Doing and Not Doing

It was my intention to write a longer blog post this evening but life, in the form of entertaining visitors, got in the way.

Other things that did not go to plan was allium planting. I did get the Senshyu onions in the ground and a few rows of elephant garlic. The hard necks are still to be planted but it's just a matter of plonking them in as the bed is fully prepared. Tomorrow.

Les' garlic crop

Another unfinished task was the chilli jam. It will be easy enough to complete tomorrow as it's all chopped, vinegared and sugared and just needs to be boiled. First thing in the morning after coffee. It was the entertaining guests got in the way of that one.

I had a couple of forms to fill in but that didn't happen either. I hate filling in forms especially if it's to do with finances.

It is a shame I couldn't just transcribe the conversations of the interesting visitors for that would make a very entertaining blog post but cannot tell as I'm bound by a non-disclosure agreement.

One thing I did do today was to take part in a piece of online research associated with Harvard University. I'd been pondering about how people with racist attitudes tend not to think of themselves as racist. So, as I don't identify as racist I wondered if perhaps I actually am?

The task was fairly uncomplicated and I did it to the best of my ability. On completing, I got a thank you for taking part and was informed that I showed a moderate bias towards people of Arab ethnicity.

Oh.

Part of the preparation for the task was to think of a person or persons that I considered typical of Arab people. And I chose  Mohammed bin Salman.

Which is where I went wrong.

For The Day That Is In It

Cannonstown, late 50s, Two cousins born on the same day.

Antrim, 2012, feeding the ducks. Two cousins together for the last time.

Wishing London Sister a very wonderful birthday.

And remembering Joseph.

Cousin Bert

While Bert was strangely unperturbed about being one-third Scandinavian (he doesn't like Ikea but loves a pickled herring) he was utterly astonished when Martha and Evie's father came in this afternoon and announced that he and Bert are fifth cousins. How did he know?

He got sent an email. 

Bert couldn't get over this. Why would Dave get an email? Although Bert called it a text as he does not understand communication technology at all.

But why? Why would they do that?
Do what?
Send Dave a text. Do they know that we know each other?

I tried to explain it to him while I was making supper. Cornish pasties, salad, pickled beetroot followed by a sublime apple and blackberry crumble, all fruit courtesy of Les. Thanks, Les!

Bert's a strange one. Finds out he's less than half a Celt, more than a third Scandi, polluted with Angle and doesn't turn a hair. Finds out that he's actually related to his wife's daughter's partner and cannot get over the fact that the company we all sent our cheek scrapings to knows all about us and is sharing our info with thousands of other punters and god knows who else! But sure, it's only a bit of a diversion to stop us brooding on Brexit, the DUP and the US mid-terms.

The good part is, as I pointed out, it means he's actually related to Martha and Evie. Their Cousin Bert. But they'll still be calling him Granda.

How Did That Come About?

Bert's DNA results arrived and gave me quite a shock. He was unperturbed, said it was,

A lot of oul nonsense.

But I've been racking my brains to work out how he has more than a third Scandinavian ethnicity. He doesn't even like Abba.

Thanks For All The Eels

One useful thing about being a long-term blogger and user of social media is that there is a record of all the important life events. Like, just how long is it since we've had eels for dinner? Well, Bonnie was alive then and she's been gone for ages. How long?  June, 2013. More than five years now. But how long since she stole the eels? November, 2007. Nearly eleven years ago. That's the last time eels were served in this house. Until tonight.

Richard and I hatched the plot. Bert had been watching a show about Lough Neagh and remembered how much he loved eels. But where to get them? We live a short distance from the biggest freshwater lake in the British Isles and it's full of eels, a delicacy exported worldwide.  Who sells them? Back in the day this one and that one could get them for you, even further back in the day, my parents got them from Uncle Paddy who lived on the shores of Lough Neagh and fished eels and pollan for a living. Nowadays, as Richard found out, they're sold directly from the Lough Neagh Fisherman's Co-operative Society.

It was to be a surprise and surprised Bert was when Richard presented him with two packs of the finest Lough Neagh Eels. His squeals of delight could be heard in the village. He cooked them just like Matty did, coated in seasoned flour, slowly in a heavy bottomed frying pan for an hour and more. Delicious, served with RJ Kerr's finest and freshest soda bread,

As I said to Richard on Facebook,

....thanks for all the eels.

Did we sing The Eely Song?

Of course we did.

In Which I Risk Being Sued Or, At The Very Least, Having My Windies Broke

Bert and I went out for breakfast this morning to a 'caff' in an industrial estate. Whilst waiting for the food I perused the local rag which I rarely buy for it is overpriced and full of shite. I was interested to read about a public meeting of 'concerned residents' concerned about the influx of Roma gypsies into the town. There is so much concern in Ballymena about the Roma people that they have a dedicated Facebook group which has five of my FB friends on it. There hasn't been as much 'concern' in Ballymena about a group of incomers since - well, since the last lot of incomers, the folk from Eastern Europe who came over here to do the jobs that Ballymena people preferred not to take or were unable to do. A lot of those folk have returned home as standards of living in their own countries have risen just as ours stagnates. And, of course, the Brexit factor means that 'foreign nationals' don't feel particularly welcome in North Antrim.

I have a sense of how they must feel. A majority of people in Northern Ireland voted to remain in the Brexit referendum but not in North Antrim where I live. North Antrim, a place of great beauty and charm (the landscape) is also a right-wing, intolerant and sectarian hole. A place where the local Westminster representative, like his father before him a right-wing, intolerant bigot, can line his pockets with all the lovely free money and perks that power can offer the corrupt politician. At least the Da had some sense of decency when it came to graft. Or maybe he, being smarter than the son, just didn't get found out?

