In Which The Piano Is Rolled To The Shed

We never did get that piano tuned. There was no point anyway for I had nowhere to put it but the sun room and it was plonked far too close to the wood burning stove. Today Young Loveheart, Rod and Bert rolled it to the shed, the one I call a workshop and Bert calls the Pruta Shed even though the amount of pruta (potatoes) currently stored there only amounts to three baskets of Sarpo Mira. Miss Martha will not be pleased about the removal of the piano although she will still be able to bash away at it in the Pruta Shed.

I see from my previous blog entries that we've had the piano for three years. It was first mentioned in the following entry when I was enjoying a rare opportunity to have the house all to myself. It seems too that Bert still has the outstanding matter of that unfinished ranch fencing to consider. I'll mention it to him tomorrow.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Home Alone

I'm home alone. Pearlie has gone to one of her regular respite placements so that means two whole weeks without a batallion of carers tramping in and out. And it is also two weeks without her constant griping and complaining. It is a chance for Bert and I to have a taste of what it must be like to live as a couple in privacy and peace. Eight whole weeks a year we get of this and I know that makes us very fortunate people.

As I said I'm home alone. Bert has gone off to Malin Head with a couple of friends. I hope they get reasonable weather and aren't blown off the Head. I've been left with the chickens, the dogs, the pigs and the cats - not too burdensome. Clint has been left with the cattle. I'm supposed to be watching and listening for one of the heifers 'looking away' but we're not holding out much hope. The beast has had numerous goes with A.I. and a good run with the bull and she just can't catch. Clint came in to talk about it. He knows Pearlie isn't here so I've got nobody to moan at me.

Huh! The only place that one will be looking away at is the abattoir. She's far too big a baste to be keeping as a pet.

I interpret this as a dig at the kune kunes but I do not react. He goes on.

Aye! It's the freezer for her, no question about it.

I'm sure he'd like me to get sentimental about her so he can come over all manly and practical and farmerish but I do not give him a chance. He goes on,

Did Bert ever get the bags sorted out for the butcher?

I concur that if he did, I have not been informed of it.

Huh! He's an easy-going boy waltzing off to Donegal in this weather and no worries about the butcher! And in November! Sure it's wild up there! He has little or no sense. I don't know what would take him up to Malin Head at this time of the year!

I remark that I thought the break would do him good and mention that we've got a piano.

Aye! I saw that. I don't know what you thought you needed that for. Huh! What with that oul squeaky clarinet and dinnilin' away on an oul out of tune piano that'll hardly do him much good. It would answer him a lot better to finish that ranch fencing he started.

I have to agree that Bert has a rather dilatory attitude to general chores.

Well! I'm away down to get my own livestock foddered and in before it's too dark to see.

I bid him goodnight.

When he is gone I say to the dogs for there is no one else to say it to,

Y'know – there are a lot of things that Bert is good at, that Clint is not.

And I smile a little smile to myself.

On Sisters

It is with a heavy heart that I pack my little case and head for County Leitrim to visit one of my multi-talented sisters. The reason? I've just read this. And there was no mention of me.

Sibling rivalry... it never dies.

I'm sure if she had racked her brains she'd have thought of something!

Most home-made wine in Cullybackey?
Best granny in the world?
Gets up 5 minutes earlier every day?
Awesome pastry?
GSOH?

Seriously though, I'm proud of them too.

Weekend Plans

Today I planted tulip bulbs. My sister said, is it not too late, will they grow? And I replied, they will have a better chance in the garden than in my kitchen drawer.

I'm in a reflective mood and am trying to get my life back on track, starting with getting up times. Since Pearlie died I had drifted into being a slug-a-bed and, at this time of the year when daylight hours are short, it makes sense to get up before nine. I do what I always do, set my alarm 5 minutes earlier every day. The hens are pleased.

I have also decided to eat less biscuits and take a daily walk.

In December I plan to blog every day so that my loyal readers can share in my Christmas planning. Prepare to be very impressed.*

This weekend I will be getting on a bus and travelling to Enniskillen and will be accompanied by two young girls aged 3 and 5. At Enniskillen we will be met by Leitrim Sister who will take us to her lovely home among the rushes. The older of the two girls wasn't going to go as she informed her mother that,

Teacher doesn't allow us to take holidays in term-time.

We explained that weekends don't count. Bert is not too heart-broken to be left by himself for two whole days.






*Impressed at my lackadaisical attitude.

Pottery, Porcelain & Glass

Bert has been forbidden to put anything in the attic.

If you want something taken up there, leave it by the stairs and I'll take it up.

