Birthday Presents

Oh but this was a beautiful day. I spent the morning shopping for birthday presents. Zoe's belated and Martha's coming. The rest of the day I spent in the garden, clearing, weeding and sowing. It was blissful.

I wasn't working on this part today even though parts of it are pretty ropey. There is still too much going on and I like looking at it from afar. There are cauliflowers in there which the cows will be eating and there are runner beans at the back. They are really late this year. I harvested some for our dinner tonight and enjoyed them very much.

And I thought a great deal about my father today for this would have been his birthday. A Virgo, like Zoe, like Martha and myself. We are all earth signs, all like grubbing about in good loamy earth. Daddy might not have been interested in growing flowers and vegetables but he was a true horny-handed son of the soil. Happy birthday old fellow.

Photograph by Patricia Moriarty

Honey and Flour

Our chickens took quite a scattering this summer. Apart from the depredations of the fox we had another one died last weekend, probably from some sort of a respiratory infection. The vet was in the yard on Friday morning and Bert had every intention of getting her to look at it after she had finished testing the cattle, but she started talking about trees and headed off to look at what Bert had available and by the time he'd closed a gate or two she was off and away.

My advice was that he should pull her neck, the hen not the vet, but he didn't take it as he is becoming soft-hearted in his old age. I think that might be the Martha and Evie effect.

She died without the benefit of Bert stretching her neck. That meant we were down to four hens and one rooster and an average of two and a half eggs per day. Definitely time to replenish the flock especially as Bert and Ben had spent a lot of time fox-proofing the run with heightened fencing, reinforced at ground level and, best of all, electric fencing top and bottom outside the perimeter.

I had promised Martha and Evie we'd buy them each a chicken. Evie wanted a pink one and I had to tell her that chickens don't come in pink. Martha helpfully suggested that we could get a white one and dye it pink and I had to disappoint her by telling her that dye would not be good for a chicken's skin.

It was obvious that bog standard hens were not going to cut the mustard with them so after asking around we went to a guy who breeds bantams and other fowl. His place was rather out of the way so I reckoned Bert should drive us as he is usually good at finding his way around. Our van is only a three seater so I had to sit in the back, in the dark as there are no windows. It was very rattly in there but I was just about able to hear Martha and Evie singing their current favourite song, our friend Rod's version of Willie Nelson's It's All Going To Pot. The girls have got it nearly off pat now. Imagine their childish voices doing sweet sister harmony.

All the whisky in Lynchburg, Tennessee

Just couldn't hit the spot

I gotta hundred dollar bill, 

You can keep your pills 

Cause it's all goin' to pot.

Despite my specific directions and a Google maps printout and a photograph of the house Bert still got lost but I didn't mind. For we found the place eventually and the girls were delighted with it. There were ducks, chickens and bantams everywhere. And, best of all, lots of cute little fluffy chicks running around. We had to be specific as to the type of bird we wanted as they needed to be able to cope with the chickens we already had so, guided by the breeder, Martha chose a golden coloured Pekin and Evie picked a white Silkie. They had both been clocking so we also got a clutch of eggs. Back into the van.

The journey home was a good deal shorter as Bert did not go astray. Just as well, as I was sitting in the back with two quiet hens in a box and eighteen eggs up my jumper. The girls put their favourite song on and sang along. I couldn't have been any happier.

There are no pictures of the new chickens just yet. They are in their own little house, in nesting boxes, sitting on their eggs and we don't like to disturb them. Maybe tomorrow.

The hens will be called Honey (the gold one) and Flour (the white one). Girls chose the names themselves. They are called after food. I hope no-one tells Foxy. 

My Own Wee Bed

Bert and I spent the weekend in the caravan in Donegal. Decent weather (it wasn't freezing and it barely rained), it was a pleasant and relaxing break. The only thing was - the bed. It was too small and too soft and despite us telling Judy that she was not allowed on it or in it, each morning we found her lying between us in the bagpipes position, on her back, all four legs sticking in the air.

So it was wonderful to fall asleep in our own big beds last night. One of the best things about coming home. There is hardly a night that I go to my own bed in my own house that I don't feel glad of it. That is what comes of spending many years working in jobs where I was required to sleep on the premises.

There was the care home in Ballymoney where the clientele had intellectual disabilities. I was usually the junior staff member which meant I got to sleep in a camp bed in the office while the senior worker had a bedroom. Every time a resident left their room a panel in the office would set off an alarm, which consisted of a buzzer and a flashing red light. I was required to check this panel and ensure that the person made a safe return to their own room. It did not lead to a restful nights sleep and I'd be lying if I said that I did not resent and envy my senior getting to sleep soundly in a bed. That shift ended at eleven the next day and sometimes I was dead on my feet. Often I'd go to bed when I got home.

My next sleepover job was heaven compared to the camp bed scenario. Same sort of clientele, only this time I was the senior. A comfortable bed, a pleasant en suite room, and in three years I was only called on once.

Then I moved to the homeless sector. In the first place we had single cover. One person looking out for 12 - 15 women and children. The sleepover quarters were fairly decent. There was a phone that connected the hostel to the staff flat and there were quiet nights and crazy nights. We could also be called at anytime during the night by police or social workers to admit people. It was always a bit nerve-wracking when either of the phones went. If it was a resident you could be fairly certain that it would be something trivial. If it was the outside line you could usually be up for a few hours admitting a new resident. The staff bedroom was right at the front of the house which was on a busy street and the noise outside, especially at weekends, was horrendous. There were speeding cars, fighting, drunks singing, people trying to get into the hostel, banging windows, kicking doors, police bringing residents home, parties in the courtyard, boys being sneaked in, other boys sneaking out. I learned to blank a lot of it out. Then that hostel was closed and I was transferred to a mixed hostel on the other side of town.

