, which is practically beside where Katy lives. Not a rare sighting at all, just like if I went to Belfast and told everyone I'd spotted sun bears and meerkats without mentioning it was at the zoo. 

Perhaps you will be thinking that my English teacher, bird expert, Facebook friend must be very ancient indeed. Actually, he isn't for I was a very mature student and am older by a few years.

Missed It!

 Two goldfinches in the airport snack bar.

One says to the other,

Is it not near time we were heading to the departure gate?

The other one, munching away says,

Ach sure, we've loads of time. Cool your heels...

Then,

Ah for fuck's sake. We've missed it!

Things Bees Know

 

I had a good weekend, busy and productive. Planted tomatoes and lettuce in the tunnel. Weeded like a demon. Prepared ground for new plantings, potted up my bay tree and planted another sumach. Did a lot of birdwatching. There are a lot of juveniles around. Ate a ton of chocolate, made carrot and coriander soup and scones and baked two cakes. Gave away a lot of eggs.

And speaking of eggs, we gave half a dozen to MM and he gave us 30 empty egg boxes and a jar of chilli jam. Even better, we gave another six eggs to EC and he gave us a nuke of honey bees.

And speaking of honey bees (and other pollinators) I found out from DR on Twitter that the reason the centres of some of those forget-me-nots are white, rather than yellow is because another pollinating insect has scoffed all the pollen. Bees know this, so they only go for the ones with the yellow centres. How did I get to the age of eleventy-bus-pass without this knowledge? 

Niggles and Twinges

One of my sisters was of the opinion that our late mother, famously hypochondriac, experienced most of her mental angst through her body. I fear this is becoming true for me too. For instance, I have had a recurring pain, more of a niggle really, on the left side of my head. This will be a brain tumour. A twinge in my left nipple, this must be cancer. Only this afternoon I found myself very weary and went for a lie-down. I had an ache in my upper left arm. I felt my pulse and it was racing which must be a sign of a heart attack. I counted the beats of my heart in 60 seconds. Seventy bpm. Googled this and found it to be normal.

All this hypochomdria distresses me. It's not the fear of a terminal illness but the dampening of pleasure in everyday living.  And I know what is causing it. Too much time on my hands and stress about Covid, lockdown and the return of unrest (riots) to our towns and cities. I almost miss Trump as the focus of my anxieties. This is all getting a bit too close to home.

Well, perhaps they'll cool their heels tonight. Out of respect for their Queen's bereavement.

In the meantime, I have birds to watch.

And these two to cheer me up.

An Early Start

 Judy the Rude insisted that I get up at five this morning so she could go pee. She's old and her bladder doesn't function as well as it did. I get that. I'm old too. After we'd both done the needful I returned to bed but couldn't sleep. It was light just before six so I got up, had coffee and watched the birds at breakfast. There were newcomers today. A pair of siskins. 

The goldfinches brought a few more of their kind to the table, not quite a charm near enough and there were more chaffinches than usual. A good start to my day.

The new seeds I bought yesterday at Pets at Home are going down well with the finches. I'll get a really big bag next time.

All that before collecting Martha and Evie for Home Schooling Thursday. The last two sessions were really good but today they were a bit fractious. There was an incident with a fireside poker and I had to explain lethal weapons and then get a bit shouty. Proper school from next Monday.

Martha had a Teams music lesson at three and her teacher noticed the picture of the guitar player on the wall behind her. 

He wondered who it was, suggested Robert Johnson. But it's not. Too old, for Johnson died at 27,  and too round-faced as Johnson had a long face. Long as a Lurgan spade. So not Robert Johnson. 

The only clue I have because I bought it in a charity shop was that it was one of three in the same style and the other two were of Louis Armstrong. Any suggestions? Anyone?

A Good Day For Planting

 Lizzie's funeral was an early one, 10am in Ballyclare. Due to the pandemic restrictions, only a handful of people were able to attend. Lizzie was a well-liked woman, and even though many of her friends and relatives had died before her if these were normal times the church would have been full. In normal times the service would have been in church. In normal times there would have been a queue of people waiting to give the coffin a lift, but today that job was left to four men, three in their seventies and one (Bert) a mere lad in his early sixties. That is what happens when a person gets to be ninety, a person without issue and all that is left is a solitary nephew and a handful of cousins.