Why? Because he just dumps things there willy-nilly on top of all the other stuff and I have to move it to get to the stuff I want. He's been storing outgrown children equipment such as buggies, stair gates and so on for we're hoping for more grandchildren some day. I've been digging out china, and pretty cushions and knick knacks that have been up there since Pearlie moved in with us. For my new room you see. The new room that I keep going on about.

You can be certain sure that Bert will not pay a blind bit of notice to my instructions that he keep out of the attic. He agrees with me, then does exactly as he pleases and I have to admit I do admire him for it.

Bringing out the china has awakened my interest in it and I found myself drawn to a vintage coffee set in a Ballymena charity shop. It looked in very good condition considering it must be close to a century old.

Royal Doulton Duveen 'Syren'

Sadly I could not afford it as it was priced at £395! There aren't as many bargains to be found in charity shops these days, not since the people who work there discovered eBay and the prices that some collectors are prepared to pay.

But I did have a happy find in Portglenone a few days later. I have a few bits and pieces of Poole Pottery Dorset Fruits. It's modern but I like it. I'd been poking about and was about to leave empty handed when the nice lady said,

Do you like these plates?

Four Poole Pottery, Dorset Fruits dinner plates, the apple pattern. How much did she want for them? Fifty pence each.

Now if I only have six adults and two children for Christmas there will be plates enough. Six apples, a pear and a bunch of grapes.

Starved

I was brought up in a family where breast feeding was the norm. I had been breast fed myself, I'd seen all my six brothers and sisters breast fed and it never occurred to me to do anything else.

Back when I had my children feeding one's child oneself was not the norm and midwives did not seem to encourage it. Nevertheless I persevered and it all went well for me. There were no problems, my little ones thrived and that thing called 'baby weight' melted away in no time.

As time passed I found out more about my own and Matty's early experiences. My mother let the odd thing drop and eventually it all became clear. She had a difficult breech birth with me and did not recover well. She felt isolated and unsure of how to deal with her first child. I was very underweight and she struggled with nursing. As her anxiety increased, she neglected to nourish herself and consequently I was starving at the breast. She told me that there were fierce District Nurses who called very often such was their concern for this baby that failed to thrive.

Then my Aunt Sarah visited. She had a son six months older than me. He was a giant baby, dark curls, the fattest chubby cheeks, a great lump of a well-fed infant. Aunt Sarah was horrified to see the scrawny thing that Matty had produced.

Give that child a bottle! Thicken it with Farex. Put sugar in it.

Matty did as her sister said and I started to thrive. Got chubby. But I never, ever forgot that early starving. All my life I have wanted more food. At times of anxiety I just want to eat and I especially want to eat starchy, sugary things. I must have adored those thickened, sweetened bottles of milk.

I've been thinking about this recently for I've gained weight. Again. I can't stop eating. And that cousin? The one who never knew hunger in his entire life? You should see him now. He's as lean as a whippet and a right handsome devil.

All Dogs Welcome

Nellybert likes to give a warm welcome to dogs and their owners, even when the number of four-legged visitors may seem excessive. Today we had just the five canine callers.

photo by Zoe Bowyer

Gracie and Maya brought their entire family with them. And stayed for dinner. Gracie likes to assist me in the kitchen when I'm cooking. Her job is to deal with spills. I am a careless cook and often drop morsels  and crumbs on the floor as I go.

As well as their family, they also brought....

photo by Hannah Bowyer

Ziggy! Today is Hannah's college day so Ziggy is sleeping over. He looks rather splendid in that picture does he not?

Sadly Ziggy missed Fly's visit. He and his master had called earlier in the day.

From this picture, taken by Miss Hannah a few weeks ago, you can tell how much Ziggy looks up to his good friend Fly.

And then there was Poppy. Eight weeks old and visiting Nellybert for the very first time.

A little Jack Russell terrier who wouldn't stay still for a second. She got on well with everyone, even the cats and she peed on the spare bed, my fault for putting her on it. I do hope we will be seeing lots more of her.

Two seconds after this snap there was puppy pee on the Ikea bedspread. Who cares!

The Stack Garden

Bert generally does not tell me things. So I wasn't a bit surprised yesterday when a large truck containing stones arrived on the yard. As Bert thinks receiving a load of stones an important task accomplished it would therefore be deserving of a cup of tea. When he came into the kitchen I attempted to engage him in conversation.

What are the stones for?
Och!
No. Tell me what they're for.
Tssk!
Just tell me. Other husbands tell their wives things.
The back garden!

And off he stomped clutching his cup of tea in hand.