And how I longed for the mild mayhem of Spide City. Tinkerton was horrible. The building was grim, the area was grimmer still. At least in Spide City, despite the night time noise, there was day time respectability. Outside the building we had riots, disputes over drug debts, drug dealers everywhere. Many of the staff were demoralised and the manager was an incompetent little toad. The staff room was full of vicious gossip. And yet there were good people on that team. There always are.

The sleepover room was the worst I have ever experienced. It was in a flat that was used for storage and it was filthy and full of rubbish. It is not possible to clean rooms that are hoarded with broken furniture and other detritus. The bed was broken and deeply uncomfortable. The actual flat was in a block also used by residents and the doors could easily have been kicked in. The flats had balconies and residents and outsiders climbed these frequently. There were many nights that I lay wakeful listening to scrabbling noises inside and out and wondered if I was going to be murdered in my bed. There was telephone contact with the main office which was manned at night by security guards. Who were a mixed bunch. One Falklands veteran, one a strange little Scottish man and one, the most affable of all, that I quite liked. He was full of himself but good craic for all that.

The residents seemed to have more problems than the women in the other hostel. They were a mixture of heavy drinkers, drug users, sex offenders, prison leavers, people with psychiatric illnesses and a murderer or two. I hated working there. I was burnt out, suffering compassion fatigue, nothing to offer.

I gave in my notice. And while I was working it two brothers, both drug users, were admitted. They were from another county. One of them was put in a flat with a Belfast man that all the staff were fond of. Norman was a drinker all his adult life but a pleasant wee man. The new fellow tried to steal his television and Norman tried to stop him. The other fellow hit Norman with the TV and knocked him to the ground. He then proceeded to kick and stamp on him. Until he was dead.

It was my day off and I heard it on the evening news. So I was prepared when I went back into work. It was surreal to sit at the desk and watch contract cleaners in hazard suits on CCTV screens go in and out of Norman's flat cleaning the gore. Place had to be cleaned, hostels can't run on vacancies. I was glad to be getting out.

Remember the affable security guard? Turned out he was a murderer too. Twenty-year old crime. Smothered an old lady. But DNA evidence got him in the end.

And that is why on every night that I go to sleep in my own bed, in my own room, I am so very grateful for it.

In The News Today

For about a year now I've been reading and following the escalating, 'Migrant Crisis' and I've talked about it with many of the various folk that I come across and found it disheartening that so many of them held such hard and unfeeling attitudes to refugees. Of course I tried to change their minds.

But now...are attitudes beginning to change? There are far more of us who realise that this is a truly horrendous situation and that these desperate, desperate people need our help. It is as if there is a new spirit, a new way of thinking about things. Not all can be saved but we must try to save as many as we can.

There are two people in my life who put this much better than I can. The first is my daughter Hannah who wrote this on Facebook today.

I consciously try to keep my facebook page light hearted but I couldn't ignore the headlines today. Y'know, there's more than enough of the world's resources to offer every single human being shelter, food, and safety. More than enough! What the world is really lacking in is love, kindness, compassion and a willingness to share.

The second is my friend Hayley who wrote this excellent post. It is well worth reading.

You will have seen the photograph of Aylan Kurdi, the little Syrian boy washed up on the Turkish beach. He, his brother and his mother where among the more than 2500 who have drowned in the Mediterranean this year alone. It is a heart-rending image and so very far removed from the scores of pictures we've seen this September of our children heading out to their first day at schools and kindergartens. I wish he could have been one of them.

Kobane -  the war-torn town the Kurdi family were fleeing. 

Working For The Man

It has been ten years since Bert was under investigation by HM Revenue & Customs and I still break into a cold sweat when I recall it.

This is a post from September 2005. Incidentally, at the end of the year long process Bert was found to have done nothing wrong.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

"I'm not calling you a liar. We're not allowed to do that anymore."

“ The number of tax inspectors has increased twice as fast as the number of new doctors and nurses.” (Lord MacGregor of Pulham Market, Hansard, Jan 2005)

To add to the stew of stress that Bert and I have been experiencing this year Bert has had an impending Inland Revenue investigation hanging over him. The reason being (we think) that the IR cannot understand why Bert bothered in 2001, as he appears to have made no profits. And as far as we can recall he didn’t.

So why did Bert become self-employed? There are two reasons. The first is that he did not want to work for anyone else and the second is that he wanted to do something. And horticulture was what he was good at. He did not become self-employed because he wanted to be rich. Most self-employed people aren’t rich anyway

I was listening to the Today programme as I returned from work this morning and I heard this argument for a flat-rate tax. I also heard the Shadow Chancellor say that the number of people working in tax collection has increased by 64000 since 1999. I thought to myself that this might well be the reason why Bert has been called to account by the Inland Revenue. Too many tax inspectors needing something to do.

The following are some of the questions fired at him by the civil servant.