None of this 'concerned resident' stuff is new. In the early 1980s, a number of Vietnamese refugees were settled in Ballymena. Some of the families were housed in the estate where we lived and we got to know one person, a girl of about seven called Quyen. She spoke very good English (the rest of her family didn't) and she seemed mature beyond her years. The refugees were hard working people and many started small businesses, such as chip vans. But the locals didn't like them. Ridiculous rumours abounded. They were thieves, they stole people's pets and trapped wild animals to sell as food. The locals moved against them, a pigeon shed was burned down, vehicles were vandalised. Poor Quyen was bullied and scapegoated at the local school. Local parents even went to the headteacher to complain about her.

The Vietnamese people got out of Ballymena as soon as they could. They went to live in English cities and I hope they made a good life for themselves away from the backwater that was (and is) Northern Ireland. Our loss.

I don't know any of the Roma gypsies. When I'm in town I notice that they prefer to move around in groups and that they avoid eye contact. I expect that feels safer. My sister tells me that another group of people who avoid eye contact are Travellers. They are another people despised by 'concerned residents'.

There was one funny thing on that Concerned Residents page. One woman referred to herself as indigenous to Northern Ireland. Typically, she didn't manage to spell the word properly but I got the gist. It's my belief that very few of the Concerned Residents of Ballymena are indigenous to Ireland. I can't even claim that for myself with Scottish ancestors who probably originated from Eastern Europe.*

*Hopefully, there is not too much Welsh as they voted to leave Europe, the fools. And perhaps those rumours are true, that Great-Grandfather Steen who became a Catholic and whose people came from Scotland may actually have descended from a Jewish ancestor?

A Walk In The Woods And Other Stuff

Despite this strange lethargy I am currently experiencing I must, I really must write my daily blog.

The day began with a walk, the Cullybackey riverside path with Laura. It was too foggy to appreciate the autumnal colours but we both hoped that the dankness might mean we had the walk to ourselves for we were out with a veritable pack of furry critters and not a lead on any of them.

We admired this fallen tree. There are so many old trees growing on the banks of the river that every blustery bit of weather brings at least one down. Laura cast a very hungry eye on this one. She has a passion for firewood, just like her Da and her Uncle Bert.

At this point, we'd not seen a soul until around the corner came a friendly runner. He bade us hello and seemed unperturbed by the pack.

On the home run, we met a pair of young parents toting infants. Fathers were stoic and brave, mothers looked as if they expected our dogs to eat their children. Our dogs ignored them because they had found one of Stanley's balls and balls are far more fun than boring babies.

But we were rumbled. At the end of our walk who should we meet but Denise, Stanley and friends just heading out on their morning walk. Stanley did not seem to recognise his ball and Judy attempted to nick his new one. Denise soon put a stop to that piece of cheek.

Back to the house for coffee and pancakes where Laura and Bert seemed strangely reluctant to discuss the latest developments in the Brexit situation. Instead, they were enrapt watching YouTube videos of knives being forged. Sometimes I wonder...

The remainder of the day?

Pleasantly sunny.

Martha and Evie. Homework. Trampoline. They jumped, I watched from inside.

Garlic sorting, trimming, planting, storing. I've more to do.

I'm still very tired, coming down with some kind of virus infection.

Autumn Days

Next year's plot for growing garlic was chosen a few months ago and has been languishing under cardboard ever since. The cardboard came off yesterday and the soil underneath looked packed and dusty. It needed something. There was a little mound of leaf mould composting under the beech trees which would be ideal for conditioning the soil and pleasing the worms.

That's what a builder's bag full to the brim of autumn leaves turns into. Half a barrow load of crumbly soil conditioner.

It deserved a close-up. Ignore the intact beech leaves, they are this year's drop. The good stuff is the chocolate coloured mulch in my hand.

And that is the 2019 garlic bed, hoed, mulched and watered.

And this is the garlic from which I'll choose my cloves for planting. The biggest ones are best for decent sized plants. Guess what? I don't know what variety they are -  Les will tell me.

Speaking of Les, he kindly gave me the run of his blackberry canes as he's too busy making chilli jam to have time for blackberry jam. I've frozen a big bowl of them for future desserts. They are far too delicious for wine-making. Zoe gave me an enormous beetroot for the pigs and I may well get a gallon of wine out of that and the pigs will still get to eat it after it's been boiled.

I love Autumn, especially when the weather is fine and mild.

In Need Of Cheer

October flowering California poppy, Eschscholzia californica 

One pinch of seeds, one seed tray, perhaps two dozen plantlets, dotted here and there in the flower beds and they just keep giving and giving. Pretty generous with the seed pods too. I've seed left over from this year so shall compare how bought seed does with collected. But only if I remember to label them correctly.

Things like this are very cheering on a day when the only good news is the pregnancy of a television star and a ginger prince. A day when a bigoted right-wing party from Northern Ireland can hold a government to ransom although I actually don't care that much about that, except I think that when Sammy Wilson's utterances seem to matter a fuck then the United Kingdom is DOOMED. Surely he only exists to mock Sinn Fein and be mocked by Sacha Baron Cohen?

A Challenge

 Chilean guava plant or Ugni molinae 

Favourite fruit of Queen Victoria

We have two small Chilean guava bushes, a gift from Les, and they are currently fruiting. The berries are small, slightly bigger than a blackcurrant, and they are delicious. They taste good as they ripen but when they are fully ripe the flavour is sublime. So far, we keep ours in pots in the polytunnel.

Berries weren't the only thing I ate today. It was family supper day again and the family were late because it was also the day when parents get to hear how their children are getting on at school. Apparently, Martha has a reading age comparable to a 14-year-old. I told her that this was great and that when she is sixty her reading age will be the same as mine is now.

Her fine command of the English language must be the reason why she corrected me on my grammar Thursday last. I asked her if she'd ever heard of the proverb,

Don't teach your grandmother to suck eggs.