Did I ever mention that he's not really a morning person?

I pondered this information. The back garden? We have various areas around the house that could be described as garden but I wasn't sure which he meant. And why would he be needing stones for it? Gardens are my department too. I deserve to be consulted.

I broached the subject again the next time he came in for refreshments (thirty minutes later).

So, exactly where is this back garden you speak of? Back of where?
I didn't say back garden. I said stack garden.
Stack garden?
Yes. Every farm has a stack garden.
Where's ours?
Round the back. Where the pigs are.
Bert – In nearly thirty years I have never once heard you call any part of this place the stack garden. Have you just made that up?

I have to say here that the naming of places is something we argue about discuss often.

Bert went on to argue that this area, which I call the pig paddock, has always been referred to as the stack garden and that if I had been brought up on a farm, as I claim, then there would have been a stack garden.

And what would this stack garden be used for?
For stacks.
What kind of stacks?
Hay! Corn! Logs!
No. We had sheds for those and the hay was baled and stored in a hay shed.

He continued to insist that all farms had stack gardens and I argued that stack gardens were all in his head or else something only hill-billies know about.

Currently his names for fields are,

The Field Across The Road

The Meadow

The Corner Field

The Hall Field

The First Hill

The Second Hill

The Third Hill

The Big Hill

He claims not to remember the names of the six fields planted in trees apart from The Whinny Field. These fields are now known as The Trees. I pressed him on this and he managed to recall that two of them had been referred to as,

The Wee Field On The March With Gregg's

The Boag Field

Boag Field. Do you mean bog?
It rhymes with doag*. So what did you ones call a boag then?
We called it The Moss and cut turf in it. We didn't make a field out of it.
Youse were that grand out at Tannaghmore.
We were.

I'm certain sure that when I met Bert he didn't speak of doags, boags or stack gardens. And he used to (I think) tell me things so when the man from the quad bike shop pulled into the yard this morning I thought he wanted to buy a tree, or perhaps he was looking for directions. But no. Bert has bought a quad bike. And never said.

*doag - dog

Happy Birthday Evie!

That wasn't a bad weekend. We had a delightful night out with the Banjos, Jazzer cooked breakfast and Banjo Man finished the decorating. We had the Little Misses for a sleepover and that overlapped with the Banjos. Evie took a great shine to Jazzer and when I was leaving them home the next day referred to her as,

My best friend Jazzer that I like.

On Sunday morning Martha demonstrated her ballet skills on the newly varnished floor while I made a little film, I cannot share as I have temporarily mislaid the lead that connects iPad to PC. Nellybert filmed both girls prancing about for exactly one minute and fifty-seven seconds and when we left to rejoin our rapidly cooling cups of coffee Martha cried,

I need an audience!

She is going places for sure.

I also made a pleasant discovery. When Enid Blyton is writing about Brer Rabbit she can be quite entertaining.

Today was Miss Evie's third birthday. I suppose in a way it still is but, as  I understand she is currently tucked up in bed wearing new birthday jammies, that is it for her until her Big Four in 2015.

Happy Birthday Evie!

Going Out

Nellybert are going out with the Banjos tonight. For a meal. Jazzer phoned at lunch time and suggested it and, as always, my first impulse was to refuse.

Go out? To eat? I'd much rather stay home, wash down the bookshelves, clean the spice rack, bottle the elderberry, watch Last Tango in Halifax, bicker with Bert, eat toast, then go to bed with the iPad and a Sudoku puzzle.

But I gave myself a good mental shake and said,

Go out? To eat? We'd love to.

Changing Rooms

Bert and I have been busy bees this last few days. He is working on a wall unit for Young Rooney and is quite obsessed by it. Then, in the evenings, he spends an hour or so sanding down the wooden floor in what was previously Pearlie's room. It will return to what it was, my own sitting room. I'm looking forward to it. I will have an open fire, rugs and cushions. We can't have cushions in the sun room as it opens on to the yard and the dogs and Bert and the visitors carry all the dirt of the day in there. And for some reason all the cushions end up on the floor. Bert has just one left and it is covered in sawdust. My sitting room will be a haven of comfort and cleanliness. I told Bert so and he disputed it but he will see.

Meanwhile I've been cleaning and sorting. I have found my long lost passport and all my nicest cushion covers. I have went through my gigantic ironing pile and recycled at least half of it. That's one way to cut down on the ironing.

A young friend called today and I brought her in to see the progress and she was amazed at the amount of books on the shelves. She asked if I'd read them all and I had to admit that I hadn't. I told her that I started collecting books in the early seventies and that back then I used to put my name in them and the date I acquired them. I picked up an ancient Penguin and opened it to show, in my best juvenile handwriting, that it was named and dated 3/3/73. Over forty years on my shelves and still to be read.