What are you driving? Why no car?
Where did you get the money to concrete that lane? If you say your elderly mother gave it to you from the box of fivers she keeps under her bed we’ll do her too.
If you cannot explain where you got the money from we’ll assume you’re working in a cash economy and have been doing so all along and will bill you accordingly.
Why have you not taken a holiday for four years?
Are Zoë, Katy and Hannah still living with you? Are they working? Are they students?
Why do you keep your dealings with M******* Garden Centre in a separate book? (1)
How much does Nelly earn?
Who buys the groceries?
How often do you go out for a meal? (2)
Where do you get the cash for birthday presents? (3)
That woodland you own. Do you sell Christmas trees of it? We can come and see for ourselves you know.
I’m not calling you a liar. We’re not allowed to do that any more.

And there was much more of the same. The civil servant cub was obviously one of the 64000 cutting his teeth on a man with a shoestring business and a cheap accountant.

Bert is wondering why he bothers. Why not just wrap it all up and go unemployed. The truth is that if you don’t fit into the Norman Normal box you are a suspect. Naughty Bert. Hardly ever uses a credit card, doesn’t have debt, lives within his means, doesn’t spend, spend, spend. Not a good citizen at all. Not doing his bit to make fat cats even richer. Just quietly growing the best clematis in Norn Iron.

1. Because they are the only concern where he operates a sale or return policy.


2. His answer was 6-8 times a year. I suggested he should have said, “Do I look like I go out for meals Fat Boy?”


3. He actually did growl, “I don’t do birthdays.”

Independent To The Last

Nessie (Pearlie's late sister), Paddy and a young neighbour. Picture probably from late 70s-early 80s.

It was back in  February 2012 that we first heard that Bert's Uncle Paddy had died. It turned out that reports of his death were greatly exaggerated and he managed to live fairly independently for a few more years. Then he took what folk around here call 'a turn' and ended up in hospital. He was there for more than a month and it was becoming obvious to everyone around him that independent living was no longer possible. His home, a converted chicken shed, had few amenities which meant that home support wasn't an option. Carers tend to look for running water, electricity and flushing toilets. Paddy had none of these luxuries. So he went to a nursing home and, by all accounts, it was a nice enough place.

His turn had left him confused. At first he talked a lot about going home. When his friend Julie visited him he always expected her to take him back to his own place. But it was not to be. He told Bert that the 'hospital' was a nice enough place and that they were good to him there but he'd rather go home. As the months passed he settled down but there was a reason for this. Once when Bert was visiting Paddy put this question to him.

D'ye know who owns this hospital?

I don't know that. 

I own it.

Do you?

I do. I bought it from Samuel Carruthers. He was going to France and needed the money.

Is that so?

Aye. I gave him three thousand pounds for it.

And Paddy was content enough to stay in the nursing home knowing that it was his own place. Julie phoned last night to let Bert know he'd taken another turn and was back in the hospital. She phoned again this morning to tell us that he had died.

Bert saw Paddy two weeks ago, said he looked very well and seemed straight enough in his mind. He was talking about his dogs and seemed pleased that Roy was well settled with us. There was no talk of wanting home. He told Bert again that it was his hospital. Bought and paid for. Three thousand pounds.

The Lorry Jumpers

September again, early hours. I stayed up to watch The Lorry Jumpers, a documentary about some of the people who try to get into the UK from the port of Calais. It was powerful and sometimes painful to watch and I was shocked by the behaviour of the French police. They were brutal. It one harrowing scene an officer actually beat up the documentary maker, Leo Maguire.

Some of the people featured managed to make it to Britain. The film showed them in their grim little flats and they spoke of their hopes and dreams and their gratitude to be in a place where they could work and be safe.

David Cameron referred to migrants as a 'swarm', and one vile commenter (I won't name her) called refugees 'cockroaches'. To me they seem brave and courageous. I believe they can make our countries better places.

Blog-Block

In the (almost) eleven years since Nelly's Garden began I have found, time and time again, that the only way to overcome blog-block is to simply blog, write, put words together, whatever it takes.

What causes blog-block? For me it is,

Distractions.

Worries.

Lack of confidence.

Happiness.

I'm distracted by family, by reading, by my discovery of an American sit-com called Modern Family, and by gardening. These activities keep me busy and happy.

I'm worried about a pain in the left side of my skull that comes and goes. It is likely coming from a crick in my neck, or wrongly aligned pillows. It is probably not a brain tumour.

Lack of confidence? The more I read the more I realise how limited are my own writing skills. This morning, as I drove to Antrim I listened to part of a dramatisation of A Severed Head by Iris Murdoch. I started reading Murdoch when I was very young and I remember so little about it. Most of it must have gone over my head. I wonder what drew me to Murdoch? To find out I must return, starting with the first, The Nice and the Good which I read (with great enjoyment) when I was sixteen. And what am I reading now? The last novel in the Game of Thrones series. It's great fun, I'm a big fan, enough of a fan to wish that George R.R. Martin would get on with it.

Happiness. I really do believe that I am happier now than I have ever been in my entire life. And who wants to read a Happy Person blog? For instance, today was a wonderful day. Something happened that turned out far, far better than I could ever have hoped. All I did was drive my godson and his mum to a clearing day at our local college and, despite disappointing GCSE results, he got accepted on to a course that he really wanted to do. So very, very happy that I could help in the smallest way.

To finish, this August has been a great month. Not much of a summer in Northern Ireland but I had those two weeks in sunny Norfolk with my new grandson and his wonderful parents and lovely family days here at home,  and I had today and, despite a middling summer, the garlic, the broad beans, the raspberries and the purple turnips did amazingly well in Nelly's Garden. I'm looking forward to the blackberries.

