Summer Branch Drop

On the 12th of July, unexpectedly and without warning, a huge branch fell from one of our mature beech trees. It was on a very hot and calm afternoon. Less than an hour earlier two children had been playing on the swing underneath the trees. The branch that fell brought another with it. Altogether they must have weighed at least a ton. I'd never heard of this phenomenon until it happened here at Springhill.


We were having a barbecue and there were a good few people around. When we heard the noise, a loud sharp crack, followed by a creaking and a loud crash as the branches hit the ground, I thought at first that the tree house had come down. Almost everyone made a dash for the trees because no one was sure where Ben was. He had been playing up there for most of the day with another child. It was a big relief when we saw that he was fine. In fact, he had seen the branch drop and was the first on the scene. He whooped, "Bert is going to be so happy! Look at all that firewood!"


One of our guests had heard of this happening. He had worked in a government department that dealt with tree preservation orders. He told us that sudden branch falls in hot, still weather is something that can happen to old trees.


I checked it out later.



Ed Perry, Farm Advisor Stanislaus County
University of California, U.S. Department of Agriculture and Stanislaus County


Over the last couple of weeks a phenomenon known as “summer branch drop” has been apparent throughout the area. Also called “sudden limb failure,” the phenomenon occurs during periods of very hot weather when apparently sound, relatively large limbs break out of large, mature shade trees. Since most people think that branches only break during windy conditions, a large branch crashing to the ground on a hot and calm day causes some excitement.


Branches that fail due to summer branch drop are usually long and horizontal, rather than more upright. Oddly enough, many times the break occurs along the length of the branch somewhere, rather than at its point of attachment to the trunk. While some broken branches may have wounds or areas of wood decay, many that drop are free of any obvious defects and appear sound. Therefore, summer branch drop is very difficult to predict.


There is still no generally accepted explanation for the phenomenon. However, most tree experts believe lack of adequate soil moisture, or drought stress, is to blame. This is a bit difficult to explain, since branches actually become lighter during hot weather as they lose more water from leaves than they gain from the root system. Studies have shown that branches actually shrink and rise during summer afternoons. Another theory is that water stress causes the concentration of ethylene, a plant hormone, to increase. Ethylene is a gas produced by all plants that effects all stages of plant growth and development, including processes involved in cell aging. There is a possibility that increases in ethylene could dissolve the cementation of cell walls in the wood, causing the branch to break. Others suggest that internal cracks in large branches, caused by wounds or improper pruning, eventually spread outward, causing the branch to fracture.






The phenomenon is less common in the British Isles but it does happen. The Arboricultural Association said it was aware of a number of reports of branches dropping off trees, an event it says is associated with prolonged hot spells.


Paul Smith, a technical officer with the organisation, said: “Certainly there’s a clear relationship between the weather conditions and the frequency of summer branch drop.

The indications are that it’s to do with water stresses within very large, often overextended or elongated limbs.












That is how close the biggest branch was to the swing. Had anyone been using the swing when the branch came down, they would have been very fortunate to escape serious or mortal injury.







There was no obvious sign of rot or decay. The part of the branch where it broke from the trunk was very wet beneath the bark.












I have always thought that our mature beech trees were the very best thing about this property. I feel differently now. A little more anxious. Some experts say that when sudden branch drop occurs in a tree, there is an increased chance that it will happen again. The branch that collapsed was not the only large, extended branch on that tree. The swing is on another. With great trees come great responsibilities. Perhaps it is time to call in the experts.

Scorchio

The morning after. Oldest to youngest in chronological order.

Summer came back! We spent the weekend in Leitrim at a family party, It is rare these days that we have a gathering and this one was particularly enjoyable as it did not involve a burying. The weather was kind, the company was wonderful, the party legendary, the music first class. The only snag was the hordes of hungry midges and, perhaps, that all of our vehicles got layered  in a soggy, rushy field.

Miss Martha was of the opinion that this was the best bit of the party. 

Freshly watered vegetables.

 But we were so tired on the drive home. It was a long hot drive. Bert drove the first 50 miles, I drove the next 30 and after that we were changing every 20 or so miles. I wasn't looking forward to having to drive Jazzer back to Antrim after we got home nor was I relishing the thought of the watering we'd have to do in the polytunnel.

And when we drove on to the yard there was Marty! No drive to Antrim. Bliss! It got better. She had made a roast chicken dinner. She had even cooked a vegetable course. Pearlie was happy and content. The animals were fed. The house was shiny clean and, best of all, she'd even watered the polytunnel.

A rare photograph of Bert outdoors without a boiler suit. That is how hot it is!

Too Many Dogs And Too Much Noise

This morning I am in Cullybackey surrounded by Banjos, chewed up crayons and dog poo. Tonight I hope to be in Lovely Leitrim to celebrate my youngest sister's birthday. Last night I decided on early bed as I have been very tired. I managed to get there just after midnight. At one a.m. I was woken by the sound of the Banjos going to bed. Mother and son were in high spirits and giggled and squealed at the amusing antics of the dog pack. I considered screaming at them to shut (the fuck) up but decided against it for two reasons, the first being that I hadn't the energy and the second that it would be churlish. Four hours and ten minutes later (5:10 am) the two youngest dogs were gambolling and frolicking in the attic, up and down the stairs and along the landing. I swear a couple of bull stirks could hardly have been louder. I was churlish.

I am the Princess and the Pea of noise. Why can everyone else sleep through din? Why am I not a hermit living on a lonely island?

Still. Party time. Who knows - I might even enjoy it.

P.S. As I finish off I can hear Benjamin Banjo playing ball with the two youngest dogs in the room next to me. Bert is trying to squeeze a few moments more shut-eye in that same room. This pleases me. I hope he is suffering as I suffered.

Chompy Dog Is No Good, Chop Her Up For Firewood

It has been a funny old week. It was six days ago that we realised that Bonnie was going to die. There has been a lot to get used to. Her favourite hobby was barking and I don't know if I miss that. It is strange her not being there in the morning but rather a relief not to have to watch her struggle out of comfortable sleep to go stiffly out to the yard for pees and poos. She never went far, no doubt the result of spending her early years chained. There was a lot of poop picking. I won't miss that.

