One Gets To Wondering

 ...or, what's it all about?

Martha just wants to do dangerous tricks on Bert's old bicycle. By the way, she informed me that I have a bicycle. I'd forgotten.

Dangerous tricks accomplished, Martha felt it was time she learned to drive Bert's ancient Ford. 

 Bert probably learned on that same tractor himself. You'd hardly know it, but it was in for a recent refurb. There were great plans mooted but Bert settled for a few engine improvements and some new mudguards. All the better to sit on when the latest child learns to drive it. Uncle Joe said, and I quote,

Yes, learn on the wee Ford and when Bert buys a new Fendt she will be up to speed.

It will never happen. Mudguards are as far as Bert goes.

Meanwhile, Evie looks forward to her ninth birthday on the 3rd of November. She only wants one present, or should I say, president.

Look Back In Bemusement

 I have been toodling around with genealogy for more than twenty years now and often I'll leave it alone for years on end. Now that I have more free time I'm finding myself becoming obsessed. I'm at it at least once a year, and often for weeks on end. It doesn't help that my oldest daughter, at least one sister and several cousins are equally interested because that only encourages me.

Which is why I haven't blogged for over a week.  

The oldest daughter tempted me to try a free month on Ancestry and I really did think that would be enough. Instead, I found myself buying an extra month so I could get stuck into all those Australian, Canadian, and American kinfolks. It has been both frustrating and fascinating.

I spent several evenings digesting 1950s newspapers centred around the Trangie area in New South Wales searching for news of Bert's Robinson kinfolk. They led not particularly exciting lives holidaying in each other's homesteads all of which were extensively reported in the local paper. Also considered newsworthy were purchases of new Ford cars or the shooting of wild boars that had been worrying sheep. They all lived between Trangie and Dubbo and a trip to Sydney was a big highlight. Bert has relatives (supposedly) in Dubbo to this day as do I although I'm not sure if they know each other. Bert's lot moved from the North Antrim hills to become farmers and my lot travelled from Belfast to make their livings any way they could. I tracked, through Facebook, a descendant of those early Robinson farmers and he'd made the news and not in a good way. Living on a property, dry as a bone, where no crops have been raised in nearly a decade and trucking in grape by-products from the wine-growing areas to feed his cattle. It seems that my relatives in keeping clear of farming have had far better outcomes in life. 

One thing I have learned is that sites like Ancestry, like so much on the internet, cannot be trusted. Take those Dubbo relatives. About thirty years ago Bert's lot got word that a couple of young folk from Dubbo were in Ireland to seek their ancestral roots. It turned out that most of their Irish relatives were very elderly and because Bert was still on the young side we were encouraged to meet up. At that time in our lives, Nellybert were very sociable and keen on partying and the brother and sister from Dubbo were invited to a social gathering at which the young lady was very well-behaved and her brother anything but.

We met a few times and the final get-together was to be in Belfast. That never happened because although we were all in the city we couldn't make it to the agreed meeting spot in the Crown Bar as the Europa Hotel, which is opposite that pub took another hit that day. 

Back to the present day and with all the internet and Ancestry at my disposal I decided to find out how those far-out Dubbo cousins were connected to Bert. I found out that their dad had died recently and conveniently, he was in possession of an unusual forename so it was easier to trace his ancestry. I was very excited for Robinson is a common surname. But, what's this! Mr Unusual Forename, married to a Miss Robinson completely by-passed Bert's ancestor Joseph Robinson who had emigrated from Carnbuck to Trangie in his eighties and instead our so-called imposter cousins from Dubbo are descended from Mr George Robinson, convict of Manchester, England. 

Or maybe Ancestry UK got it wrong again. Like I said, frustrating.

Sunflowers and Ava

It's summer's last kick (really early autumn) and it's sunflower time again. As ever, I sowed too many and successes were few.

This one was a 12-footer growing in the polytunnel where it collapsed on to Zoe's sweetcorn patch. Too fresh and lovely to throw on the compost heap and far too heavy to arrange conventionally. 

These dark orange sunflowers are my favourites,,,

...while small tortoiseshells seem to prefer a traditional sunflower.

Sunflowers were a big favourite of Ava's too and because she died in the first weeks of September they will ever be associated with her memory. Exactly one year ago today since she was laid to rest in her hometown Antrim. 