Plundering the Archives

I'm finding this oul blogging lark hard going these days. In days gone past I'd be tootling about my daily business and thinking about all kinds of things to write about - these days, not so much. That's why it's great having an archive. When I can't think of a single thing to write about I can always plunder the archive. It seems that 10 years ago we were having this house renovated and were yet to move in. I also noted that 10 years ago I was a good deal more likely to write posts that might hurt people's feelings. Perhaps I should get back to that style of blogging.

The only thing this picture has to do with today's post is that it is from the 2005 archive. Poor Harry de Cat. We miss him still.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

The Accidental Joiner

I was hoping that the most eventful happening of the day would have been my boss causing me to suffer bloggus interruptus. It was during my lunch hour but there was no way he could be sure as he wasn't there when the hour started. And I was in the middle of a really good reply to CyberScribe's spooky comment about Cully pubs. How does he know? Where is Greyabbey anyway? Oh Bert's just told me it's in County Down. So the muse deserted me and that's why my eventual reply was so lame Cybe ol' boy.

So that's my quota of italicised words used up for this post and from now on I will have to manage without them.

On returning home I decided to go and inspect the work going on in the new house. I was especially interested in seeing how the kitchen tiles looked and also wanted to see the flight of stairs leading to the attic floor. Seamus the joiner started on them yesterday and they were pretty much finished. There is a little health & safety type issue at the very top which I wanted to take a look at so I asked Seamus if they were safe to step upon. He gave the go ahead and I had my foot on the bottom step when James the electrician nabbed me with a query about the lights I headed downstairs to the room where Matthew was tiling. Matthew says,

"Where's Bert?"
"Down the road. What's up?"
"We've a bit of a problem here."
"Oh! What's wrong?"
"Bert's tin whistle has fallen into this bucket of tile cement."

We were just coming to terms with this disaster when the joiner's apprentice came in. He says,

"Where's Bert?"
"Down the road. What's up?"
"Seamus has cut himself with the electric saw."

And so he had. Apparently it had stuck and he was trying to dislodge it when it had jumped back and gouged a lump out of his knee. Both Matthew and James were urging me to take him to the local GP surgery. Feck's sake! These lads must think Dr Finlay practises in Cully. I said no for the first thing the local GP would say is, "you'll need to go to casualty with that" so that's what we did. Seamus was very stoical about the whole episode and says he'll be back at work tomorrow. They breed real men in Dunloy.

By the way that policeman is still reading my blog. He phoned me yesterday in his professional capacity and before he rang off he said, "Are you still off the drink?"

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Meanwhile in the present world Nellybert took a walk up the back lane at dusk and spotted Foxy's big red arse disappearing into the wood. We had interrupted his supper of fat pigeon. He took it with him, leaving the wings and a shiny, black poo behind him. Judy did not roll in it for which we were truly grateful.

When Bertie Met Foxy

While I was away Bert had an interesting encounter with Foxy. On that day the big field had just been cut for silage so he gathered up the .22 and headed out the back lane to see if Foxy was out catching frogs. And sure enough, there he was, sauntering through the freshly cut field.

Bert crouched down behind the hedge and raised the gun. He had the vicious chicken killer in his sights. Judy and Jess saw Foxy too, sat on their haunches and stared at him through the five-bar gate. Foxy sat down and gazed coolly back. And all Bert had to do was squeeze the trigger. He waited, and waited. The dogs watched the fox and the fox watched the dogs. He was the same dark red fox that had been in the hen run, the same big fellow that Bert and the dogs had spotted a few times previously.

We don't know why Judy and Jess don't go after him. Perhaps he mesmerises them. Maybe he is even that same fox that Fred encountered on the back lane five years ago. 

Then Bert stood up and Foxy got up too, looked at the man with the gun then turned on his heel and trotted back to the woods.

Bert is not entirely sure why he didn't shoot Foxy. A good few of our friends reckoned he should have squeezed the trigger and about as many again said he was right to let him go. He felt he made the right call. I think so too.

Too Tired To Blog

I've been busy, busy since I returned from Norfolk. Too tired to even think about blogging. All being well, come tomorrow I shall recount the tale of When Bertie Met Foxy.

Update From North Norfolk

It has been a week now and every day brings new experiences for Baby James. He received his first letter today addressed to Mr James Surname. Imagine! A Mr at under three weeks. In my day It would have been Master James.

I have been having lots of new experiences too, mostly to do with TV shows. I have watched, and for the first time, The Great British Bake Off, One Born Every Minute and Location, Location, Location and, I have to say, I enjoyed them all. That Phil guy in Location is quite attractive.

And I've got back into daily walks. This is something I must keep up when I get back to Ireland because it makes me feel so good. Of course, it helps that everything here is new to me. The wildflowers are different, there are far more species of butterfly to see. The roads are quiet and there are lots of off-road tracks and paths. Syderstone Common is a delight.

So what of Baby James? He'll be three weeks old tomorrow. Sometimes he is easy, sometimes not. He is growing before our eyes and his Mummy is very patient and loving. He seems to like her too. It will be hard saying goodbye to him but there is always Christmas. And thankfully there is social media. I'll get to see him grow up, if sometimes it will be at a distance. I will always be grateful for this time.

Far From The Madding Crowd

I am currently in the wilds of North Norfolk and Internet speeds are not quite what they are in Cullybackey. It took at least  two minutes for this page to open!

But, on the plus side, I am spending a lot of time with my new grandchild James. He is a very lovely child and enjoys sleeping on his granny. Who needs the Internet?