The pup has taken up barking in Bonnie's stead. We have a shooting range close by and Jess does not like that. I'd rather listen to gun fire than the pup's shrill barking. Perhaps she will get used to it. I do hope she doesn't take against the sound of Lambeg drums for marching season is upon us. I had to get used to that too.

I was thinking today about how expensive she is. We were out on a run to a local dog shelter donating Bonnie's left over medication. Bert had re-upped just a few days before she died and it would have been wrong to waste it. I left Judy and Jess in the van for ten minutes and when I returned Judy was sitting there like a perfect brown angel while the pup lay on the floor on the driver's side chewing the floor to pieces.

So - a list. Since we have had Jess she has eaten,

Two leather sofas
Half a dozen cushions
Several electrical leads
A mobile phone
Miss Evie's new shoes
Bert's spectacles
My spare spectacles
Miss Martha's uncooked scones
Several pairs of wellington boots
Many soft toys
Miss Evie's favourite Eric Carle books
A Be Good Tanyas CD
A Peugeot van

And that is only what I can remember!

Bonzerooni Poopy Poo Poo, Friend of Heart.

Bonnie lived with us  for six years and eight months. I picked her up straying on the Dreen Road and she ended up staying with us. I contacted the local dog warden but no one was looking for a German Shepherd dog. I never did find out who her original keepers were despite putting posters all over the village. This man telephoned, said he preferred to remain anonymous. He said he knew where the dog had been living, said her owner was seriously ill in hospital and unlikely to recover. He said that this man had two dogs, a collie and the German Shepherd, that they were neglected and chained up all the time. He said that the German shepherd had escaped because she was starving and that he had fed her but she had got away from him. He asked me to try and get the dog a good home because she had a gentle, sweet nature. Then a woman called to the house. She knew something too. She pointed out how underweight Bonnie was and noticed that there was no hair under the chin from where her collar had chafed and rubbed her. She told me that she had a friend who worked as a postman, he knew the house where the dogs were kept and how he would have loved to rescue both of them.

So it was down to us. A week after I reported finding her I bought a dog licence for £10 and under the laws of this country she became my dog. We called her Bonnie. By this time we had bathed her for she had come to us reeking and matted with filth. She found that strange. What puzzled her more was being carefully dried and wrapped in a blanket and placed at the foot of my bed. She looked at me as if she could hardly believe it. Funny though, how quickly she got used to it.

She slept at the foot of my bed until about six months ago when she stopped being able to get down the stairs in the morning. A few times she had slipped and fallen the last few steps and it frightened her. She seemed happy enough to sleep on a sofa as long as she got her night time dog biscuit. On Sunday last as I prepared to go to bed she followed me. She was determined to go upstairs and climbed the steps, slowly, stiffly and went straight to my room. I lifted her on to the bed, gave her a bedtime treat, scratched her ears and cuddled her and we both fell happily to sleep. The next morning I helped her off the bed and she lost her footing. She managed to steady herself and I walked backwards in front of her as she descended the stairs.  I helped her down the last few steps and she didn't fall. We had the usual Monday. Zoe and family came to work in their vegetable garden and Bonnie followed us around. Later  that evening Rod and Tracey came by. Rod was bearing dog treats as always and Bonnie was well to the front of the queue for her share. That night she was happy to sleep downstairs.

The next morning I left the house early as I had planned to take Miss Evie to the seaside. I left Bonnie on the sofa with the door to the outside open so she could go to the toilet when it suited her. Something happened to her between Monday night and Tuesday evening. At supper time she couldn't stand and her breathing was laboured. She didn't want to eat. Throughout the night she became weaker and her breathing was getting more difficult. We called our vet first thing this morning and requested a home visit. We knew we were having her put to sleep. The vet came at half eleven and Bonnie was placed to rest in the garden just before midday.

My big fear for Bonnie was that her hindquarters would give up while she still had some zest for life. That didn't happen. We were blessed that her final illness was swift and that her suffering was short. Going to miss her. Bonzerooni. My pet.

And that crazy title? That was my pet name for her. I know it's completely loony but if you are like me, a fool for dogs, you'll forgive me.


And I still wonder what became of the collie from all those years ago.

Plant A Seed

I read this somewhere - 'Forget dusting, go outside, plant a seed.'




I took it to heart. The forgetting to dust was the easy part. I don't even feel bad about that any more, Instead I feel guilty if I don't get round to planting that seed. This month I should have sown, according to the following handy list,

Amaranth
Beetroot
Chinese cabbage
Calabrese
Carrots, early varieties
Carrots, maincrop varieties
Cauliflower
Chicory
Courgettes, marrows and pumpkins
Fenugreek
Florence fennel
French beans
Runner beans
Kohl rabi
Lettuce
Salad onions
Pak choi
Peas
Pumpkin
Radish, mooli
Sweet corn
Swede
Turnip

And so far, with just one week of June left, I've only managed to sow fennel, radishes, cabbage, lettuce, turnips and peas. At least, with dusting, there are no time restrictions. And I don't even know what amaranth is!

Night Time Hypochondriac

In the dark of the night when the cramping in my right leg keeps me awake I find myself imagining all kind of terrible outcomes. I'm an optimistic old stick when the sun shines but the wee small hours are quite  a different matter. The best I can wish for is a blood clot, hope I can get to the hospital before I take a stroke. The worst is, of course, cancer. Morning comes, I hop out of bed, gingerly put my foot to the floor and all is well. I can practically hop, skip and dance. The day wears on, the knee starts to ache, I start to limp and by evening it's the hip and by bedtime shin, ankle  and thigh muscles are gowpin.* Paracetamol (and sometimes wine) takes care of the pain but the cramps do not ease.

Eventually, more than six weeks after the initial injury, I saw the doctor. She examined it thoroughly and pronounced it tendonitis. Says she suffers from it herself because she likes to run. Said I ought to rest more, said she ought to rest a bit more herself. We agreed it wasn't easy. I got Ibufren, a stomach pill to help me take Ibufren and a lotion. The latter two are medicines that Pearlie takes. Now we are practically twins! Twin crocks.

But I'm happier now. No more night time hypochondria. I just have to take a bit more care of myself to be able to get into this tree house. It's not quite finished yet but that isn't stopping us from picking the furniture.