The Country Girls

I have been to Belfast twice this week and I may go again tomorrow.  On Tuesday Bert and I went to Smithfield Market, then to the outskirts to collect some flagstones from a friend. We got a little bit lost on the way back but in a good way. Getting lost is just another way to see new places.

I went yesterday with Bert's cousin, the one formerly known as Pearlie's favourite niece. She had a medical appointment but, to make it more fun, we went up early to check out the vintage stores on Botanic Avenue and get a bite of lunch. I chose a cafe that specialised in Middle Eastern food and, I am sorry to say, we were served by a waitress who thought it amusing to mock favourite cousin's strong accent.

You're a wee country woman aren't you?

She then proceeded to speak in an accent that she thought approximated FC's. It was rather awkward. I expect we should have complained bitterly but then we country women aren't like that. Not nice wee women like FC and Nelly anyway. I took a dry tone with her and FC lightly remarked that she hadn't expected to be insulted. Our server realised that she had overstepped and was the soul of politeness and attentiveness thereafter. Despite it all I enjoyed the food (FC didn't) and I might go back.

I seriously considered leaving a complaint on the cafe's Facebook page this morning but decided against it. I liked everything about the place except the server's unprofessional attitude. McCooeys are hoors for slagging country folk. I'll be ready for her next time. If she's still there.

Family Meal

Nellybert have the decorators in. Well, to be honest, just the one decorator, Banjo Man, and he keeps breaking off to drink Guinness and play his banjo. I'm not complaining. He is doing a wonderful job and we're not even paying him. So the house is a bit upside down. It didn't help that I pulled all my wine out to do stuff with it and that Bert has been on lock down in his shed building a dog house for Jazzer's incontinent dog. Working man suppers had to be made (lots of meat and potatoes) and, consequently, I'm rather behind with household chores.

Today I'd planned a Family Meal. And I needed Bert to help me prepare. Bert, when he takes the notion, is a good focused cleaner. He likes to throw things out, he likes to lecture me on how my cleaning routines are haphazard and inefficient. He cleaned the scullery, threw lots of things out, spent at least 40 minutes in it. Meanwhile I haphazardly and inefficiently cleaned the rest of the house, baked a cake, made fifteen scones, a stack of sandwiches and mopped the scullery floor. That's teamwork.

London Sister is visiting. We also had Martha, Evie and their parents, Hannah Banana and three family dogs. Family Meals are great. They consist of a lot of different kinds of food, mismatched fancy china and a family.   Zoe brought terrible things from Ikea, herrings and Swedish blood sausage. Bert and Dave fell on them with glee. I tried not to look as I concentrated on my scone, piled high with Les' delicious damson jam and whipped double cream. The cake was a triumph. It was an apple sponge made with a combination of Les apples and Lidl apples. It actually fell apart when I was removing it from its dish (should have lined it) but I managed to piece it together and joined it at the seams with runny icing.

From now on Family Meals shall be the order of the day.

Afterwards the girls brushed their teeth and put on pyjamas all the better to be straight up the stairs and a bedtime story as soon as they got home. Then we took some photographs. I was in such a good mood that I even forgave London Sister for looking every bit as young as my children.

Shared Space

Eighteen demijohns of home made wine sitting on the kitchen island and one of hard cider which has started to ferment. Yippee! I have made an important list. Four demijohns needing racking and three needing bottled. 

I was hoping Bert would go out tonight so I could make a start on the wine and then clean the floors but he has chosen to stay at home to finish some decorating. How could I complain. This is going to be my own wee sitting room. Banjo Man is helping him. I am a very fortunate woman indeed. So far, I haven't had to lift a finger. It used to be a sitting room and we had just got it the way I wanted it when Pearlie needed to move in. This was something I wasn't expecting but I am sure it was at the back of Bert's mind all along.

I said to him the other day,

We're each going to have our own sitting room! 

Aye.

And we  already have our own bedrooms.

Aye.

We could have a bathroom each if we wanted.

Aye.

This marriage is going to last forever!

I'd Rather (Not) Go Blind

For a while now I haven't been able to enjoy looking at the heavens. Even on the clearest night the stars would not stay still for me. When buzzards flew above this house, which they often do, I've not been able to see them as sharply as previously. Looking into the distance seemed to strain my eyes. Using binoculars did not help. I couldn't get them to focus. Maybe it was time to get stronger spectacles?