Last Monday, Zoe offered to come out today to help Bert plant the bundle of native trees bought to replace the larches that had succumbed to ramorum disease. It was a great day for it, mild and dry and the ground still soft enough to make planting easy. We planted around 150 bare root saplings and a few in pots. While we were planting them Zoe suggested we call the stand of new trees Lizzie's Wood. So we will. Lizzie would have been tickled pink to hear that. In years to come, we might walk through the new planting and listen to the birds singing in the branches and remember Lizzie and how much she loved the 'wee birds'. I will remember too how much she disliked the bigger birds, the jackdaws, crows and jays and most villainous of all, in her book, the sparrowhawk.

Off to the wood, Martha at the wheel.

Bert and Zoe handled the spades.

And, for the day that's in it...

From the days before tractors - a very young Lizzie with her father's farm horse. Used for ploughing and other jobs, he was also a much-loved family friend.

Through A Window

 

I'm recording the birds I see from my window and it occurred to me that I'm like a primary school teacher with a roll book. The goldfinches showed up for the first time yesterday even though my nyjer seed feeder has been in place for at least two weeks. It seems they preferred to visit the feeders outside Hannah's windows. 

It was very wet today and the pied wagtails did not appear. I hope they come tomorrow. A solitary wren footered about the crevices in the stone wall. Wrens have no interest in feeders, they only care for live insects.

Both pictures above were taken through the window so not that good but I like them because they are my birds. The first sunny day I'm cleaning that window.

In Which Bert Displays His Vast Knowledge Of All Things Windsor

My main interests right now are the Trump impeachment proceedings and the numbers of garden birds coming to the feeding station right outside the room where I sit at my desktop keeping up with the Trump impeachment proceedings.

So it was a welcome diversion when the Te*****ph posted pictures of Princess Anne and her current husband watching the rugby in their ‘sitting room’ at Gatcombe Park. It is obviously a much better thing to debate the poshness, cosiness and relatability of the Princess Royal’s den than to be concentrating on the amount of pressure her dear mother and the eldest brother have been putting on the government regarding legislation which might have a detrimental effect on their privilege.

So much so, that when Bert informed me that Princess Eugenie had delivered a baby, my first remark was,

So what? Another freeloader!

Yet still, I asked,

What was it?

I don’t know. But it weighed 17 pounds.

But back to Anne’s living room. The Te*****ph were trumpeting it as how the posh really live and I’m thinking, if that’s posh then Bert’s Aunt Lizzie must be really posh for all I could see was mismatching furniture, ornaments and pictures cluttered everywhere and rugs (trip hazards) scattered all over the existing carpet. No doubt a closer examination would show canine piss stains in all the corners. Just like Lizzie’s.

I showed the picture to Bert and he had to agree, was just like Lizzie’s house.

Then he said,

So who was that bloke with Anne? Was it Mark Phillips?

No! They’re divorced for more than thirty years. The new hubby is Tim Laurence.

Who did she have the weans with?

Mark Phillips.

And that was Eugenie and Peaches?

No! Peter and Zara.

Did she have any with the new bloke?

No. They were both over forty when they married. He was in the navy. It was a good career move for he’s a vice admiral now. I think he was only a cabin boy when they got together. And where did you get Peaches from?

Well, I knew it was the same name as Marty’s dog.

Marty’s dog is not called Beatrice. By the way, the new royal freeloader is a boy. You remember what it weighed?

Yeah! Eighteen pounds. That’s a good weight for a boy.

Sea Coots

Today I took my dogs and my sore knees for a walk on the beach at Portballintrae. I know. We're supposed to stay at home, but mine was a mission of mercy as I was bringing half a dozen freshly laid eggs and a pot of homemade raspberry jam to an isolated old lady. Who would be Swisser.

Who frequently reminds me that she never reads my blog. So. Open season.

The walk was challenging. Longest I've been on since August last year when I went on a socially distanced walk with Zoe, Dr Leitrim Sister and Dmitri. I remember that walk well, the first one ever with Lulu the JRT and getting a picture of an interesting day-flying moth. I wish I could remember what it was.