A photo taken last Sunday by Hannah Banana.

And just to prove that I am actually aware of what goes on outside Cully here is a photograph of President Obama leaving Northern Ireland, taken today by my friend Brian.

* gowpin - adjective, from Ulster-Scots - throbbing with pain.

Father's Day

 Bert's Dad, Johnny with Prince. Johnny's anniversary was on 2nd June. He died in 1997. Sixteen years gone. He was the kindest, sweetest man and I wish we could have had him for longer.

My father, Seamus, was a couple of months older than Johnny. They were born in 1919. Daddy got eight more years. He died on the 3rd June, 2005 making his anniversary the day after Bert's father's. They were two fine men and we miss them every day.

Nelly's Scones

Music night at Nellybert's and scones were served again. And once again Brendan asked for the recipe. The first time I wrote it down for him. Then I sent it in an an email. This time I'm going to blog it and link it to Facebook.

It's a cross between my mother's recipe and  a Nigella Lawson recipe. This is it. I don't know if soda bread flour is sold outside of Ireland. Probably not. Sorry about that.

Ingredients

• 500g soda bread flour
• 1 tsp salt
• 50g butter
• 25g lard or more butter
• 1 egg beaten
• enough buttermilk to make up to 300 ml when added to beaten egg

Method 

1. Preheat oven to 220°. 
2. Sift the dry ingredients together and rub in the butter thoroughly. 
3. Add the milk and stir very briefly. 
4. Knead lightly together on a floured surface.
5. Roll and cut approx. 12 scones
6. Bake for 10-15 minutes. 
   
   
   
   

Eight Years

Daddy in his Sunday best. He had probably called to my house to bring the girls and I to Mass. For sure I'd never have gone if he hadn't made the effort to pick us up. Afterwards we would usually go out to Drumkeeran for Sunday lunch.

I'd say, in the photograph, that he was probably only a little bit older than I am now.

I still have that old map but I don't have him. He is eight years gone today.

Still missed. Still remembered.

Seamus.

The Tree House Progresses

 The four beech trees

 Erecting supports

Laying the platform

It is kind of awesome. I have always wanted a tree house but lacked the trees. Then we got this place with mature beeches galore. Then we got ourselves a new friend who loves tree houses, who has the skills, the enthusiasm, the tools and the encouragement to make this dream a reality. So what if I'm nearly sixty! I'm beginning to realise that the good things that happen when we are older are what we appreciate the most. This knee, this hip is getting better for I am going to spend some time in the trees. Lucky, lucky me.

Knees and Trees

It is four weeks today since Rusty gave me a knee injury. I thought I'd gotten away with it but it was not to be. I now have a 'hip', a 'knee' and a 'shin'. I know most people possess these body parts but mine are special. Especially sore. I am scoffing so many painkillers that my stomach is starting to ache. Sometimes if I hurt it a little bit more (which seems to happen very easily) I find myself limping or, as we say in Northern Ireland, harpling about. I have never felt so old.

In fact, the situation is so dire I am seriously considering going to the doctor. At least I'll be making a start on the road to bionic leg-parts.

Other pleasanter news is that we are getting a tree house. The foundations were laid yesterday. When houses are built in trees the true foundations are the trees themselves but there are other supports needed. The adults are very excited and I hope the children will be excited too. And I hope that my damn knee gets better for we haven't incorporated a chair lift into the plans.  

Bonnie Takes Her Last Holiday. Again.

Bert and I have just come back from a short break in Donegal. We weren't on our own. We had four dogs, the Banjos and Swisser as well. Swisser got a new nickname – Professor Pants. She was waxing superior over dinner, told Jazzer and I that we had given over the control of our lives to our husbands because we are currently not working. I was having none of that. Just because someone is Professor Pants does not give them the right to judge how others organise their lives. Anyways Swisser was just pissed off that her youngest dog didn't get to come but we had to put a lid on it somewhere. Our caravan, we get to take all three of our dogs if we choose. We made a concession for the Banjo's youngest dog who is our youngest dog's litter mate. They are wild together. And as Swisser's youngest dog is also their litter mate the canine craziness would have been unbearable. He'll get to come the next time.

Once again it was Bonnie's last holiday. She is so old and done now that we have to lift her in and our of the van and she needs help getting up stairs and on to sofas. She was not able to get to Ballyhiernan beach because it meant climbing some pretty steep sand dunes so, just before we left, we took her to another beach that was easier for her to get to. Just seeing her there, plodding along, trying to keep up with the younger dogs was nearly tragic. Her back legs are getting weaker and it is much more noticeable when she is in unfamiliar surroundings. I wonder how much longer she can continue. But she had her little break, she was with people and dogs that she knows love her and I think she enjoyed it.

I wonder if she will be able to squeeze in just one more 'last' holiday?

By the way Swisser really is a professor now and about time too! I think adding Pants to her title will help her to keep everything in proportion.

A Cure For Procrastination

I am trying something new in my ongoing personal quest to reprogramme my brain.  It is this - when thoughts, such as these, pop into my mind,

I do not want to pick up that dirty laundry and take it to the washing machine.

Damn those dirty cups! It would be too dreary to remove them to the kitchen.

Why is it always me who has to check on Pearlie's fire? I don't want to.

Then that is exactly what I do. I pick up the laundry, I lift the cups, I fix Pearlie's fire. But first I must - have a cup of coffee, write this blog entry, check the time in Vancouver and the temperature in Fakenham, see if Natalie has uploaded new photos, delete some spam and have another cup of coffee.

It's an ongoing battle.

Note to self: I wonder if there is a site that takes tired old phrases such as 'it's an ongoing battle' and turns them into something fresh and new? Must check....

Fill Her Up

You Are 40% Left Brained, 60% Right Brained




The left side of your brain controls verbal ability, attention to detail, and reasoning.
Left brained people are good at communication and persuading others.
If you're left brained, you are likely good at math and logic.
Your left brain prefers dogs, reading, and quiet.

The right side of your brain is all about creativity and flexibility.
Daring and intuitive, right brained people see the world in their unique way.
If you're right brained, you likely have a talent for creative writing and art.
Your right brain prefers day dreaming, philosophy, and sports.