Yesterday while driving into town I thought my glasses were fogged over and, while stopped at traffic lights, cleaned them. I picked up Hannah and on the way home it felt as if my lens was dirty. I knew it wasn't. I closed my left eye and all was fogged, closed the right, could see clearly. Closed the left again and it was as if my lens was smeared with Vaseline. I made an appointment with my optician when I got home and saw her today. I have a well advanced cataract in my right eye. A year's wait for free treatment. I'm not sure what to do.

Only the other day I was thinking that the quality of recent photographs had deteriorated. No wonder! I've been using a half blind eye to focus them.

When I left the optician I felt so sorry for myself. Ten pounds heavier than I was, penniless, going blind, sore achey shoulders, getting old. I had to give myself a mental shake. Sure if I lived a hundred years ago there wouldn't even be any treatments, never mind free treatments! I have options. I spent the rest of the day rooting up sunflowers, preparing my garlic bed and chatting to the younger generation. And the younger generation told me that their grannies have all had cataract operations and are doing just fine.

Adventures In Cider Making

At primary school one of the stories in our Wide Range Readers was Johnny Appleseed. As I remember, Johnny was presented as a jolly hobo who wandered the length and breadth of America with bags of apple seeds which he planted everywhere for no reason other than benevolence. And this is how Johnny Appleseed is generally known. I never gave him another thought until I read The Botany of Desire: A Plant's-Eye View of the World by Michael Pollan.

Pollan's work shows how people and domesticated plants have formed mutually beneficial relationships. His chosen plants are the apple – our desire for sweetness, the tulip – for its beauty, marijuana – which intoxicates us and the potato which nourishes us. Each of these plants has thrived through selective breeding and genetic engineering. It was a fascinating read which I'd recommend to anyone who takes pleasure in growing – anything!

The section I enjoyed the most was the one on our desire for sweetness and apples. Pollan had a lot to say about Johnny Appleseed or, to give him his true name, John Chapman. The tale I had from school was over simplified. John Chapman was a fascinating man. But he didn't just wander around the United States planting seeds willy-nilly. He planted nurseries of apple saplings and sold them to farmers. When a nursery was established he left it in the hands of a manager and moved on, planted another nursery and continued in this pattern. He made a decent living. Now an interesting fact about apples is that they don't grow true from seed. Indeed, if you were to take an apple and plant the several seeds that it contained, each seedling would be entirely different from the others. And most would be sour. Apple trees that produce sweet fruit may only be propagated by grafting. So the vast majority of John Chapman's trees would have produced sour fruit. So why did people buy them in such large numbers? Because sour apples are just what is needed to produce hard cider and applejack. Our reading book never mentioned that.

Which brings me to my own recent experiment. I've been wanting Bert to make a cider press for ages but he has yet to get round to it. So I was rather pleased when a friend sent me a link to a method of producing cider without using a press. I gathered my apples, a mixture of Bramleys, crabs and dessert apples. Mostly Bramleys as they are what I have at hand. They are not ideal for cider but it is just an experiment.

The recipe uses a juicer instead of a press and we happen to have a sturdy masticating juicer which makes it easier still.

Hard Cider From Whole Apples

What You’ll Need:

• Apples, pears, or crab apples (to be mixed with sweet apples.)  About 15 lbs. of fruit gets us about a gallon of juice.  Must be fresh and organic.  Try to include some crab apples or tart apples with your sweet ones for a better, more balanced flavour.
• A juicer. 
• A chopping knife and cutting board.
• A large sieve and a clean kitchen towel.
• Demijohns, a funnel, a siphon hose, rubber bungs and airlocks.
• Sugar
• Swing-top bottles

Method:

1. Wash your fruit well with plain water. 
2. Cut your apples into quarters.  This is mostly just to check for bugs or other issues with the apples.  Discard or cut around any that have an infested core, and cut out major bruises. You don’t need to worry about coring or taking stems out– the juicer will do that for you.
3. Start juicing!  As your juicer pitcher gets full, pour it through a funnel into a sterilized demijohn.
4. Once you have juiced all of your fruit, taste the juice and add sugar.  At least a cup of sugar to a gallon of juice, more if you like sweet cider.  During the fermentation process, the yeast will eat the sugar (both the fructose from the fruit and the added sugar) and turn it into alcohol– so this step is both for flavour and alcohol level.  Those of you in the USA may not really need to add much sugar, as most of the apples there tend to be really sweet.  You can add more sugar later if the brew is turning out too dry or tart for your taste.
5. Put a rubber stopper and an airlock on your demijohn, and let it sit for a week.
6. Rack your cider– siphon it into another sterilized demijohn, leaving the yeasty sediment in the bottom of the first one, so you have a much cleaner cider in the new demijohn.  Taste it and see how it’s doing.  If it’s already tasting pretty dry, you can add some more sugar before you put the airlock back on.
7. For a sweet cider, bottle after a week. Three weeks or more makes a drier end product. Fermenting it this long means that it won’t be very fizzy in the end– but you can also add a little sugar just before bottling to regain some carbonation.  The next step is to bottle your hard cider.  Use the siphon hose to fill swing-top bottles. The type of bottle is really important, since it lets out small amounts of the pressure that builds up, so you don’t burst any bottles.