 

Ava Grace Byrne 2011-2019

 

 

27 Years

The birthday cake was yesterday because birthday cake is always on a Tuesday because that is when Martha, Evie, and their loving parents come for supper. There is no point in birthday cake unless Martha and Evie are there. For candlelight becomes them. I only wish James and Emily could have been there too. 

James was otherwise occupied. He started big school this week and I hear he was disappointed. He said big school was 'too tiny'. 

Today, Jazzer took Bert shopping for a new phone, his first smartphone. I think he is secretly pleased with it even though he said it was 'shite' because he doesn't know how to work it. In a week he will. I'm jealous of the camera and will probably be borrowing it to photograph my moth catches.

Did I mention that we have bees again? They came on Sunday evening. Fingers crossed they will stay with us.

Back to Jazzer. She reminded me that she first met me on my fortieth birthday. The title of this post refers to the length of time that we have known each other. How did I get to be this old?

Meadow Making

I should have brought my camera so that I could have taken a 'before' shot and pictures of the little calves who are doing their best to chomp all that farm grass down, helping me to make a meadow. But I was burdened. I had some water mint roots to plant beside the stream and a trowel to plant them. I had a big bowl of yellow rattle seeds and a litter picker to gather the trash that car sluts throw from their windows. I had a big plastic bag to collect the rubbish. With all that I couldn't manage a camera as well.

The calves followed me everywhere but I did not find them intimidating. I worried that they weren't hungry enough to eat all the grass that needs eating. They are far fonder of calf meal. In an ideal world, they'd all still be with their mothers. But there they all were, orphan boys, following the strange human around the field, partly curious, part in the hope she might have something for them to eat.

It was a pleasant job, scattering the seed, tramping it down with my feet. I'll return to it.

Some meadow inspiration that I visited a couple of months ago. This meadow was created by Donna Rainey, a volunteer with the Don't Mow, Let It Grow project.

Another picture taken on that visit. Hard to believe that a few years back this field was being intensively farmed for silage. It's easily ten times the size of our little meadow. And it all started with a good scalping and a load of hand-sown yellow rattle seed. 

If anyone was looking for me this evening between 4:20pm and 5:10pm I would have been just outside the chicken run, hiding behind a fine specimen of Angelica Sylvestris whilst keeping a close eye on the hen known as Jacqueline. This particular hen is renowned for 'laying out' and I was trying to determine if she had a nest nearby. 

Currently, we have 12 hens and 2 roosters and are averaging around two eggs per day. This is unsatisfactory considering the amount of high-quality chicken feed I am shovelling into them daily. Five of those hens are recent additions and I had high hopes for them. Unfortunately, they came with an unnecessary rooster but, as they say, one cannot look a gift horse in the mouth. We'd just got rid of a surplus rooster and our hens,  relieved from the stress of the demands of two randy cocks, had rewarded us with increased laying. Two weeks later, another useless rooster turns up and the hens stressed to the max and the two tribes are hating on each other and are not earning their keep.

So there was Nelly, crouching among the thistles, nettles, brambles, Robin run the hedge and the angelica keeping a very tight eye on Jacqueline. And Jacqueline, feigning all indifference, kept a tight and beady eye on Nelly and refused to give up the location of the nest which, I'm certain, must have brimmed with at least two dozen eggs. 

Hens are reputed to be of low intelligence yet I suspect they feel the same about us for I am constantly outsmarted by them. Hens are cunning devils and I wish, I really wish I loved chicken broth as much as I love eggs.

Yellow Rattle Seeds

 On Friday afternoon, Rachael, Ziggy, Twins and myself went off in search of yellow rattle seeds. Our first stop was a bit of managed meadow outside Rasharkin. Yellow rattle is a useful plant for establishing meadow flowers because it's roots attach to the grass roots, stealing the nutrients which weakens the grass, allowing native wildflowers to flourish. That's why meadow makers love it, and farmers not so much.

We were able to gather a good quantity of the seed while leaving plenty to spread further into the meadow. Meanwhile, William and his sister took turns looking after Ziggy.

Young William running through the meadow. 

Back at home two of the four swallows in the shed had just fledged. They hung around for a couple of days but today they are out flying around and fending for themselves. 