Are You Right or Left Brained?

Blogthings: Quizzes and Tests and Memes, Oh My!

Smarty Pants.

So I accquired one of these new-fangled smart phones. A young friend was upgrading and I remarked if he was thinking of selling his old one I might be interested. Then forgot about it. He mentioned it to me again and I checked the second-hand value. It was quite a bit dearer than I could afford at present.

Maybe I'll wait until you're doing your next upgrade and by that time I might have a bit more spare cash floating around.

He said,

Y'know I'd rather sell it to someone like you for (mentions a sum 35% less than its worth) than to some other wanker for £x.

How could I refuse?

By good chance I got my new phone set up on the very day that Jess ate Bert's old phone so was able to recycle my old phone to him.

So. I have a smart phone. It is fun but I wonder if it might actually be too smart for me. We shall see.

 Bert's old phone.

The villain who ate it.

Comment Spam

There is so much comment spam coming to this blog that I am considering moderating comments. It is not a step that I want to take but I'm getting very cheesed off at the amount of time I'm wasting deleting trashy, unwanted comments.

Yes. He Did It Again.

It was last September when Rusty first knocked me off my feet and he has went and gone and did it again. I was carrying a gigantic bucket of goodies down to their paddock and while I was looking for a sweet, clean place to dump it out, Rusty all impatience, barrelled through my legs and lifted me off my feet. Yes folks, for a split second or so I was sitting atop his broad back and he just kept barrelling on and I knew for certain I was for landing on my arse. Wish I'd followed through on that one for all I'd have got would have been a soft if muddy landing. But I thought it best to try to stay on my feet and that was my downfall. People, when trying to extol the virtues of the smaller pig, say, "They'll only grow to knee height." That is all very well but they forget to mention that the 'small' pig will likely grow to around two foot wide. I know that when Rusty dove between my legs I ended up standing on tippy-toes with my legs well extended and it was when I tried to keep my balance that I twisted my knee.

Oh! The agony. At first I couldn't even put my foot on the ground. As I stood there one-legged, crying with pain and frustration I really had no idea how I was going to make it back to the house. After a few minutes I found I could weight bear but it was no fun and I made my way slowly and uncertainly to the house. Bert was, as usual, totally unsympathetic although he did help me off with my wellies which were very filthy indeed.

That was three days ago. The first two were rather limpy and I had to go up and downstairs a step at a time like a one-year-old child. No more running up and down the stairs for me. Every step was painful but I soldiered on. That was the first piece of advice I got. Keep moving. Then someone else said, "You should stay off it. Rest a couple of days." Too late. I had spent those couple of days 'keeping moving'. Some folk said, "It will be months before that gets better." Who knows? It is three days since Rusty lamed me and today the knee is still sore but the strength is returning to it. I go upstairs and down in the normal way although it does hurt a little.

There is just one thing I haven't done since Tuesday morning and that is - I haven't gone near those damn pigs. Pigs are rough. Very rough indeed. Anyone who is tempted by the thought of a pet pig should bear that in mind. And did I mention the tusks?

A Party Of Sorts

This Saturday past was my mother's second anniversary. I chose to fill it with friends. The day went past. I spoke to a number of my sisters and I made an arrangement to visit with my youngest brother on the Sunday (today).

Swisser was supposed to visit yesterday but she cancelled. She texted Bert saying that she did not want to interrupt our party. Our party! I confess I was miffed of being accused of a party on Matty's anniversary. If it was a party this is what occurred, We ate sausages and mash cooked by Jazzer. We did drink wine. Mel visited us from Edinburgh and brought whisky. Bert drunk some of that and so did Jazzer although she ought not to have. Marty and Jazzer shared some of their experiences of growing up in Belfast during the 1970s and I read excerpts aloud from Lost Lives. Marty retired to the kitchen and played claw hammer banjo for hours.

There came a point in the evening, maybe after her second glass of Scapa, when Jazzer flipped. This is a regular occurrence. She goes from being a relatively normal person to one who is sensitive, defensive and argumentative. It goes something like this, I'll say,

Ben is an absolute gentleman. He really is an excellent young fellow. Everyone thinks the world of him. You couldn't wish for a better son.

Jazzer goes on the defence,

My other kids are fantastic too. They really are great. I won't have a word said against them.

And I say,

You've flipped you bint! Over the edge. No more 16 year old single malt whisky for you!

It seemed to work. Jazzer calmed down. Maybe twenty minutes afterwards this exchange Jazzer's pup Dora jumped up beside me. I stroked her absent-mindedly. Dora is our pup's sister so I don't wish to show favouritism. Jazzer's old dog Frank is snuggled up on my other side. Jazzer reciprocates on the other sofa by scratching my old dog's ears and giving her lots of pets. Old Bonnie groans with pleasure. I say to Mel,

Dora really is the sweetest little dog. She has a lovely nature.

Immediately Jazzer says,

What about Frank? Frank is a lovely dog too! He has a lovely nature as well.

I turn to her sympathetically and say.

Wise up you daft bitch. Can I not even say something nice about one of your dogs without you taking it as a slight against your other dog? Start drinking tea this minute!

We sure know how to party in Springhill.

Supper Time

While Nelly blogs, Bert makes the supper. Tonight we are having poached egg on toast with a side dish of grilled tomatoes and sausages.

What will Pearlie eat?

She might try a wee sausage if I peel it for her.

Pearlie cannot be having any foodstuff with a skin, a crust or a peel for she hates texture nearly as much as she hates music. Music she cannot be doing with,

I weesht ye would turn that oul dinnle aff.

She does like some music. She likes old-fashioned dirgey hymns such as 'How Great Thou Art' and she likes Scottish pipe bands. All else is dinnle.

And she likes her sausages peeled and her fish fingers shaven of breadcrumbs. She wants the crusts cut off her bread. I won't do that. Crusts cut off bread? That is just attention seeking. Since I've been giving her pan slice intacta I've noticed she eats much more of it for she nibbles right down to the crusty brown skin. That has to be a good thing.