Remembering has become a bit of a thing for me. Some events from half a century ago are vivid while others, more recent, can be cloudy. Like, where did I put the tinfoil and did I close the hens in? What is the name of that moth and what are those black and white birds? I know Bert told me but I cannot recall. My mind is all taken up with the birds I see from my window, the robins, a pair of wrens, blackbirds, chaffinches, blue tits, great tits, pied wagtails, magpies, pigeons, crows, greenfinches and today, a small flock of long-tailed tits that I had been waiting for.

Those unnamed birds were seen today on Portballintrae beach. I asked Swisser if she knew. She answered me an unasked question. I repeated the question.

Do you know what those birds are?

She said something vague about Covid.

You don't know, do you?

(She never admits to not knowing anything.)

Then she said,

They are coots.

I said,

They are not. Coots aren't seabirds. They like rivers and marshy places.

She said,

They're sea coots.

Later in the walk, we spotted a birds bobbing in the water and she pointed them out. She said.

There they are again. Sea coots.

It was a lovely walk. And they weren't sea coots. They were oystercatchers.

The Naming of Things

The technician is the modern missionary bringing every bird, every grass blade, wave pattern , and molecule into the fold of human knowledge and domination. As we continue to unfurl our presence on earth, must everything have a name and a use? 

Robert Perkins, Talking to Angels, 1996

Reading this reminded me of two conversations with Hannah. The first, some time ago, when we were walking in Bert's wood and Hannah pointed out a favourite tree. I couldn't identify it and said so.

She said,

You always need to name things. It doesn't matter to me.

I found that a strange thought for, it is true, I do like to name things, be it tree, flower, bird or butterfly.

More recently, since Hannah has moved out and lives looking on to a wild place full of birds and mice and foxes, we were talking about the birds she watches from her window. Bert has put up feeders and I offered a spare bird book. She declined it saying,

I love watching them. I don't need their names.

It's a different outlook on enjoying nature. Mine is different, I want names, information, domination. I love binomial nomenclature and regret that I have only sparse knowledge of Latin.

My girl told me that there were chaffinches out back of her place, and a robin and a bullfinch so she knows a lot more than she's letting on.

Hannah's wilderness

The book she refused. Too many ducks.

In The Long Grass

For a while we had a ride on mower and then it broke down. The fixing of it was long and torturous and in the end, after throwing a lot of good money after bad, we did without. During the few years we had the mower Bert had got into the way of cutting the rough grass at the front of the house into something approximating a lawn and for a time that was good. The grandchildren enjoyed playing on it, as did the dogs.

Of course, back then, our grandchildren and their friends were tiny little things and couldn't have managed long grass. We'd have lost them! But now that they are great big girls they can cope with a wilderness.

For a while after the mower broke down I felt very cross about the long grass that spoiled the look of my flower beds and eventually Bert dug out an ancient push along mower and cut me a six foot swathe at the back of the beds. He also cut paths to the swing, the beehive and the greenhouse. The grass grew long and meadowy and I decided I liked it. I even made a Flickr album entitled In The Long Grass. It seems I’d always enjoyed photographing people and animals in meadows.

After a while I realised that the meadow had benefits other than providing a background for my photographs. Butterflies and other pollinating insects became more numerous. I stopped feeling guilty about overgrown and weedy areas. And there were birds everywhere. 

This warbler flew into the glass at the front door and stunned itself. We perched it on a bamboo cane and set it inside the hedge until it recovered its equilibrium. That's how I got the picture.

We spotted willow warblers, more wrens and the swallows returned. Then, this year, a pair of spotted flycatchers, raised a family of (at least) four in the trellis above the front door. It was the perfect vantage point for looking out at the long grass and the flying insects (probably including our honey bees) that abounded there.

One of the parent spotted flycatchers on a favourite perch, the sumach that grows outside the greenhouse.

Two of the flycatcher chicks. This picture was taken the day before they left the nest. They are looking out for their parents returning with some juicy flies. The black pellets sitting on the edge of the nest are the indigestible parts of the insects that the birds regurgitate. These pictures were taken from a distance using a long lens.

I got the greatest pleasure from watching the parent birds gathering and fetching beakfuls of insects to their hungry brood and was rather sad when they eventually left. There will be no more ride on mowers for us for long grass and wildlife are far more interesting than smooth lawns.