I love the peace of this place. I took a walk this evening and saw just two cars. Sometimes, walking on our ow B road, it is like walking beside a dual carriageway. This part of Norfolk is so peaceful.

28th July 2015

There are only 365.25 days in a year so it's not that great a coincidence when folk share birthdays, anniversaries and so on. Even so,  at 20 years old, I was quite taken that my new boyfriend and my mother shared the same birth date.

Forty-two years later my mum has gone, the new boyfriend is an ex-husband and still a friend. We have between us, three daughters, two grand-daughters and a grandson. Today is Mick and Matty's birthday. For the first time in decades he is here in Northern Ireland and staying with us for a couple of days. He's had a lovely day and said as much on Facebook. Today he went to Belfast Zoo with his partner Linda, his two lovely daughters, his two lovely grand-daughters and Fergus. Zoe made him a cake. Tonight he and Linda are here with me and we're watching TV and generally having a nice time.

Matty would be delighted. She was very fond of Mick. Last night I was sorting out a few things and I came across her handbag, the handbag she used for the last year of her life and a gift from me. We got it in an outlet centre in Antrim. For some reason it ended up here and it was a couple of years before I could even open it. It contains a purse full of euros, all her various cards and this photograph. It was taken not long before she died. It's not even a proper photograph, just a sample from some Photobox pictures that Zoe ordered.

Martha Amy is in the foreground, the only one of her great-grandchildren she ever got to meet, and she is wearing a crazy hat that Matty knitted, And that would be one of the last things Matty ever made. I wonder where it is now? Some one of us will be treasuring it I'm sure, just as I treasure her handbag which is in the picture, sitting at her right hand.

Ah Matty. Missing you still. Happy birthday Mum.

Mick's birthday card

Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

It appears to be after midnight. I prepped white currants, raspberries and gooseberries for the freezer as I watched two episodes of The Newsroom. I could have named this post Sticky Fingers.

Things that occurred today -

1. It was Sweet Baby James' one week old anniversary. Judging by the photographs his parents send he appears to be fairly contented with his life so far. Six more sleeps 'til I set eyes on the little blighter.

2. I was rude and cutting to one caller today because he stood too close to me as I was weeding. I ordered him to back out of my personal space and he threatened to sit on my knee so obviously I told him that I'd stab him  with my secateurs if he even dared. He stepped back.  A very wise move.

3. While I was in the fruit garden I spotted a swarm in an apple tree. Bert donned protective gear and knocked it into a yellow bucket. He then decanted them into a nuc. They all marched in then, finding their new quarters not to their pleasing, marched right out again and set up home in the yellow bucket. Bert decanted them into the nuc again and, fingers crossed, there they stayed. This swarm was from afar. Last week our own bees swarmed and although Bert tried to persuade them into another box they refused to stay and bogged off.

The Cutting Kind

My youngest daughter writes a blog  entitled The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure and she has recently been writing pen portraits about the people in her life. Most recently she wrote about her mother and it was most interesting to me. This was my favourite part,

...Nelly is one of the kindest people on the planet. She is intelligent, sharp and witty but she could cut you like a knife. And she'd have no qualms about doing so. 

If I read that about someone else I'd be intrigued. Kind and cutting. I like it. I want very much to live up to that description. This blog needs lots more kindness and cutting remarks. It also needs more updating.

The week before last I could barely settle to write as we were all waiting for Katkin to give birth and then after Sweet Baby James arrived there was so much to do in the garden to get ready for my two weeks in England being Mary Poppins that by the time I finished for the night I was too tired to write anything. Only seven more sleeps now until I see him.

Until then I'll try to write more and will also endeavour to be more cutting.

So here goes,

I really love this time of year because there is so much to do in the garden. I particularly like picking fruit and preparing it for the freezer. What better way to bear the inconvenience of boring visitors than having a nice bowl of white currants or gooseberries to top and tail as they witter on.

Now these particular visitors tell me that they don't 'do social media' so I'm banking on this never being seen by them. Oh I do hope they don't stumble upon it. That's my kind side coming through.

The Good Life

Fruit picking season has begun. It's been a damp summer and there have been better strawberries but the currants and gooseberries have been great. I haven't even started on the blackcurrants yet. We moved the hens in with the fruit bushes. It's a smaller run than they had before but Foxy has two fences to get through to get at them and so far he hasn't managed it. There is a new rooster in with the chickens. He is still a baby and the girls are being very hard on him. He came from an egg farm, one of the very few males that got through the vetting process. He was used to thousand of chickens and anonymity. Now he's the centre of attention and spends most days skulking under blackcurrant bushes waiting to be attacked.

I'm spending the evenings preparing the fruit for the freezer as I watch episodes of  The Newsroom. Last week was an anxious one as we were all waiting for Katkin to give birth. She was due a week ago today and he arrived yesterday and he's a darling. That's three beautiful grandchildren we have now. Life is good.

A Week Goes By

On Mondays I usually make supper for Martha, Evie and their parents. Last Monday Hannah came too. Of course everyone brings their dogs so we had three extra hounds knocking about. So - one husband, two adult children, two grandchildren, their dad, six dogs and two cats. I made creamed sweetcorn soup, Hannah made a selection of sandwiches. There was a crumble made from our own rhubarb and raspberries.  For the topping I use Nigella's recipe for gooseberry-cream crumble but I cut down on the sugar. She's heavy handed with the sugar is Nigella. The girls don't like crumble, even though mine is delicious so they had home made ice lollies made from apples/blackcurrants and carrots/orange. Freshly squeezed juice of course. Sometimes I even impress myself.