And do you know something else? They put coverings on processed foods for a reason. Ever seen a skinned sausage? There is only one thing worse and that is a peeled fish finger. Those breadcrumbs are there for a reason. They are there to make the 'fish' look white instead of a dirty greeny-grey colour. We serve the stripped finger to Pearlie with a side of bread and butter and a cup of tea. Nice, warm tea. She  drinks her tea and eats the bread right down to the crusty brown skin. And later on the cat will eat the unwanted and unappetising fish finger. I'm going to tell Pearlie that fish fingers have been prohibited by law.

Fanad Lighthouse

Fanad, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

If you should happen to be looking for me this weekend I'll probably be on a dander to that there lighthouse.

Home Truths And Happy Birthdays

Last week was for pondering and gardening. Writing? Not so much.

A week ago Mrs Thatcher popped her clogs which made for a lot of discussion, thinking and remembering.  A friend of ours told us once that there was a bottle of champagne he intended to drink when she finally expired. On Friday I asked him if he'd done so. He said he had changed his mind, that he would not allow her to affect his present as her policies had affected his past.

Then I was presented with a home truth by my dear husband, which landed true and took root. Still thinking about that one and will write about it another time.

Then I realised that Pearlie Blue has been living with us for almost five years, not four as I'd previously thought. They do say time flies when one is enjoying oneself. It was around about this time five years ago that she fell and broke her hip. When she recovered from that (something I thought she'd never do) she moved in here. I well remember telling her that she would be coming to live with us and her reply which I thought might display some pathetic gratitude or other sentimental feeling. Not our Pearlie. Instead she snarled,

I should have been in with youse ten years ago!

I murmured something about that not really being practical. Imagine! An ambulatory Pearlie wandering about, interfering, poking in drawers, standing in the way. She was always tremendously good at being in the way and still is I suppose.

So, sowing and planting and watching Game of Thrones and Mad Men, listening to and absorbing home truths, thinking about the eighties and the eighty-somethings, going to Ikea with my darling girls and taking our darling girl Hannah out for her birthday. We ate at Spice and went to see Good Vibrations. Good film. Lot of Game of Thrones actors in it.

It is Hannah Banana's birthday today so I must finish this and go see if I can find the birthday cake candles. Not that Hannah cares but it is extremely important to Martha.

Two Down, Three To Go

It is probably ten years or more since I lumped Margaret Thatcher, the Queen, Matty, Pearlie and Ian Paisley together as a cohort. I banded them on age as they were all born within a nine month period. If Matty was feeling 'old' I'd say to her, "Have you seen the state of Paisley? He's looking his age for sure! And the harples* of him! You? You're like a lilty** yet!" Or she'd think her mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be. "Sharp! You're as sharp as a tack. Didn't you win a tenner for completing the Irish News crossword the other week? Imagine being like Maggie Thatcher. Sure she has to be told every day that Denis is dead. Wouldn't that be awful?"

And there was always Pearlie who, couldn't walk, could barely eat, had no way with her and had precious few friends. While Matty was, without doubt, the most popular woman in her road and rarely wanted company or outings.

And the Queen. "Mum, that poor woman. Sure she's great for her age and wants for nothing but she has hardly a minute to call her own and almost her entire family are on welfare! At least your kids have jobs."

Ten years ago I'd have wagered that Pearlie would go first, then Ian Paisley. After that it would be Thatcher, then Matty at 95 and the Queen at 100 or more. Instead it was Matty, the youngest of the five who was first to pass away. Now Thatcher has gone and it's happy for her I'd say. There was a recent photograph of her sitting on a park bench, in a good wool coat, wrinkled stockings and a pair of Hotter shoes on her feet. A little whippet was beside her and she was petting the dog which looked like a smaller, finer version of my Judy. I never liked Mrs T. Some part of me admired her as a person and a woman but I hated her dogma. I hated her stance on Ireland. But I loved that picture with the dog. She cannot have been all bad.

I was in hospital having Hannah when Thatcher went to war with Argentina. I was in hospital this morning when I heard of her death. Nobody seemed to care. It was just a diversion, like the Jeremy Kyle Show.

And I wondered who would be next. My prediction - Ian Paisley, then Pearlie, then the Queen. Surely Pearlie cannot outlive the Queen?

And hopefully I will outlive them all. The news from the hospital was good. So far.


* harple - limp
** lilty  - bouncing, energetic woman

A Pet Day

Bert is opening and banging shut all the cupboard doors looking for 'something nice'. He lives in hope that fairies come to our house while he is asleep and leave vol-au-vents and macaroons for him to eat in the morning. Tough luck Bertram. The only fairy in this house is the Lidls fairy and she has left you some porridge. Try not to spill dry oats all over the floor like yesterday.

Meanwhile, in a town not very far away, a friend is reading the previous paragraph, which was posted on Facebook this morning. Within the hour her husband Rod had arrived at our door bearing a selection of fancy cakes. "I heard that Bert wanted something nice to eat." He then bundled our two younger dogs into his car and took them off for an hour's walk by the River Bann. He does this a lot so dogs are always thrilled to see him. In fact, Jess has been trained mostly by Rod and his wife. Trained to the lead and being trained not to bark at strangers.

So, while our dogs are being exercised we get on with our day. Ben, our current house guest, is making wooden guns. He is only 13 so that sort of thing pleases him. I don't see the point of the end product but I do approve of his learning to use saws, drills, lathes and the like. He is supposed to be mending the lid of the hen's nest box but he'll get round to it some day.

It was a beautiful today, blue skies, soft white clouds, bird song and bees. One of our hives did not make it through the winter so only the one left. Bert rotavated and ploughed and we put in a few potatoes. I planted onions and weeded the greenhouse, Les carried on with the erection of his poly tunnel and Marty did some therapeutic potting. We ate a lot of buns.

Good Friends

A thing I have noticed as I have grown older is that the friends Nellybert have now are good people, people to cherish, people to care about.

They are all ages but mostly they are younger than us. Tonight they were 13, known from birth, 33, known since teens and early to mid forties, known for 20 years. All good people and they all love dogs.

We are blessed with our good friends,

A Dead Rat And A String To Swing It With

Bert had been cleaning and levelling the sand beds in the polytunnel. He stood back to admire his work.

Look at that! Smooth or what? You could play bowls on that!

Les says,

Or marbles. It would be a good surface for marbles.

I say,

Marbles! You never hear tell of marbles these days. The young ones wouldn't know what to make of them a-tall.