Which she hadn't and I chose not to tell her what it meant as I like to keep an air of mystery about myself. What I did tell her was of my very good results in English examinations at all levels and that using incorrect grammar was my personal choice. Obviously, her father had to check hers as she was still learning. But, to console her, I said that she would most likely be very good at English as it is a family trait on all sides. And it looks like I was right. Again.

But I digress from food. Martha started with Bert's pea and ham soup, Evie declined this course. It was still several hours before supper was served so both girls had a couple of pieces of Haribo* then went outside to bounce it off on the trampoline.

I made macaroni cheese and a steamed toasted coconut pudding. The girls tired of the trampoline and went searching for Bert to play with them. They roared and shouted for a while then came in saying he couldn't be found. I said,

He's probably hiding from you.

He was, so for badness I let them call him on my phone. He answered, expecting it to be me.

Bert! Where are you? We looked everywhere for you.

I'm in the woods.

Right! We're coming to get you!

And off they went to drag him back to play with them.

I may have mentioned before that Martha can be a harsh critic of my cooking. Cakes like biscuits, pizzas a bit dodgy. Today was different. The macaroni cheese was delicious and creamy and what kind of cheese did I use? I never mentioned the two big dollops of English mustard and the half glass of white currant wine. Just ordinary cheddar cheese, Martha. Pudding was also received well.

That's two weeks in a row you've made a delicious meal Granny. Last week's meatballs and spaghetti and this creamy, delicious macaroni cheese. If you can just do delicious meals for the next two weeks that'll be a whole month of good cooking!

Oh Lord! The pressure. Evie said she'll give me fifty pence of her pocket money as a prize if I manage it. Guess I'll have to give it my best shot.

Now, I've a confession to make. I write these posts and publish them with only slight editing. Then, the next day I read over them and change words here and there and fix spelling and grammar where needed. Just saying, because those early readers who see posts before I go back to them might wonder how I got those good marks in English examinations of which** I boasted to Martha.

*Haribo - ever since I got the pension I've been buying it wholesale.
**'of which' - I'm not sure about that. I might change it tomorrow.

Things Bert And I Have Argued About

Crabbit - Ireland and Scotland, from 'crabbed' meaning bad-tempered.

Some time ago there was a regular column in The Guardian called Things My Girlfriend And I Have Argued About. The writer was Mil Millington, (I just googled that) and it was always an enjoyable read. Of course, Bert and I never argue but we used to - quite a bit. Actually, that's a lie. We still do argue but it's different now. Different because I don't take myself as seriously as I used to.

Yesterday's argument arose because he stood too close to me while I was making dinner. This is what happened.

I was making risotto from one of my new Jamie books. It was the 30-minute meal book. I might not know much about risotto but I know it's not a dish to hurry. Jamie was pretty optimistic with his 30-minute timing especially as I was expected to do a salad and a dessert in the allotted time frame. Ridic! I just did risotto and it took forty minutes.

The risotto was supposed to be mushroom but I didn't have mushrooms so I was planning to use smoked mackerel and bits of things from the garden, mostly peas and fresh herbs, flat leaf parsley, rosemary, marjoram, some lemony thing that I couldn't identify and my own garlic. The base was onion and celery both shop-bought. I also used a big glass of my own white currant wine to start it off and all was going well. Especially as I was drinking a big glass of my own white currant wine as I chopped and stirred. Bet you Jamie doesn't do that. Too many kids around for him to be drunk in charge of a high sided frying pan. When it comes to cooking and drinking I tend to favour the Keith Floyd way of doing things.

Then Bert came in from outside. He wandered over to the cooker to see how things were going which was OK with me. But then he didn't go away! Instead, he starts struggling out of his boiler suit and removing his heavy boots whilst standing six inches from me. He always tries to take his boiler suit off first and he's half caught up in it, standing on one leg, trying to unlace his boots and tottering! Tottering six inches from me and my high sided frying pan and my gas cooker! I was raging and I'm afraid I shouted at him. Something along the lines of,

Size of this kitchen, size of this house! Why stand on TOP of me whilst I'm COOKING! Wriggling out of that STUPID boiler suit *unmentionable adjective*, *unspeakable noun*.

Then he retorts, something along the lines of,

Crabbit *unutterable noun*!

Then he cleared off out of my way and said that thing again. Under his breath but I heard. And did not care because my personal space was not being intruded upon. I also did not care because I am a crabbit *unutterable noun*.

The risotto turned out very well. Delicious, in fact. I can hardly believe I've never made one before. Did I mention the Roquefort cheese I added before serving? The argument was over, finito. Mostly that's the way it is these days. Bit of a reaction to an annoyance, some might even say over-reaction, then let it go. It's almost always me who starts it.

A photograph taken a long time ago. That corner is now part of a fifteen-acre wood and that was our very first dog, Danny. We argued a lot more then than we do now.

Very Short Post

Dr Leitrim Sister has left the building but, while she was here, we spent quality time together and ate a lot of cake.

She is with our youngest brother tonight as he is the main reason for her visit. He a great worry for his family right now and can use a bit of sibling support.

It's An Ill Wind

Storm Callum came in the night, knocked over my hen feed bin, scattered the recycling bins (I had failed to return them to their proper place) but, best of all, made the fallen beech from the last storm, fall some more so now it safe again. Bert's rib is almost mended so, as soon as weather and family affairs permit - it's a wooding we will go...

...for Winter is Coming and so is Dr Leitrim Sister and that will be all from me today.

Jamie Ya Bollix

Started clearing out my scullery cupboards yesterday using the recommended decluttering method, which is 5 boxes designated as follows,

1. Bin
2. Recycle
3. Donate
4. Mend
5. Restore to Proper Place

By far the fullest box was Restore to Proper Place and the emptiest, containing one piece of cardboard, was Recycle. This tells me that I am very good at recycling and very bad at restoring items to the proper place.