On Tuesday I did not do very much. Bit of gardening, bit of wine making, bit of housework. I have also been catching up on Channel 4's Humans. Most enjoyable.

Wednesday was much the same as Tuesday.

On Thursday morning I received the girls for a sleepover. The family were heading off to Connemara on a 'tenting' holiday so I offered to keep the wee darlings until the Friday evening to give their parents a chance to pack and prepare in peace. I had also arranged for three other children to spend the afternoon. They call it a play-date. So – one husband, one young mum, five little girls, three dogs and two cats. It was all very pleasant if a tad exhausting. Foolishly I stayed up far too late and was wakened at a quarter past three when war broke out. Evie had kicked Martha awake and there was quite a row. It was four before I got back to sleep and at ten past seven Martha was standing beside my bed expecting her breakfast. I stayed tired all day.

Martha spent part of Friday morning devising a barrier that would prevent Evie from kicking her as they slept. She brought a guard rail from the attic and put it in the middle of the bed. They both tried it out but it was deemed impractical. She asked Bert if he could make a fence for the middle of the bed and he suggested bringing in the electric fencing unit but she didn't like that idea. My suggestion, that they sleep in separate rooms did not go down well either. Because they were going to be presented to their parents at seven that evening fed, bathed, coiffed, pyjamas on and teeth cleaned, I let them run around unwashed and unbrushed the entire day. Of course this meant that I couldn't take them anywhere but as they had found and demolished Bert's chocolate stash they were totally grounded anyway.

Before I left them into their parents Martha took one last dash into the hen run to look for eggs. I never thought to check her. So I delivered two sparkling clean and shiny children to their grateful parents and first thing Martha does is upstairs to greet her Daddy and spreads chickenshit on every step of the staircase. Oops! Failed again.

On Saturday the Banjos came. With their dogs and their banjo. Later on Hannah and Gus turned up. One husband, four adults, a teenager, six dogs and two cats. Hannah lit the pot-bellied stove in the tree house and that's where we socialised, sang, played music and drank wine. Five of the dogs joined us. Not Roy, he doesn't do stairs. There was one disaster. The hen house door blew closed and the hens all went to roost under the blackcurrant bushes. We managed to find eight of them but Madam Black II was still at large. It's not easy finding a black hen in a blackcurrant bush in the dark. We left her to take her chances.

This morning, Sunday, there she was waiting patiently outside the hen house for her chums to join her. There are usually a couple of dogs watching me from the other side of the gate as I carry out my morning chicken duties. This morning there were six of them. Watching my every move.

Rethinking Foxes

I encouraged Bert to go visit Paddy in the Old Folk's Home today as I needed to get my head showered.

Getting one's head showered features in this Van Morrison number. It's a Northern Ireland thing.

He took the dogs with him (not Roy) as he intended to take a long walk afterwards. When he got back he told me he'd walked the fields around Maxwellswalls where his mother's people had come from. He started off at his mother's home place. It's not being farmed now and has turned in to a beautiful wilderness. He spotted one lizard, ten hares (he counted them as the dogs raised them) and an old dog fox with raggedy ears.

While he was communing with nature on the land his family once owned (they don't any more and there hangs an interesting tale) I weeded, planted vegetable and annual flower plugs, home grown. An enjoyable evening indeed. When Bert returned he was excited to tell me about the critters he had seen. He also reported that the dogs had got very excited about the hares but had taken the fox in their stride.

I've been rethinking foxes. After the last raids on our chickens, six lost altogether, I was raging, got Bert to keep the gun handy in case the cheeky bastard turned up in the yard or round about. Although we both had misgivings as it was cubbing season. An adult fox killed can mean slow starvation for the young ones. Then last Monday I spotted a fox cub dead at the side of the road, close to our lane. For some crazy reason I dwelt on it all day. And then I thought about foxes for the rest of the week. This is my conclusion. Foxes are just pesky but they deserve to have their lives. If they get my chickens it is because I'm not looking after them properly. I'm going to try very hard to keep the run fox proof and if one of my feather-brained flock jumps the fence because she just hates to lay her eggs along with the other hens and Foxy finds her, well, that's just one of those things. Foxes just be foxy, chickens be stupid and humans just need to make the best fences they can. Ours don't have the huge run they did before. They have an enclosure within an enclosure but it is still a lot bigger than most chickens enjoy.

Long run the fox. And I really mean that.

Interestingly Ganching has also been blogging about foxes.

A Walk By The Bann

Umbrella

Martha has always had a keen interest in umbrellas

Apparently we are to expect a heatwave. Hopefully it will arrive by Thursday when Hannah and I are taking the Misses Martha and Evie to Portrush on the train. Martha is very excited because she knows that Barry's Amusements are in Portrush. I had to give her a little talk about this as she believes that Grannys and Aunts have unlimited pocketfuls and bagfuls and lorry loads of coins and flat money (notes) and that any unwillingness on our parts to part with this is just inexplicable perversity.

So I told her that we would be bringing a packed lunch, and that we would have just one ice cream and that all the rest of our money would be spent in Barry's going on dodgems, carousels and other exciting rides. We would definitely not be going into shops to buy pink tat.

For I made a mistake last Thursday after I met Martha from the school bus and she had no coat. This was unfortunate as I was expecting her to walk to the town centre with me so I could collect my new spectacles. She fretted about getting her pony tail wet because Mummy had plaited it so it would go all crinkly and if it got rained on the crinkles would come out. I thought the crinkles had already come out but I didn't like to say.