Les,

Aye. It's all sitting at computer games nowadays.

Me,

Mind you, our grandparents probably wondered why we didn't play with hoops and sticks. Or spinning tops.

Les,

They probably said – sure spinning tops aren't good enough for the young ones today. It has to be marbles for them.

Bert says,

And what about a dead rat on a string? Sure the young ones today wouldn't know what to do with a dead rat on a string.

I looked at him.

A dead rat on a string?

Aye! Don't tell me youse boys never played with a dead rat on a string.

Bert – if any of us had as much as touched a dead rat Matty would have brought us in and scrubbed us down with Dettol! What was Pearlie thinking of, letting you play with dead rats?

Sometimes I wonder if Bert's mother was fit to rear a child.

Acme Boy Scout Whistle

When Pearlie first came to live with us she wanted a whistle. She knew there was one somewhere in her hoard but, despite her niece's best efforts, it could not be located. Then she wanted the niece to buy another whistle but I put the kibosh on that notion. The very idea of being whistled at like a border collie!

In time, as I sifted and disposed of Pearlie's hoard, I came across the whistle and very nice it is too. Lovely piercing tone to it, sweet to handle and easy on the eye. I immediately checked its value on eBay and found that it wasn't worth much. I did not tell Pearlie that I'd found it which was very bad of me but, knowing her, she probably nicked it from someone in the first place. I mean to say, family of girls, where would she get a boy scout whistle, other than by going through someone's cupboards. Did I ever mention that she's a bit of a magpie? I'm convinced she is currently stealing my teaspoons. I bet her handbag is full of them for I know the cutlery drawer isn't. Thing is I'll never know until she's dead as her handbag never leaves her presence. Oh well. If collecting teaspoons makes her happy then who am I to deny her one small pleasure?

But the whistle. I try to keep it on my person so that when I get one of those unsolicited calls I can say, "Just one moment. I'll just fetch Mrs Moser," then I get Pearlie's whistle and blast it down the receiver. Bert thinks this is a horrible thing to do, people only doing their job for which they get paid a pittance. I expect he's right. I'm just not a very nice person.

Face Like A Fur Hatchet

Bert has been away for a couple of nights. He's been to a concert in Dublin and is due back today. I have been doing his morning and evening chores and looking after Pearlie. That's not a big deal except, I could not help noticing, that tending the animals is far more rewarding than tending to Pearlie. They seem pleased to see me in the morning, they relish their food with gusto and they appear happy to be alive.

Pearlie? Not so much. The first thing I do for her is put on the kettle for morning tea and a refill of her hot water bottle. Then I fix up her fire. I take a lot of care over this, my aim being to start a cheery blaze immediately. When Bert starts her fire he stirs up the ashes, throws a log on and hopes for the best. If it goes, great, if it doesn't he starts again. While I'm doing the fire I can feel her eyes on my back, glaring balefully at me. Should I look over my shoulder she will be glaring balefully. She only speaks if she wants something else done. Truly you would think I was setting the fire around her ankles in order to murder her. When I bring in her tea and bread she looks at it with disgust as if it were rank poison. The only thing that gives her a glimmer of pleasure is the hot water bottle. And this is a woman who has enjoyed a cosy warm bed, the central heating on for two hours and a gas fire before getting her cheery blaze and rubber jar.

The truth is she's always glum and she is especially glum when the darling son is away. I'll be glad to see him back. Tomorrow morning it will be him going in to see the oul' doll with the face like a fur hatchet. It will be at least an hour later than I go to her and the fire-starting will be haphazard enough. Her first word to him will be some sort of a whinge and he'll laugh it off. But I suspect that inside herself, behind the baleful looks and the whiney voice, she will be just as pleased as a Pearlie can be.

Boundaries

Bert and I went to visit Peter a couple of days ago. Peter is a guy who, after he retired, took a plot of land at our last place (Clint's place) and grew hedging liners. He was there for ten years at least, the most decent man you could imagine. Around about the time we moved up here his wife started to fail in health and about a year after we left he wound his plot up. I'm sorry to say that Clint was glad to see him go because Peter's easy-going ways that fitted so well with Nellybert did not sit as well with Clint's vision of the perfect smallholding. The difference being, I suppose, is that we like to share and Clint does not. 

We'd invited Peter to the new place but his wife's needs were more important that Peter's need for the fresh air and a bit of space to grow things. Since then Peter's wife has continued to decline and Peter himself had his own health problems. It was chastening to compare his caring role to ours. His wife has got her clock out of kilter. She sleeps for most of the day and wanders the house at night. This means that Peter has to stay up late to look after her. He does not get enough sleep or fresh air. He has no outlet, no time to himself. He has no respite.

Thinking about it since I have realised that, even though having Pearlie living with us does affect our lives, we are actually quite fortunate because she does have a routine that fits in with some semblance of a normal life. To be honest I would not tolerate it any other way. In the first few weeks after Pearlie moved in she thought it was appropriate to call on us in the middle of the night if she needed pillows adjusting or somesuch. I spoke to her plainly. I explained to her that we would only be prepared to look after her at home if she could accept that we needed an unbroken night's sleep and that if she felt she needed attention at night then the only option would be residential care.

So, after seeing what Peter calls a life, I can see that our situation with Pearlie is a far more tolerable one. She has a good mind and she knows what is what. She knows we'll look after her and she accepts that she no longer rules the roost. This is how it should be. I will need to remember that this is how it might pan out for me too. The world belongs to the people who can keep the fire going, drive to the chemist, cook the milk puddings and protect the elderly from the occasional unsympathetic carer. Which is another story altogether.

Missing Matty on Mother's Day

I have made Matty a home made Mother's Day card this year. I have made it out of pictures of her with some of the people that she loved. If I'd used pictures of all of the people she loved, those pictures would have been so many and so teeny that they should barely be seen.

A Weekend In Fanad

I went to the Fanad peninsula in Donegal over the weekend with Miss Martha, Miss Evie, their parents and Judy. We stayed in a caravan just beside Ballyhiernan Bay. It is next to a big beautiful beach which the girls loved.