For those of you in Northern Ireland all the specialist equipment needed can be purchased at Hillstown Farm Shop near Ahoghill (and Randalstown) or Nature's Way in Belfast.

The Devil Makes Three "Old Number 7"

Banjo Man was the first person, actually the only person, who enthused (raved) about this band. Last night he made me watch this video on YouTube and I have to admit I was impressed. Banjo Man and his band Dogg Ruff String Band  have been doing their own version of Old Number 7 for a while now so I've heard the song a few times.

There was this other band too... racking my brain now. Phoning Jazzer now. Futurebirds. Now I know why Banjo Man has grown a long beard. He is going all modern Americana. I think he even has a Pinterest page of decorated beards on the go. Can't wait until he is plaited, beflowered and beaded for it will certainly dilute his current White supremacist look.

Is that not a darling beard? The wonderfully named Cooper McBean who plays tenor banjo and guitar with The Devil Makes Three.

Morning Pages

I am so behind with everything including blogging. One thing I am way ahead of is contact with family and friends, and that has to be more important that chores, hobbies and blogging. Isn't it? I maybe should check the polytunnel today to see if anything has died.

During the week I did find a moment to read Oliver Burkeman's column in the Guardian Saturday magazine. I found the idea intriguing and discussed it with my sister asking her if she'd read it or, if she'd even heard of it. Turns out she had and had found it a very helpful exercise when she was going through a hard time. So, I began. Matty always said that her children followed each other 'like sheep'. But I'd say that if one of the sheep has found a good way of being, why not follow her?

Three days in and I'd forgotten how difficult it is to write longhand. My wrists and shoulders ache. My first insight? I hate the shelves and wardrobe in my room. I suppose I'll have to do something about that.

Right now I am writing this on an iPad and the weight of it is killing me. More blogging tomorrow. Devil Makes Three on YouTube.  When did my life get so exciting?

Insider Knowledge

I have just finished watching the first two series of House of Cards. Essentially, as far as politics go, it was complete toodle but, as a drama, it was  tremendously enjoyable. The acting, particularly the two leads Spacey and Wright, was tremendously good. Kevin Spacey has created a marvellous, Machiavellian villain.

So that's me a-waitin' on my next fix of House of Cards and Game of Thrones. And speaking of Game of Thrones, Season 5 has been shooting recently here in Northern Ireland. I'm not enough of a geek to know if location shooting is still going on but I am enough of a geek to have enjoyed a recent conversation with one of the extras. He wasn't able to tell me about what was going to happen, said that if he did he'd be contractually obliged to kill me but he did tell me about some of the previous season's shoots. For instance, y'know that highly erotic scene back in Season 1 where Daenerys Targaryen first got it properly together with Khal Drogo? They were actually supposed to be glamping in a luxury yurt befitting a warlord. Where the romantic pair actually were was in a cowshed somewhere in Buckna.

I was unable to pick my informant out in his scenes in the actual show. He said he was the one with the big black bushy beard. Not helpful. Not helpful at all.

Once upon a time in Buckna

Stroke City Again

Every year I hope for a decent summer and wish for an Indian summer. This year my hopes and wishes came true. At the back of my mind I worry that this is climate change in action then, being sensible, remember that climate change and the weather are different things. Still, it is good to know that fine summers are not a thing of the past.

The hedgerows are loaded with berries and, as always, I've been out picking blackberries, I've not had to walk further than ten minutes from the house to gather pounds and pounds of them. Stretching for the juiciest berries, always high in the hedge, is doing wonders for my stiff shoulders. It's a bitter sweet thing gathering blackberries for I'm loaded with memories of my younger days and remembering 2012, gathering berries for consolation as my dear cousin Joe lay dying.

I hope the Indian summer continues into October as we expect many family visitors. Ganching is doing a tour of Ireland and Vancouver Brother will be here in just over a week. He is including London and France in his grand tour. Leitrim Sister will be popping up at some point, London Sister is expected near the end of the month and everything would be complete if Kerry Sister could make Antrim this side of Christmas.