I'd hoped to have a really full donation box as the cupboards I was decluttering are the ones where I keep my fancy vintage china. It wasn't easy to part with it. I managed to donate a couple of vases, two bowls and an outsized mug belonging to Hannah. The rest I kept, including three butter dishes with lids in various styles from hand-painted to Pyrex. I toyed with donating the Old Foley but after checking eBay prices realised that it could fetch a sum between £2.50 to £33 so thought better of it.

Today is the day I pick up the girls from school so I packed my box of bits and pieces for delivery to the nearest charity shop. Whilst there I bought four cookery books (50p each) and Evie chose a mug for herself (20p). The cookery books were in very good condition, three Jamies and a Nigella. Evie and I browsed them in the schoolyard whilst we awaited Martha's release. I was especially taken by Jamie's 15 Minute Meals. What a challenge! I can make poached egg and toast in 15 minutes but Jamie can do marvels. Apparently, the secret is having the right equipment and a very well-stocked pantry. He's a helpful soul is Jamie and he provided a list of all the essential store cupboard ingredients a person should have to hand. Just one hundred and twenty-six items. This included 13 types of dried pasta, 11 kinds of nuts and 13 ready-made sauces. Nine kinds of tinned food must be available and as no one is going to have just one tin of anything I'd say that would bring the necessary items to over 150. Either I get rid of all that crockery or a new pantry is needed.

But - Jamie says that there is no point in serving up all this delicious, nutritious food if it's dished up on random, everyday plates and bowls. He advises using painted boards or vintage crockery from flea markets. Doesn't have to be expensive y'see. Now the painted board thing. Not happening in this house. I'd serve the chow on them just the one time and later on that evening Bert would have them in the wood-burning stove. Looks like the vintage crockery is staying and, as I've probably already got around half of Jamie's recommended pantry list, all I need is to shop for the 75 items I haven't got and a two-tier bamboo steamer for all the dim sum I'll be making. 

A Fine Autumn Day

Such a lovely day today. Blue skies, temperatures in the low twenties, dry, a brisk, warm breeze. Washing out early, line-dried with no need for airing.

I made an apple sponge with peasgood nonsuch apples and it was lovely. I spent a few hours raking leaves which is a task that I find very pleasurable.

Bert and Hannah took Judy and Ziggy to the vet to have anal glands dealt with so happy dogs too.

Verbena bonariensis still in full bloom.

Just the beginning. Mostly beech. Lots of lovely leafmould in two years time.

Pig Dream

I dreamed I stole a little pig that wore clothes. Not on his nether regions of course as that would be impractical, just a little jacket and a scarf. Bit Beatrix Pottery.

Anyway, I felt very guilty that I'd stolen this pig and decided to return him to his owner Mrs Hanna, the farmer's wife who in real life always baked cakes using Stork. Coincidentally Mrs Hanna was also the mother of a teacher at Cullybackey High who was there in Bert's time and was violent and slightly insane. Or so they said.

The Hannas were a very nice and respectable Protestant family who lived next door to us in Cannonstown. I have some very good memories of them and some not so good.

I remember Mrs Hanna being very kind. And George, her husband was the first person who showed me the stars above and told me about the constellations. I've gazed skywards ever since.

Their youngest son Alan would invite me over to watch children's programmes on their black and white television for at that time we did not have a TV. The only programme I can remember seeing was Captain Pugwash. Those were good memories.

Then there was the time I took their grandson Samuel Alexander for a walk. I'm not sure where but it wouldn't have been too far away. But it must have been very muddy because Samuel Alexander got his bright white socks and his shiny black shoes completely filthy. George was very cross with me. I was devastated as he'd never been cross before. I realise now that he was probably going to get into trouble with his son and daughter-in-law.

Mrs Hanna had a fruit garden full of currant bushes and gooseberries which she used for jam-making. She used to give my sister and me ripe gooseberries and I thought they were delicious. Once the family had planned a day to Portrush and I, ever wicked, said to my sister that we should go to Mrs Hanna's garden and pick gooseberries. We did and ate the fruit off the bushes. The next day we had upset stomachs and Mammy mentioned this to Mrs Hanna. She said,

That will be all those gooseberries they ate yesterday.

I was mortified. It turned out that only the men of the family had gone to Portrush. Mrs Hanna watched from her kitchen window as Jean and I stole her fruit.

I was very, very young when I first encountered the future teacher. Maybe three or four and despite his chosen career path I don't think he had a lot of time for children. I was annoying, kept knocking the front door and he came out and chased me down the path. I thought it must be a game and called him a bugger, a word I was trying out for the very first time. Where I heard it, I don't know, as my parents did not swear. Well, maybe Daddy did, among other men but not in front of children. Mrs Hanna told my mother and she brought me home and smacked me around the legs, very hard. I was heartbroken as I didn't feel as if I'd done anything wrong. But I had. I had embarrassed her in front of her respectable neighbours.

The very worst memory was the day they killed the pigs. I don't even know why I was there. The most horrific part was how they screamed when they were being brought to the killing place. I cannot bear to write the details of what happened next but it is imprinted in my memory and will be forever.

I was seven when we left Cannonstown for the Murphystown Road. It was only a few field lengths away but I never saw much of Mrs Hanna after that. Her oldest son, the very handsome Josie, used to do contract work for local farmers and would be around our place occasionally. I had a big crush on him when I was about thirteen. They are all gone now, every one of them.

In my dream, when I took the stolen piglet back to Mrs Hanna, she listened to my apology in her quiet and familiar way then she said,

You can keep it. I don't really want it. It's far too much bother.

I Can't Believe It's Not Butter

This evening, around the supper table, I made my confession. We were eating a rather nice cake at the time, one from a Mary Berry cookbook, published in 1988 - her favourite recipes no less! But those were the days when Mary Berry was just a jobbing food writer, not the huge celebrity she is today. I expect, back then, butter might have been a bit of a luxury item in the Berry household.