Never mind,

says I...

If it gets too rainy I'll buy you an umbrella.

It was just a light remark but you could almost hear her brain whirring into gear. She didn't hear idle words. She heard a solemn promise. She was fixated. I tried to fob her off with a magazine but she was having none of it. But I could buy Evie a magazine. Into a newsagents we marched and she spent long minutes deciding which magazine Evie (she) would like. Then it was off to the Tower Centre. I knew there was a bargain shop in there that might sell children's umbrellas and so there was. Pink ones. The Frozen characters, Elsa and the other one. Plastic. Tat. Five pounds. In no time at all I'd spent nearly eight pounds on nonsense. The girls didn't see it like that, Evie was as thrilled with her magazine as Martha was with her umbrella and sure, it's only money. It grows on trees.

Back to Buts

Back to buts was a frequent Mattyism. It meant a return to the usual. Bert is back from Spain and things are beginning to get back to normal. He had a lovely time and brought the girls some souvenir flamenco dresses. I think they are the dressing up equivalent of the big straw donkeys that holiday makers used to bring back from Spanish holidays. Now that baggage space on planes is so restricted there will be little demand for that sort of article.

There was great excitement at Clint's place today. He got a big swarm of bees landed on one of his bushes. Bert was called on to gather them up. This is the third swarm Clint's had in a month and he had no use for it. Swarming bees tend to be quiet so, as usual, he braved it without his beekeeping suit. And it worked out for him. No stings. When he returned he decided to check his own hive and donned the protective gear. Our hives are Irish black bees and they always seem to be very angry. The minute he went into the hive they attacked him. One stung him on the Adam's apple and he got four on his hands. I was pulling the sting out of his  neck and asked him,

What happened there?

I hadn't my gloves on.

How did they get you get stung on the neck? 

I hadn't fastened the jacket up. I thought it would be all right if I was quick about it.

It's never all right with those bees. You're an eedgit.

Ah Bert. He's great entertainment value. It's good to have him back.

Home Alone: Days 5 and 6

I swapped child minding days with the co-grandparents so I could attend my post cataract procedure check up today. So yesterday Hannah and I took Evie to lunch in Cafe Couture then off for a browse at a Harryville charity shop. I gave Evie a two pound coin to spend and she slotted it into a toy drum machine and that was the end of that. Despite our turning the machine upside down many times and Hannah inserting her weird long fingers into the machine's inner working the coin stayed put. I advised the shop manager that the £3 price sticker on the gadget should now be upped to £5.

Off to the hospital today for a 4pm appointment. I was there for three hours and found myself sitting next to the same man that I sat next to on the day of the procedure. We swapped notes. Seems we are both doing great. Thankfully the surgeon agreed. I discovered the reason why things were taking so long for he was teaching a student and was taking enough time to ensure that she was benefiting from the experience. A lovely man. So I was there for a long time and so what? Once again I got to see what is wonderful about the National Health Service. And I've been flagged as 'urgent' for the left eye cataract.


Not a word from the holiday maker but thanks to Jazzer and the immediacy of Facebook I've seen three photographs. Her camera isn't very good but it seems that he is covered in mosquito bites and looks really sad as if he is totally missing Jess and Judy. The poor man.

Home Alone: Days 3 and 4

When I woke up yesterday I felt pleased to know that Martha, Evie, their parents and their dogs were coming to spend the afternoon and have supper with me. Solitude makes a fine relish for Company. It was another warm day so all doors were open and my own three dogs and the four guest dogs were free to come and go as they pleased. Why it pleased two of them to go upstairs and piss and shit I do not know. How did I know that there were two guilty parties? Simple. The poo (Frank? Ziggy?) was very small and the pee (Jess? Judy?) was very large. Is it any wonder that my eldest grandchild, the owner of a sharp tongue, described this house as 'decorated in dirt'.

There were visitors expected in the evening, although they were probably coming to see the dogs rather than me. They cancelled so that left me another solitary evening with only the four dogs, two cats, a glass of carrot wine and the last episode of Game of Thrones for solace. The animals were mostly nuisances, barking at every shadow and, before the supper table was cleared, I found a dog and a cat standing on the kitchen table licking plates! Hang your furry heads in shame Jess and Fred.

Game of Thrones. It was action packed from the start and with a lot left hanging. I watched it 'on eggs' as I'd heard that something really big (bad) was going to happen and I feared for all my favourite characters. Yet they made it or I hope they did. The big ending did not disappoint at all for he was a pious, goody-goody, Belfast-dissing jerk. Sorry Naoise.

So here I am on Day 4. I'm having an avocado for my lunch and I might bake biscuits.

Home Alone: Day 2

I have started talking to the dogs and I only saw one person today. Well, there was actually about six more as, for some unknown reason, two car loads of people landed on the yard looking for a house that did not exist. One was a driving instructor's car the other was a civilian. I have no idea what they were up to but the pack of barking dogs certainly discouraged them from leaving their vehicles.

Apart from this one thing I had a lovely lonesome day. I bottled wine (blackcurrant and apple) and I gardened. And the gardening was where I screwed up. There was this heavy stone sink. Last year it contained some pretty yellow crocosmia, Emily McKenzie, I think. This year I thought I'd put geraniums (pelargoniums) in it. But it was in the wrong place. I needed it to be 8 foot further to the right. I lifted it and moved it and tried to take care but it was too heavy and now I have hurt my back. Stupido. Hopefully it will be better tomorrow.