And I've just had daughter Katy and her husband to stay. It was little more than a long weekend but still a delight to have them. On Tuesday we went to Derry on the train. It was rather a dull day but we were able to appreciate the spectacular scenery between Coleraine and the Maiden City, described by Michael Palin as “one of the most beautiful rail journeys in the world”.

We visited the murals in the Bogside and Mark was taken aback to see graffiti stating 'Brits Out.' Katy was quick to reassure him that this didn't apply to the average Englishman, rather to the British state and government. I'm not certain that he was completely consoled by this knowledge.

Katy and Mark in the Craft Village

Derry is not a big city and the part within its walls is small too. We visited Bedlam and I noted that the crocheted and knitted cladding is looking less vibrant than before. The weather takes its toll. The Bernadette mural in the Bogside is in need of restoration too. Before Derry became the City of Culture many of its buildings were dilapidated and overgrown with buddleia. Now there are signs of a return to dilapidation. Despite this I love Derry, I love its history and I love its vibrancy. Some say that it is a violent city by night but I find its people to be incredibly welcoming and friendly.

On the way home we sat on the other side of the train, the side that does not look out to the sea and instead admired the hills. A worthwhile visit for sure and I look forward to going back very soon.

Places we enjoyed visiting in Stroke City.

Derry's Walls

St Augustine's Church

The Craft Village

The Guildhall

Bedlam

The Bogside Murals

Stag's Horn Sumach

I saw a few of these when I was driving Katy and Mark to the airport and it made me wish I still had Stag's Horn Sumach growing in my garden. The one in the picture was in my last garden (now Clint's) and he, of course, ripped it out. Before he did so I planted up three or four suckers and they were growing well. I left them in the poly tunnel among Bert's climbers. They went missing and I believe some one stole them. It happens occasionally. We might not spot a few missing clematis but when it is something of mine, I notice.

I stopped in Antrim to check a few garden places but no Stag's Horn. At home I checked my new Chiltern Seeds catalogue and discovered that I can get seeds. Joy and happiness. Next year I am hoping to start enough perennials and shrubs from seed that will give me enough of a surplus that I can sell to cover the cost of the seed, maybe even make a small profit.

We did go to Derry yesterday and I'll write about it soon. I miss Katy so much.

Fun With Cardboard

I have had the pleasure this weekend of the company of all my children and grandchildren. Yes folks - my darling Katkin and her husband are visiting from Norfolk. It's a whole year since I've seen her. Tomorrow we are going to Derry. There will be photographs. Until then here are some photographs.

What ever can Aunt Katy be pushing in the NinkyNonk? Dave knows but Jess doesn't.

My word! Small children. Someone needs to inform the Health and Safety Executive without delay.

Martha might be deciding that all she wants for Christmas this year is a selection of large cardboard boxes. Who needs toys?

A Significant Date

Seamus as a young boy

I'm not one of those women who gets upset if the husband forgets the wedding anniversary. I usually forget it myself. It was only yesterday that I had to go to the filing cabinet to check the actual date of Nellybert's 2008 marriage for a form I was completing. That anniversary was less than a month ago and, as usual, I forgot it for I've far better things to be thinking of.

And I'm far more likely to remember my parents' birthdays than the date of their deaths. Birthdays have had longer to get lodged in the part of my mind that records such things. Daddy's birthday was exactly one week after my own and when I was a child I thought that made me special. We were both September, both Virgos. I was his first born child and considered myself his early birthday present. That is the conceit of small children - I see it in my own grandchildren and think it very sweet.

Seamus and Katy

I was 27 when he was my age and thought him very aged indeed. His two grandchildren, my first and second born were six and nearly two. His other five grandchildren, including my own youngest, were still to come. Daddy adored small children. Like many of his generation he found teenagers difficult. He wasn't the easiest father when we were growing up. He was hard to talk to and we thought he was rather a bear, a grizzly bear. I think one of my sisters called him Badger but not to his face. No matter what we did, he was always there for us, always ready to help, always prepared to rescue us from whatever scrapes we found ourselves in. And the curious thing was that the greater the wrongdoing the less he had to say about it. Although I made him cry on more than one occasion. I used to be ashamed of that.

This is the anniversary of the day he was born. Happy birthday Daddy. You were a wonderful father and grandfather.

Judy and Coco

Four years ago we picked Judy from a litter of motherless pups. We were told that they were a cross between a collie bitch and a chocolate Labrador. Although I have my doubts about the Labrador part. Judy looks more like a lurcher than anything.