Now, the Nellyberts can afford butter, more especially since one of them (moi) became eligible for the state pension. The problem in the Nellybert household is that Nelly's cakes just won't rise. Martha even asked, a few months back,

Granny, why is your cake like a biscuit?

So, when I found Mary Berry's Favourite Recipes, I knew there would be a method for making a cake that would work for me. I found a likely one and followed it to the letter, right down to the margarine. I chose Stork, a margarine so good that seven out of ten people can't tell it from butter.* Back when I was a child only posh people baked with Stork. My mother, with her seven children, could only afford Echo margarine but, despite this, her baking pleased her children very much indeed. Mrs Hanna from next door always used Stork. I'm sure Aunt Sadie used it too. All the well-doing farmer's wives baked with Stork, never Echo.

That cake mixture creamed like a dream, rose like a cloud, tasted delicious. Twice I've given it to the family with no complaints. This evening was the third time. A plain cake, spread with Lorraine's delectable plum jam, sprinkled liberally with desiccated coconut and served with Bert's famous thin custard. Everyone seemed to enjoy it.

Then I confessed. They started to gag. (Slight exaggeration). The firstborn googled Stork margarine ingredients even though she never uses phones at mealtimes. Obviously, this was an emergency. Turns out that Stork margarine has three kinds of vegetable oil, one of which is palm oil. It has carotene for, without colouring, margarine would just look pale and very unappetising. And it has emulsifiers, a word that always makes me feel like gagging. Oh well. Looks like it's back to butter. I'll let my loyal reader know how I get on.

*1970s advertising campaign

Quiet Sunday

I woke up this morning to four extra people in the house and two extra dogs. It was raining heavily and I still hadn't finished trampling down the wildflower meadow area that Rachael and I started yesterday so I put on wellies and a waterproof, fed the hens and started trampling down. A roller would have been good but we don't have a roller.

Eventually, the house cleared. I watered in the polytunnel and made a third and last batch of chilli jam for this year. The first batch was from Lorraine's chillis, the second from Les' donation and the third a mixture with a few green tomatoes thrown in. I don't think my own chillis are ever going to come on.

When I went to check my email I found that my DNA results from MyHeritage had come through. I am 93.2% Celt and 6.8% East European. A peasant through and through. The East European has to have come from a great-great-grandparent and the only one that I know of whose forebears might have come from East Europe (via Scotland) is a Steen, from Sallagh in Carncastle. I've been told by a local genealogist that my father's grandfather John Steen was the son of Jacob Steen from Carncastle. Bert's results are still to come. Perhaps they will be more exciting but I suspect he's a peasant too.

Sallagh Braes

Planting A Meadow

Rachael brought the wildflower seed. Together we prepared the ground although she did much more work than me. Well, she is twenty years younger so that's OK. And I had photographs to take. There has to be a record of these events.

Meanwhile, two of my granddaughters and Rachael's twins played dress up on the trampoline.

Sowing the seed. Fingers crossed!

The remainder of the day included a record number of visitors and a visit to my brother at the home place.

A lot of those visitors and some new ones are still around and it sounds like they are having a party. I might join them.

One Day At A Time

When I decided to write up the blog every day in October I had no idea how significant this October was going to be. But, like all months, it will just have to be lived one day at a time.

And this day was a beauty. Blue skies, dry, and a mild, mild air.

I took these pictures.

I was hoping for free seed from these beauties. But they're mouldering on the plants. Guess I'll just have to invest in a packet for next year if I want these beautiful, dark sunflowers. Some of them are close to black. Free seed I did collect today from helenium, nasturtiums (four kinds), verbascum, Californian poppies and sidalcea. The Californian poppy was particularly generous. Too late for sowing, all will have to wait until spring. I already have lots of sweet william, aquilegia, foxglove and verbascum growing from seed collected earlier in the season.

Despite his aching ribs, Bert started to repair his drystone wall.

Brendan, my brother-in-law, helped Bert build the wall around ten years ago. Bert recalled him saying, use every stone, for every stone has a place. He followed that rule today.

We have Martha and Evie staying with us this evening.

The Famine Memorial

One of the sweetest things about living in a rural area is not having neighbours or, at least, not having them live too near to one's own place. For years Lizzie had the quietest of neighbours then a family moved into the house that shares a boundary with her own. She had little truck with them but, lordy, were they noisy. Lots of shouting children and barking dogs.* In the days when Lizzie was fit to go out walking with her own wee dog, she might well have made friends with the children but that never happened. I wouldn't be surprised if those children thought she was a witch. That's what I used to think about very old ladies who lived on their own. Too many fairy tales y'see.

Another thing I thought when I was a child was that lords and ladies were special, and better than us. Too many stories about kings and queens, handsome princes and beautiful princesses y'see. What they do to impressionable young minds is so very wrong. I recall one particular occasion when my Uncle Vincent challenged this belief. It was when he had us out for a drive along the famed Antrim coast road and, as was usual for him, lecturing us on geology, philosophy and history as we travelled along. At one point, somewhere between Waterfoot and Carnlough, he stopped the car to show us something. This was the Famine Memorial carved into the limestone rock that had been commissioned the third Lady Londonderry after the Great Famine. I read it, as much as I could for some of it was scratched out, and thought it very fine sentiment. Uncle Vincent begged to differ. He pointed out that the fine lords and ladies, and queens had done very little to assist the Irish people during the famine times. This is the part that was removed,


“An imperishable memorial of Ireland’s affliction and England’s generosity in the year 1846-47.”


Vincent was scathing about Queen Victoria's generosity towards her Irish 'subjects' which amounted to £5,000. Yet still a good deal better than the Londonderry family contribution - £30 while, at the same time, they spent £150,000 refurbishing their Irish estate, Mount Stewart in County Down (which I was pleased to visit Sunday last).