Home Alone: Day 1

I woke up just after six a.m. and actually got up! There had been no word from Bert so I assume he had been allowed on the early morning plane that was taking him on a holiday to Majorca where Jazzer had rented a villa for the week.

So now I am home alone with only four dogs (Jazzer's dog is staying), two cats, two pigs, nine chickens and seven bastes. Bastes are what old-fashioned country folk call cattle. I don't have to do much with the cattle except keep an eye on Evil Edna and the bull.

Which one is Evil Edna?

The one with the long tail.

Apart from collecting the Guardian at the local garage I never left the house and it was bliss. No callers apart from Hector back and forth all day lifting hay. I gardened and made an omelette for lunch using the elephant garlic scapes that Les gave me for flavouring. It included the German salami we got from Bilrus and three kinds of tomatoes I also made a carrot and pepper soup this evening so am eating properly. So far.

 4 lbs of blackberries found in the freezer

I started a blackberry wine and bottled an elderberry wine. There was about a pint left over. When Les called round to water his garlic I shared it with him. Am now feeling very tired due to my early start and a busy day. One episode of The Newsroom a glass of wine and a bath and I shall retire.

One Week Later

Taken just after the first attack. Three more would fall victim to Bastard Fox.

Part of the reason I write this blog is to remind myself what is going on in my life. When did I have the cataract operation? Look it up on the blog. Just over four weeks ago. When was the last time the fox got into the hen run? That would be in July 2012, and in the month of May 2008 and 2009. The May attacks were bad ones and, like this year, would most likely have been carried out by an adult fox with cubs to feed. We thought that the 2012 attack was a junior for on that occasion the hen survived.

This time we lost five in three separate incidents. Reminds me of Lady Bracknell for to lose two is unfortunate, five seems careless. Here's what happened. We kept them in the day after the first two were attacked. Foxy was interrupted and only got a bite or two of the rooster. Bert sprayed the weeds and brambles around the fence to see where it needed reinforcement. That was going to take a day or two to sort out. The day after I felt so sorry for them not getting out to forage and grub that I let them out and put Rusty and Lily in with them to deter Foxy. That worked. Foxy was not going to go into an enclosure with two great pigs in it. Had he done so I am certain that the pigs would have not paid him a bit of attention. I've mentioned before that pigs are rough and they managed to dislodge part of the chicken shed. It was the part that provided an escape route under the house. Two hens disappeared. We heard or saw absolutely nothing. I assume they went into the tangled undergrowth that lies between our place and the derelict, overgrown property next door. Where a fox was waiting. We were down to ten hens.

I had a plan. We would move them back to the old run, the one that no fox had entered for three years. We would do it on the following day after I had returned from some business in Ballymena and after a thorough inspection of the perimeter. Bert was in a hurry to get it done and persuaded me to move them before I left. He said he had sorted out the perimeter himself. With the help of a friend we moved the ten hens to their new home and I headed into town. Three hours later I returned to the news that the fox had got in and killed one of my favourite chickens, a big silvery grey girl.

The remaining nine have been closed in ever since and I feel so sorry for them. Bert is going away next week and there is not enough time to strengthen security. We'll get something sorted when he comes back.

He saw the brute yesterday at the edge of the wood. It gave him a cool stare. The gun was in the house.

Ten Years Ago Today

1952

Today is the 10th anniversary of my father's death. 

Heading out to a wedding

Apart from their wedding photographs there appear to be very few pictures of my parents in their younger days. I wondered why that should be. Perhaps it was because they were in charge of the camera and any photographs taken would be of us. I'm sure I can remember Daddy not being keen on having his photograph taken and would only submit on special occasions such as weddings. There were lots of weddings. Between them our parents had more than fifty nieces and nephews.

Of course when we grew up we were always taking photographs of them. As you can see Daddy found it hard to take it seriously. He was probably saying something like, "What are you taking pictures for you fool idiot!" As time went on he learned to accept his children's desire to document his existence.

 I wanted to take this picture in the garden. By then Seamus wasn't that mobile but he was prepared to oblige. Times had changed.

This picture was taken on the day of my sister Deirdre's wedding. It was a year or so after Daddy's stroke. He wasn't able to walk my sister up the aisle so Matty did the honours. It is almost painful to look at these images, to see how failed he had become. But there is joy in it too because of the love that they still had for each other.

Eleven months later I went to visit Matty. We had planned a jaunt to Magherafelt and a visit to Daddy in his care home. She visited him five to six times a week. Every chance she got. We got in the car and I said,

Magherafelt first or Daddy first?

She said,

Magherafelt first.

We spent an hour in Magherafelt and then back to Randalstown to visit with Daddy.

I remember I used to fuss over him a lot when we visited. But on this occasion I just kissed him hello then sat back on a sofa while Mammy sat close to him. I spent some of my time in idle conversation with another resident. But mostly I just watched them. Daddy seemed more responsive than usual. She was talking quietly to him, he was listening intently. They were touching each other on the arms and hands. After about thirty minutes she said we would go. I went over, kissed him, said, "See you soon." She said her goodbyes too. In the car, on the way home I said,

That was a lovely visit.

She agreed.

I left her home and went home myself. Got changed into gardening clothes and then the phone rang. It was the care home.

I got to see Daddy sooner than I expected and for the last time.

There are a lot of people who believe in angels. I'm not one of them. Except for this day ten years ago. It must have been an angel who guided me to that sofa, six feet away from my mother and father as they spent a part of their very last day together loving each other.