Most of the pups were the typical black and white border collie type but there were just two that were milk chocolate brown and white and it was those two that caught my eye. I had one of them in my arms. Sniffing that glorious puppy smell and kissing its adorable, silky ears. This is the one, I said to Bert.

Then I looked at the other brown and white one. The black and white ones did not stand a chance! I set brown number one down and picked up number two, smelt its puppy delectableness and felt its soft and silky ears. No, it's this one!

And that one it was.

I heard, although I'm not certain it is true, that Judy was the only one of the litter homed direct and that the remainder of the pups went to a rescue centre.

A few years back we spotted the picture in the local paper. And thought that Coco looked a lot like Judy. We wondered if she could possibly be the other brown and white pup. Then, while going through Pearlie's bits and pieces we saw that she had clipped the picture and kept it. Bert is convinced that Coco is Judy's long lost brown and white sister. I wonder....

Judy

Granny

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

Posted on Facebook August 2014

Linford, Sallagh Braes and the surrounding area

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

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

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

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

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

Johnny, Jeannie and their first born son

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

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

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

Granny at the Pumps

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

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

Sallagh Braes

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

Carrot and Orange Wine

It's been ages since I've blogged about my wine making activities. The truth is I've been too busy growing fruit and vegetables to have time for making wine and, like last summer, I've rather neglected the wines already started. Five months and nothing racked, nothing progressed. I'm beginning to realise that. for me,  wine making is going to be an autumn and winter pastime.

Carrot & Orange

10/05/13

29/05/13

20/10/13

23/11/13

26/01/2014 & 7/04/2014

03/09/14

2nd R -heavy sediment/3rd R: Heavy albumin bloom decanted out topped with cider & water

Still, the freezer is full of peaches, all colours of currants, rhubarb and raspberries. The damsons look like they are going to crop well this year and the hedgerows are full of blackberries. It's been four months since I laid anything new down but, I promise, I'll make up for it.

And so it was I bottled the Carrot and Orange. Started in May 2013, racked 5 times and bottled tonight. It is drinkable already. Nellybert shared a couple of glasses tonight. Too soon but we are reckless fools.

Carrots always make good wine. My experiments with pineapples, pears, oranges and strawberries are over. From now on I shall concentrate on the fruit and vegetables that make dry and palatable wines. I know I used a dash of orange in this one but it was juice only, no rind. Wines with rind included tend to give me a headache so no more of that.

Sixteen months from start to bottle. Too long but the wine is yummy. A friend, Emma, gave me loads of sultanas today. Carrot and sultana wine coming up!

A Cake For Music Night

Peaches. We had so many peaches this year. I took the last of the fruit off the trees today. Our trees are growing in the poly tunnel and we are learning to manage them as we go along. I pollinate by hand in early spring. Peach blossoms early when there are not many helpful insects around. There must be some though because I don't hand pollinate the two trees that Bert is attempting to train in a fan shape. They cropped but not heavily. The third year the top of the free standing tree broke under the weight of the ripening fruit and we lost half the crop. This year I did extensive thinning, the tree remained intact and the crop was wonderful.

Les Bamber's wonderful picture of peach blossom taken in our poly tunnel in 2012.

Anyone who came to the house got a bag of peaches, I froze a lot for cooking and wine (peaches make a delicious wine) and made a quite a few desserts.

Tonight, our turn to host music night, I made a cake. It's the easiest cake ever. I used sliced peaches but there are lots of alternatives such as apples, raspberries, plums, anything fruity and juicy.

Ingredients

100g butter
100g caster sugar
150g plain flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon vanilla extract (use cinnamon if using apples)
2 eggs
100ml milk
A quantity of sliced peaches (I used five/six)

Method

Melt the butter and let it cool slightly. Add everything else except the fruit. Mix to a batter. I used a hand held mixer. Add the fruit and add the mixture to a standard sized, greased pie dish. Bake at 190 degrees for 30 minutes then cover with greaseproof paper and bake a further 15 minutes.

Tonight I lined my pie dish with greaseproof paper to make for easier slicing. The music night boys loved it. Brendan is after the recipe and Rod dreamed of custard. I know what's for dessert next time he comes for supper. Les said I shouldn't tell anyone how easy it was to put together, but you know me, honest as the day is long.

Now the next thing is to top the free standing tree as it is brushing the roof of the poly tunnel. According to the books pruning should be done in February. Must get that on my list of Things To Do.

The fruit in this picture is very pretty but it should have been thinned. This was Clint's tree and it broke in half that year. It never recovered.