It surprised me, back then, to realise that lords and ladies, kings and queens might not be the admirable beings I'd read about in storybooks. And for that, the very beginning of my wokeness, I'd like to call out Uncle Vincent, a true champion for social justice.

The Famine Memorial at Garron Point, County Antrim

*Those neighbours of Lizzie moved to our part of the world. Not that far from us but thankfully not within earshot.

Wednesday Day Out

It occurred to me a week or so ago that Bert and I are not spending enough quality time together. I have blogging, he has the clarinet and we come together for gardening and meals but it's not enough. We needed more us-time so we decided more days out. And this week, Wednesday.

But, as always, life gets in the way. Aunt Lizzie needed coal. Since we discovered that a despicable coal delivery man was cheating Aunt Lizzie by bringing crappy coal and charging for top quality, Bert has been bringing her fuel from his own supplier. But as his sore ribs are paining him and he's under strict orders (from me) not to overdo it, I had no option but to help him with the offloading. And we had to wait until midday as Lizzie is not an early riser.

That all went well. Offloaded twelve bags of coal. How fit must coal delivery persons be? That is a tough job. Brought three dogs with us to Lizzie's delight. She adores dogs but can no longer manage having her own. Eighty-eight years old and still living independently, she is very much to be admired. It was Ziggy's first visit and he had to be dragged away. He knows an ardent dog-lover when he sees one.

Before we left I was gifted two gorgeous pelargoniums grown from cuttings. Eighty-eight years old and Lizzie is still as green-fingered as ever she was.

So, coal delivery and plant collection complete it was time to embark on the day out proper. From Connor to Parkgate, to Antrim, then to Randalstown where we walked in the forest, once a deer park belonging to the Lords O'Neill. Ziggy did not approve of the deer. They were completely unfazed by him.

After the forest walk, we progressed to Toome.

I said to Bert,

Shall we stop at Cargin graveyard and visit the IRA graves?

He said,

No.

Which was OK.

We stopped for coffee in Toome and ran into the lovely Liddys who seemed delighted to see us or maybe it was the dogs they liked but it was a sweet encounter no matter the main attraction. I don't think Judy or Jess have ever been to the shores of Lough Neagh before but they liked it.

Ballymena

Ballymena is the town closest to where I live. I wasn't born there, I'm not from there but it's The Town. It's where my mother caught the bus to, once a week, to collect her Family Allowance. Not for her the luxury of letting it build up. It was a necessity to be collected every week as soon as it came due. Occasionally I'd accompany her. I remember how she rushed and how there was never any time to look in shop windows, to admire all the things we couldn't afford. Still, there were treats. She'd buy a quarter of sweets in Donaghy's shop in Linenhall Street and she and I would have one each, the rest tucked in her bag for sharing when we got home.

Ballymena is where I went to grammar school for three long and hateful years. The summer holiday before, 1965, was ruined by my anxieties about this move from the small country school that we were able to walk to. I was especially terrified of travelling on the bus on my own. What if I got on the wrong bus? Ended up in some far-flung place like Ballyclare, never to find my home again?

The bus wasn't as intimidating as I'd feared but there were new anxieties. What if there was no seat on the lower deck? What if the conductor made me go upstairs where all the rough Academy boys sat? That actually happened once and I was terrified until a big boy, David Allen, who'd gone to our country school, sat beside me. I'm sure he recognised my terror at being among these great oafs. He tried to make conversation with me but I was too shy to engage. There was another boy from our school on board and I remember the other fellows bullying him. David was standing up for him. He was as old as my protector but fat and poor and probably a great butt for their jokes. He was a very sweet and kind boy and ended up working in the Civil Service at a very high level. David Allen became a GP and practised in the village where I live now.

And later on, Ballymena was where I socialised and came to live and, in time, where I met Bert. It's where my children where reared until we moved to the country to live with Bert.

These days it's The Town and I am ashamed of it.

Like all small towns, it is full of decent people but there is also an element of xenophobic, racist and bigoted people who live in it and, unfortunately, they are the ones who seem to define the place. When Ballymena gets in the news it always seems to be for the wrong reasons. From being the heroin capital of Northern Ireland, to the savage sectarian murder of a 15-year-old Catholic boy, the years-long protests at Harryville Chapel, and then a DUP Mayor asserting that Hurricane Katrina was divine punishment for the existence of gays. And, more recently, we had Ian Paisley Jr. M.P., prancing up and down Ballymena streets exulting being let off the hook by his constituents after his suspension from Westminster. Worse still, Ballymena's racists have now attracted the attention of England's worst and we may well become infested by them. Is it any wonder I'm ashamed to call it my town?

An October Promise. To Myself.

It's October, autumn is well and truly here. I'm going to up the posting and try to update the blog for the entire month. Sure I might as well. What else would I be at?

The lovely lilies that grow alongside the roses in the Rose Garden at Mount Stewart. Zoe drove Hannah and me there yesterday. The girls had both been there before but it was my first ever visit. I am already planning my return.

So, as I said, a post every day. Tonight's is short for it's been a busy day and I'm still reeling from the last episode of Ozark that we just watched. The blood! The wails! The water!

More tomorrow.

Grubbing and Planting

We spent some time yesterday digging out astilbe and Johnson's Blue geraniums because they had got far too big for their space. The astilbe will be going to Richard of the enormous garden and the geranium to anyone who wants it. We left a bit of that because it's a big favourite with pollinators.

And speaking of pollination, our friend Rachael was on the TV again. Not rare orchids this time but because her organisation Polli:Nation (part of Learning Through Landscapes) scooped a National Lottery Award for Environmental projects. Well done to everyone. I've learned a lot from Rachael, especially about encouraging pollinators by letting parts of (actually a lot of) our outdoor space run wild.

After the grubbing out, I planted oriental poppies. I know, I know! Not a huge draw for pollinators but I love them so. I'm not even sure they'll do, as the part of the garden they went into is rather heavy going.