I was very agitated and worried before I went but returned in a far calmer frame of mind. The only snag was the usual one, Martha will wake up at around 6 a.m. and will be very loud and noisy. Judy was not impressed. I had to tell Martha stories. My favourite was the story of a girl who lives in an empty house and each morning there is a box outside her door with something she needs. At first Martha was sensible. The girl had some basic clothing, a dog basket, a blanket and porridge.

So all the girl had to eat was porridge and every night she had to sleep in a dog basket with a really thin blanket but when she woke up in the morning there was a box outside her door. What do you think was in it?

A beautiful yellow dress.

So the next night the girl had to sleep in a dog basket with a really thin blanket and she had nothing to eat all day but porridge. The next morning she woke up cold and hungry and outside her door was a box. What do you think was in it?

A lovely pink skirt.

A fashionista in the making for sure.

Pigs Might Fly

The weather last few days has been very fine for February but I have not been able to enjoy it as I am, as they say in Norn Iron, 'dosed with the coul.'

I have noticed since I started hanging out with toddlers that I get a cold about four times a year. It used to be only about once or twice a year. Small children are germy little beasts.

Another thing I will not be able to enjoy is a quiet house for Bert is away and there is just me, Pearlie, the two cats, three dogs, 7 chickens and 5 calves. Unfortunately I am responsible for feeding all these creatures. Although the pigs, Lily and Rusty are quite capable of helping themselves. This is to be avoided and I have asked Bert to put all the pig and calf feed in a safe place. He put it in a trailer with sides down, right at the edge, good and handy for a tall pig standing on hind legs. Luckily I got to it before they did so the only way they're getting into that trailer is if they sprout wings and fly.

In fact, must go and see if they have broke out and are rampaging through the yard.

I have very high hopes that I will be feeling better tomorrow.

Postscript. Darn pigs were nowhere to be seen but they had left a trail of tumblings behind them. Pigs are rough. I eventually found them in Bert's workshop where they had broken open a big bag of peanuts intended for the birds. Perhaps they thought eating bird food would help them to fly.

Dog Visitors

Nellybert has dog visitors almost every day. They are nearly as many as our human visitors. Today we had Lucy, accompanied by Clint and Rex, accompanied by Swisser. Lucy is a very good visitor. She farms and does not be in the house much. Of course, like all farmers. when she does come indoors she brings half a yard of filth and dung in with her. Judy does not like her much. Judy was very annoyed to see Lucy riding in the cab of the tractor with Clint. She must have thought Lucy had shocking airs about herself. To console Judy I had to take her out in the van when I went to buy my wine ingredients and my Guardian.

Rex, our other dog visitor, is a sister of Jess and she greeted him as she greets all her litter mates, first by growling and snarling viciously, then by having around thirty minutes of fairly good-natured tussling and tumbling. Rex is a nice dog and much bigger than Jess but he has a sweeter temperament. Of course he shit in the kitchen and his mistress was very cross indeed. I tried to explain to Swisser that other people's houses are 'outside' to four month old dogs and she shouldn't berate him. I also told her that I'd far rather put up with the dog's poop as listen to her shrieking at him. I think she took it in good part.

What To Do When The Muse Departs

Over a week now since I committed a word to The Garden and that was merely a link to another person's blog post. That other person being my sister and that blog post being so damn good
that my poor muse was utterly devastated, became a dessicated leaf and blew away in the breeze.

But I eventually caught it, gathered it up, watered it with tears of salt and am currently trying to breathe life back into it. So while the muse fights for its life in intensive care I shall tell you what I've been doing this past week.

I ate a burger. It was sourced from my local butcher who informed me that sales of burgers have risen sharply since the tales of Tesco and Findus and the rest serving up Old Dobbin have become news. What do I think of this? I think it a disgrace and not because I object to eating horse (although I prefer not to) but because they cheat us and because welfare standards are not being met in these dodgy abattoirs. A few years ago, when things were going well and everyone felt rich because their home was worth close to half a million quid, the fields were full of horses. Now, with the price of feed sky-high, there are less of them. They had to go somewhere.

I finished watching Game of Thrones and miss it a lot. I watched the last two episodes back to back six days ago and what with the thrills and the tension, not to mention sitting in the same position (tensed up to the max) for two hours I've got a sore hip that keeps me awake most every night unless I load up on paracetamol, hot water bottles and wine.

I resisted Game of Thrones for ages even though lots of it was filmed around these parts - Ballintoy, Murlough Bay, The Dark Hedges, Shane's Castle and Tollymore. There were also a few people I know playing extras in crowd scenes. It was exciting to see my friend Danny trading vegetables with another extra in the foreground of a scene supposedly set in the Iron Islands.

I also finished listening to my latest audio book, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. It was dense and far from light and I had to listen to parts of it several times but what a book! I'll carry it with me for ever. Not literally of course because I'm not sure I even have a copy of it. My favourite character? Karenin, Without a doubt. Although I didn't like him as much in Anna Karenina. And now I have started Madame Bovary. I will, I will be well-read!

And Nellybert acquired a time-share in Donegal. How exciting is that? I told Miss Martha and Miss Evie's folks about it today and we are all very excited.

And Ben Reed is spending mid-term break with us. Quite honestly he is The. Best. Boy. Who. Ever. Lived. I might have to do a blog post on him sometime.

There is also stuff about Pearlie but it is far too dreary and awful and I don't want to talk about it. Yet.

A History

My sister wrote this. It is worth sharing.

Painting Time

Martha said,

Granny. I want to put my smock on and paint.

OK. Let's go upstairs and get the paints.

She spotted some acrylic paint.

I want those.

Those are for big people. You can have the ones you used last time. 

But I'm a big girl now. 

Well. You'll have to wear an apron as well as your smock because you wouldn't want to get paint on the new pinafore your mummy made you.

I squirted out a blob of every colour and I showed her how to mix them to make different colours. Red and white for pink, red and yellow for orange, blue and red for purple. She was very absorbed. But before long she was mixing too many colours together and I explained that she would end up with a sludgy grey or brown colour. But she was enjoying herself and I thought it best to let her learn from experience. While she was mixing her colours I  left the kitchen to get something something from the freezer. Evie and I became rather engrossed out there and I started looking for rhubarb to make another batch of wine. We were less than five minutes. When I went back to the kitchen I found that Miss Martha had created a dark, dark colour and....