Bad Start To The Day

After yesterday's post I'm looking for a loaded shotgun myself or maybe even a  ball peen hammer. Coming downstairs I see The Bastard Fred playing with a piece of something on the hall floor, a wine cork maybe, or a piece of dried grass? No. A dead wren. We had a wren's nest this year in an old rusting piece of farm machinery and now there is one less wren in the world. Sometimes I hate cats.

Update: Once again I got it wrong. I didn't examine the corpse very closely and judged it on size. The little bird was a goldcrest. Bert is fit to be tied.

Poor Robin

I witnessed a brutal murder this morning. I was sitting in the den about to enjoy a nice cup of coffee when I saw Harry de Cat leap right through a bush. I knew he was up to no good so raced outside as fast as I could. Harry de Murderous Cat ran off but there, on the other side of the bush, laid a poor robin breathing his last. I carried him into Bert who pronounced him a goner. He died in Bert’s hand and was gently laid to rest underneath a hedge. I think Harry just pounced on him and crushed him to death. A robin being hit by Harry must be like us being hit by a truck.

I know, I know – nature red in tooth & claw and all that but I briefly hated Harry. That robin was one of a pair that had been hanging about this past few months. We enjoyed watching them.

Harry is belled but he is so damn fast. Bert suggests that we feed him up so that he gets fat and ponderous. Would that be cruel? Or should we just get one of his legs amputated? That would slow him down all right.

Cruelty to Animals

Oh I do hope that no one from the USPCA reads this blog. There have been two instances of cruelty to animals at Nelly's Garden today - three if you count what the cat did.

I decided to walk into Cully this morning to collect my Tory rag. I strapped myself into my music listening apparatus, slotted in some Classical Favourites, slipped a fiver into my sturdy bra and went in search of a dog. Paddy was my dog of choice as I'd taken Rosie the last time. But it wasn't even 9am and he was still in bed. I trailed him out of it, hooked him to a lead and then had to drag him down our scarey back lane. It's so overgrown now that the postman won't even drive up it and he doesn't give a hoot about his wee red van. So that was the first instance of cruelty to animals.

On the way back there was a torrential downpour. Ironically enough it started just as 'Air on a G String' started on my player. That made me smile. Getting soaked but I didn't care for all I needed was my music and a metaphorical Hamlet cigar. The rain made me smile but my poor abused dog hated it. I wonder if he'd known there was going to be a big plout and that's why he'd been reluctant to go in the first place?

The second instance of animal cruelty was two-fold. It was very cruel of Harry de Cat to kill all the little wren babies in the polytunnel. It was also very cruel of Bert to kick Harry's arse. But also strangely satisfying. Bert said, "After I guarded them diligently too." I don't think he was pleased when I pointed out that he wasn't very diligent last night when he fell to the Bushmills and forgot to ensure that the wren-murdering bastard was indoors.

Wren, Titchwell (Norfolk), 9-Jun-04

Wren, Titchwell (Norfolk), 9-Jun-04
Originally uploaded by Dave Appleton.

Katy, who lives there, says that Norfolk is an excellent place for bird watching. She calls it good twitcher country. I don't know if Dave Appleton is a twitcher but he's a superb photographer and this is, without doubt, the best picture of a wren that I could find on the internet.

Move Along Now - No Sodomy Here

Last year a pair of goldfinches nested in a standard growing in the nursery. Luckily, as Bert had grown it from a slip of privet that our old dog Danny had pulled out of a hedge, it was definitely not for sale. Danny had this crazy habit when travelling in the van where he'd snatch and bite at bits of hedges in overgrown lanes. They seemed to rile him.

So Bert grew this bit of privet into a very nice standard. It's about eight years old now and he's been offered good money for it on many occasions. But as I said it's not for sale. We don't have Danny any more but we do have his tree and it will be planted at our new house. Old Danny is already planted there under a mountain ash if I recall correctly.

Last year's goldfinches raised the young ones successfully but they're not the last birds to fail to make a distinction between nursery stock and other nest-building options. This year we have wrens nesting within a group of six larches in the polytunnel. Those larches should be stood outside but they cannot be moved or sold until the wrens are done with them.