Bert went to the doctor this morning for a discussion about how to manage his bone condition. He has been diagnosed with osteoporosis which is unusual for a male not yet sixty. He's a bit blue about it all. I felt a tad guilty about wanting him to rotovate especially as his rib is still bothering him so we decided to leave that until he's feeling better and planted the Stag's Horn Sumach anyway. He said we can work around it.

That little tree will branch out and become much fuller next year. And the year after that it will be even better. I'm looking forward to watching it grow.

A Parcel From England

Remember my lament about being unable to source a Stag's Horn Sumach? When I wrote that post I was rather hoping that someone would contact me to say that their Granny had that very shrub growing in her garden and that I was most welcome to come and help myself to a sucker.

That didn't happen. But this did!

It arrived this morning. When the delivery person pulled it out of the back of his truck I was quite flummoxed as to what it could be. For a moment I thought Bert had bought another strimmer. It was much taller than I expected. And oh, so carefully packed. It took me a while to get it unwrapped.

I shan't photograph it until it is planted in the ground which should be tomorrow. We've chosen the spot and it will need to be rotovated and levelled. One has to be careful when planting a sumach as it will make lots of baby sumachs so cannot be too close to other plants. The spot we picked is just outside my private, secret sitting room so I'll be able to enjoy looking at it when I'm relaxing.

The person who sent me this in response to my lamenting blog post was my cousin Dermot from Sussex. He is actually a first cousin, once removed and I believe that I might have met him on at least one occasion when he was a very tiny child and I was a teenager. But that's one of the truly excellent things about social media - you get to keep up with far-flung family members and even get to know some that you'd probably never get to meet in ordinary life. It was a very kind gesture indeed, and just the sort of thing that Dermot's great-grandmother might have done if she'd been a horticulturist and an expert plant finder and knew someone who really, really wanted a Stag's Horn Sumach.

Thanks, Dermot. You're an excellent cousin and a fine human bean.

Autumn Days

Chrysalis on tomato support frame in the polytunnel

Bert went a-wooding on Saturday to begin dealing with the big beech tree that blew down in the sheugh on the day of the strong wind. I mooched around the house doing a bit of this, a bit of that. It was a fine bright day. After a while, I went to see how he was getting along and found him loading all the fiddly branches in a big pile. And while he was doing that, he couldn't chainsaw. The truth is I worry about him when he's off a-wooding, just like Matty used to worry about Daddy. What if he injures himself, out in the fields, all alone? Lying there, bleeding out, his phone (as usual) lying on the coffee table, not able to get help. I may seem happy-go-lucky but I do get rather carried away with worst case scenarios.

Anyways, he was fine. I looked at what he was doing and thought, I could do that and let him get on with the chainsawing and, at the same time, keep an eye on him, be there if he accidentally cuts his leg off, be able to run out to the road and flag a vehicle down as my phone (as usual) is lying on the sideboard and I wonder which of my garments would be best to tear up to use as a tourniquet if the worst did happen. I'm thinking all this as I'm throwing small branches on the huge pile and keeping a look-out for any breach of health and safety procedures on Bert's part.

Of course, tourniquets are no longer recommended and stanching and applying pressure to large wounds is the thing to do nowadays, The tee shirt I'm wearing would be good for that purpose. But would Bert be able to apply the pressure himself while I ran out to the road looking for help dressed only in a flesh coloured bra and Gap jeans? That would certainly stop the traffic.

Happily, none of this came to pass and we spent a couple of hours a-wooding and I have to say, it was one of the nicest Saturdays I've ever spent and I could hardly wait to get back to it but it would have to wait until Monday as unnecessary outside work on a Sunday is still frowned upon in this God-fearing townland.  

Sunday was a good day too. Bert visited his Aunt Lizzie and I worked in the polytunnel and made pastry and a pie filling for the next day's dinner. And the reason for that was so I would have more time to go a-wooding on Monday.

Bert was a bit of a slow starter on Monday morning but eventually, he gathered up tractor, trailer, loppers and chainsaw and set off. I had a steamed chocolate pudding on the hob and it needed more time so he set off before me. Twenty minutes later I joined him to find that he'd already got several decent-sized trimmed branches on the trailer. I chided him for working too hard then set to gathering the trimmings to load onto the enormous pile. Bert stops work, starts staring at the fallen tree. He is pondering his next cut. I stop working too and ponder alongside him. I haven't a clue what he should do. All I know is that I will not approve him perching anywhere precarious whilst operating the chainsaw. He decides to approach the job from the other side of the sheugh (ditch). It is a very deep sheugh and it involves him climbing down then clambering up the other side and over the thickest part of the tree trunk. In fact, it is such an awkward manoeuvre that we decide I should climb into the sheugh and reach the chainsaw up to him. It was at this point that I realised that one of my wellington boots was letting in water.

Safely on the other side of the ditch, Bert starts to chainsaw while I watch from a distance. There is an expectation that the tree will drop closer to the ground so it is best to stay back. It takes a while. The tree moves a bit but not far enough. He can't see what is holding it up. If it was winter and the foliage gone it would be possible to work it out but not with the tree in full leaf. I keep watching to make sure he stays safe. He leans over a small branch to steady himself as he starts to cut into a thicker branch under it. 

Be careful,

I say as I've said so many times already. Then he stops, he goes pale, the chainsaw stops. I can see he has hurt himself. He's popped a rib. Game over, no more wooding for us. And now the bloody tree is a health and safety risk for we still don't know what's propping it up. It will have to be Clint and the digger now. How he will gloat at having to finish the job for us.

I advised Bert to rest while I went to Killyless Stores to buy new wellies. When I got back he said he was feeling much better and thought he might finish trimming back the rhododendron bushes beside the greenhouse. I pulled on my new boots (so comfy) and went out to help and was just in time to see him take two-thirds of a lilac bush down. 