...she had painted

herself!

Big girls! You couldn't take your eyes off them for a minute.

Fish Girl

Hannah and I took Judy and Jess the puppy to Waterfoot. It was Jess' first trip to the coast and she liked it a lot. The only thing is, she was not happy to share her beach. She seemed to believe that it belonged only to Nelly and all who belong to her. It will not do that she has a growl that would not shame a fully grown German shepherd. This is behaviour we will have to try to modify.

Another thing Jess liked about her beach was the number of dead fish lying around. there were dozens of them and she was happy to eat them as they were. We had to prevent her as we didn't know where they had come from. Later on an old chap told us that there had been a fishing event the previous day and the small ones were thrown back. Jess growled at this poor old fellow in a very nasty and threatening manner. She did not like the cut of his jib.

It must be strange for a small dog to be taken to the seaside and find that someone has arranged an 'all you can eat' buffet, and then not be allowed to partake of it.

It's a tough life being a dog.

In The News

Is it nearly a week since I last looked at Nelly's Garden? Sure doesn't time fly when you're enjoying yourself?

I had the Leitrim Sister up for a few days and the country wine had a very mixed reception. She caught me racking the orange and tasted it then pronounced it rank poison. The raspberry, while tasty enough, was "too strong". I suppose that is a fault of sorts.  Maybe it is too strong for I had one of those hangover thingies the next day and I didn't like it.

The weekend rushed past in a flurry of visiting and being visited. I can say without any fear of contradiction (for if you contradict me, you are just plain wrong) that a lady from Tannaghmore, formerly from Armoy, makes the best soda bread in County Antrim and probably the world.

And Liam Neeson received the Freedom of the Borough in Ballymena today. Miss Martha and her mummy appeared in the local TV news as part of the crowd that welcomed Liam to the Town Hall. I'm sure this will not be the last time Martha appears on a news programme.

 Pictures are screen shots from UTV player

Baby Bliss

Yesterday afternoon Martha and Evie came out to have fun in the snow. As the day wore on I got a bit fretful that the snow wasn't as pristine and wonderful as it had been in the morning but then I realised I was being very silly because at ages one and three snow is simply snow - magical white stuff for playing in and with.

Martha was tremendously proud of her first snowman. She ordered a carrot for his nose but the carrot store was empty. A small onion made an acceptable substitute.

Meanwhile over by the sheds where slushy puddles abound...

Snowed In!

Snowed In......

Well. Not quite. However the weather forecast yesterday was dire enough to have Bert fretting.

How will we get to the shops?

We'll walk!

How?

We'll wrap ourselves in huge layers of clothing and we'll strap rudimentary snow shoes to our feet. You'll fashion hiking poles for us and we'll have knapsacks on our backs and we'll schlep down to Cully through the snow.

I suppose we could do that.

And as we trudge along we can wave at all the normal people driving down in their cars.

Sartorial Failings

I hear that onesies are having a moment and thank God that I am past all that sort of thing. Mind you, dressing like a toddler is no new thing here in Northern Ireland. Many of our young and would-be young have been wearing hooded romper-suits for years now. This year they are often accessorised with a scarf covering the lower half of the face and a Union Jack casually draped over the outfit. Hoods are worn raised.

Bert can sometimes be spotted following the fashion. No hoodies or flags for him but he has been wearing onesies for absolute aeons. He calls them boiling (boiler) suits and he gets them from the pack man or at Killyless Stores. He just doesn't feel dressed without a boiling suit and around home he'll wear one whether at work, rest or play.

Yesterday he went to the cloakroom and pulled a boiler suit from the hook then proceeded to step into it. He had shrugged his shoulders into it and was about to start fastening the poppers when he gave a gasp of surprise. I turned from the washing up to see what was up and there he was, trying to fasten another boiler suit over the top of the boiler suit he was already wearing. See! They're like a second skin to him. He said that he couldn't understand why it was so hard to do up and thought he'd put on weight.

There was another wardrobe malfunction this morning. He is up early these mornings as he is doing civic duty. I noticed that he had on a very nice pair of trousers that I'd not seen him wear before. They fitted him beautifully. They were trousers that I'd bought him at the Marks & Spencer outlet store in Antrim and they'd hung in his wardrobe for more than a year. I complimented him on his appearance. We ate our porridge and he rose to make coffee. I couldn't help admiring how the well cut trews showed off his neat and shapely backside. Then I saw it.

Bert feel your arse!

He groped around it until he came to the big Blue Mountain cardboard label.

It's just as well I noticed that before you got there! 

I was wearing these trousers when I was there last week.

Note to self. Check husband before he leaves house unless he is having a onesie day.

Happy Birthday Get Well Soon

Happy birthday to sister Ganching. I didn't know whether to send her a birthday card or a get well card. What a rotten way to spend a birthday - in bed with 'flu.

Another Blog. Why Not?

I'm considering starting another blog on the topic of making country wines. After all, I've been doing it  for sixteen months now so I must be an expert, mustn't I?

Achievements

I have been feeling rather flat this past week. First of all there was the post-Christmas slump, then there was a nuisance of a head cold and then there was the dank and gloomy weather. Even the antics of the pup were not sufficient to pull me from the doldrums.

At this particular time Bert has to be out of the house during office hours. He is on business that must be done and I am left alone with dogs, cats, pigs and Pearlie. I told myself I had to to pull myself together. So this morning, the first morning of Bert's absence I decided to list my achievements as the day progressed. I made this decision in bed so my first achievement was -

1. Get out of bed.

This was swiftly followed by -

2. Attend to Pearlie's morning needs.
3. Attend to the morning needs of hens, pigs and dogs. Cats do not have morning needs.
4. Get out of bed. (Because I returned there after meeting the morning needs of livestock and old ladies.)

By then I had four achievements and it wasn't even ten o'clock! I can tell you that this cheered me up so much that I didn't even bother counting any further achievements.

Onwards and upwards!

Happy New Year Now I Am Old

Read somewhere today that old age officially begins when one is 59 years old, two months and two weeks. That was, for me, the 23rd November, 2012.

I think I can live with it. After all, what's the alternative?

Happy New Year to everyone, young and old.