It'll do it no harm,

Says he. We worked at the hedge for about an hour and, since the chainsaw was running anyway and Zoe had arrived, we persuaded him to saw down one of the three peach trees in the polytunnel. It was growing in a really awkward place and hadn't produced fruit in two years. My hopes are, that the one beside it will do better if it's gone. And, if not, it's going too. The third one we'll definitely keep as it produces a good crop most years and is well worth the space it takes up.

Poor Bert. He'd hurt his rib, banjaxed the fallen beech and been forced to murder his carefully espaliered peach tree and his troubles were not yet over. For Miss Evie, six going on seven, playing her favourite game of standing on his steel-capped boots while he walked her around, gave him a shove backwards which knocked him completely off balance and they both went tumbling to the ground. She, thankfully, was completely unhurt but he staved the palm of his hand and gave his frame another jolt.

The white hen refuses to lay in the hen-house. This is her latest nest. She thinks she can't be seen.

When he woke up this morning his hand was black and his rib was throbbing. I said,

Should I have a chat with Evie and say maybe she should be less rough in her play as she could hurt you?

He says,

Don't bother. She'll hardly be doing it for much longer.

Evie was delighted with this ladybird's hiding place.

Rhus Typhina or Stags Horn Sumach

How hard must it be to find someone selling this shrub for less than £30?

I first bought it in a 2litre pot at Ballymena Market. back when it stood on the original Fair Hill site, planted it at our first home on the Dreen Road where it flourished.

We sold that house to Clint and we knew he wasn't a lover of flowers. He was going to dig everything out! And he did. But, before that happened I returned to the garden, dug out suckers and potted them on. It took a while, a long while before we organised our new garden and decided where the Stag's Horn Sumach should go.

Too long. The Rhus Typhina was potted (and doing very well) in 3litre pots but, by the time I went looking for them, were gone. Nowhere to be found. Completely disappeared. Bear in mind that they were six or seven plants, among several thousand. It was a plant nursery after all, and my sumachs were lumped in along with the rest of the For Sale plants and some utter low-life landscaper type bod had arrived up someday, on a day that we weren't around and stole them. This light-fingered shit probably took other stuff as well but we don't keep track of lonicera, clematis and random shrubs so who knows.

That was years ago and I still haven't replaced my furry-branched sumach. There have been other sumachs but not Rhus Typhina. I'm old now, how many years have I got to appreciate those velvet branches and the unsurpassed Autumn colour. I could spend thirty quid being robbed by some pack of English bastards, charging me stupid postage and a further six quid surcharge for being from Northern Ireland, Channel Islands or The Fucking Hebrides like having to get on a boat means we get to be robbed. When I KNOW there are people within a ten-mile radius with Stag's Horn Sumach TORMENTING them with suckers and all you'd have to do is let me dig them up and I'll swap you a clematis, or some crocosmia Lucifer and as many aquilegias as you can carry.

What's brought this on, you might ask? Bert and I, this very day sailed to Dobbie's Nursery in Lisburn, which emporium offered Rhus Typhina on its website. I knew it was a Fool's Errand, websites being notoriously unreliable entities. And of course, I was right. I got into a conversation with one of the (Greenmount educated) sales assistants. It was an interesting and enlightening conversation. Apparently, crocosmia Lucifer is still a thing and also, the website is a nonsense. All that it means is that Dobbies knows Rhus Typhina is a plant, they've heard about it and might have sold it once, several years ago. What else can I say about Dobbies? It is very expensive. Araucaria that Bert sells for ten quid they sell for forty. There is a butchery? There is. I find that strange. The women's toilets are weird. The toilet cubicles are flimsy and cheap looking. The wash hand basins are shaped like flowers. They look stupid and hard to clean. I did not think of flowers, just bacteria.

Despite all this, I bought stuff. Strange stuff. Unusually coloured crocus, weird bean seeds and nasturtium seeds that are supposed to look like orchids. Dobbies has a chance to redeem itself. If these corms and seeds fulfil their promise I might return.

I still want Rhus Typhina.

Seeds Ordered!

Product Name	Stock Code	Quantity	Price
Bargain Basement 10 packets	1327	1	£ 3.25
Eremurus robustus	513B	1	£ 2.38
Canna indica	269	1	£ 3.10
Eccremocarpus scaber, 'Tresco' Mixed	490H	1	£ 2.25
Anethum graveolens, 'Mariska'	102Q	1	£ 1.95
Papaver somniferum Mixed Varieties	954G	1	£ 1.75
Lathyrus odoratus, Old-Fashioned Sweet Peas, 'Cupani'	765Z	1	£ 1.95
Salvia patens, 'Blue Angel'	1141R	1	£ 3.15
Salvia sclarea var. turkestanica	1140R	1	£ 1.95
Cleome spinosa, Mixed Colours	366A	1	£ 1.85
Pulsatilla vulgaris	1075B	1	£ 3.25
Helianthus annuus, 'Lemon Queen'	674J	1	£ 2.25
Abutilon x hybridum, F1 Hybrid, 'Bella' Series, Mixed	5M	1	£ 3.15
Angelica gigas	102E	1	£ 3.65
Carthamus tinctorius, 'Zanzibar'	277P	1	£ 1.95
Adonis aestivalis	48	1	£ 1.72
Sub Total:		16 Items	£ 39.55

So, using the Flickr gallery group, I made my choices. All seeds ordered from Chiltern Seeds and all except the salvia sclarea inspired by James Fenton's list. 

I've been meaning to grow that salvia for ages now. It's been a while.

If I do this right, there should be enough plants to share with friends and enough to sell to the local garden supply shop which should, at least, cover the cost of the seeds.

****

Another thing that was on my mind today - it was our father's birthday. Seamus was born on this day 99 years ago. Happy birthday old lad, wherever you are.