Islandmagee

 

We took a daytrip to Islandmagee today, the first time I've been there in nearly ten years. We were Bert, my cousin Kathleen, myself and three dogs, Judy, the Jess and the Zigster. 

Islandmagee is about three decades behind the rest of County Antrim and I can assure you, that in my book, that is a very good thing. The verges are (mostly) unkempt, the hedges are (mostly) high because the good people who live there have nothing to prove to anyone.

We visited The Rinkha, wore masks, sported clean fingernails and enjoyed some Really Good ice cream. 

On our return we turned left at the top of Craigyhill, went home via Carnalbanagh, saw the other side of Slemish, and on the high ground a kestrel flew out all burnished by the evening sun, which made the hour, the day, all of August worthwhile. Onwards to Buckna, through Boyle Country, Broughshane and home.

We were only on the yard a moment and a red car pulled in. A friend, a good bit younger than me, to show us pictures of her grandson, born a week ago, in difficult circumstances but recovering well. And what will he call you? I enquired. 'Granny!', says she. I couldn't have been more pleased. Embrace the Granny. It's the way forward. 

The newest Granny in town.

Woke Up This Morning

 ...from a dream in which I had a persistent dry cough. Just a dream, then I gave a dry cough, then another one.

Oh dear. And of course. Of course I have Covid-19. After all, I live in  Cullybackey, which is the current pandemic hot-spot in the Occupied Six Counties.

I pondered my fate. Perhaps I'll be one of the fortunate ones who get off lightly, who survive. That seemed likely. Apart from the persistent dry cough I felt fine. Then the guilt kicked in. Who might I have infected in the previous week?

Putting these anxious thoughts aside, I leapt from my bed, feeling sprightly enough, went downstairs, made coffee, ate a home made scone, returned to bed, completed a Sudoku puzzle, finished Lady Glenconner's posh memoir and started on Kate Atkinson's Big Sky. Looked at Jess lying beside me and wondered if perhaps my dry cough might have been due to inhaling her dander. Oh well, nothing another cup of coffee won't cure.

I live to fret another day.

August Wildflowers

 These photographs were taken three days ago when it was extremely warm. I look at the wildflowers that are often referred to as 'weeds' differently nowadays. So, I decided to photograph a selection of them in the same way that I take pictures of garden flowers. These plants just grow, and need no tending.

But! I hear the neat-freaks say. These are weeds, they make the place look so untidy. Of course they do, but who cares? Are woods tidy? Are meadows tidy? They are not and they shouldn't be. And don't get me started on hedges.

 These plants are so important for the environment. They provide foraging for pollinators, food for insects, seeds for wild birds. When I pass the big patch of willow herb that grows between the poly-tunnels and the raspberry garden I am always looking out for caterpillars, especially elephant hawk moth caterpillars. I haven't seen any this year but they must be around somewhere. The yellow rattle that we encourage in what used to be a lawn will feed on the grass roots and encourage more meadow flowers to thrive. There is eyebright growing beside it. It's a tiny patch but is a start. There is no need to buy expensive meadow flower seed. The seed is already there, dormant and waiting for the right conditions to come forward.

 

So, there we go. Our excuse for letting the wild things grow, for not being tidy. And I am sure you'll agree - these 'weeds' are really lovely too.

Monday Musings

Musings, now there is a word. A decade or so ago, when personal blogs were a thing, at least 20% of them featured that word, 'musings'. The other 80% were 'rants'.

Nevertheless, today Nelly has musings.

This morning Bert had clematis deliveries to a well-known shop in Broughshane and as it is mandatory mask-wearing Monday in Northern Ireland, he wore a mask. Afterwards, he reported that mask-wearing compliance in Broughshane was good.

This evening I visited Lidl in Ballymena and wore a mask. There were perhaps twenty shoppers there. Mask wearers were in the majority but it was light. Maybe twelve complying, eight not. Lidl had nothing to say on the matter.

In between times, I took a van load of recyclables to the council yard in Ballymena. Since the lockdown, there has always been a queue to get in. The queue starts on Waveney Road just outside the Fire Station. There are signs outside the Fire Station stating KEEP CLEAR. These are being ignored, people are queuing in vehicles outside the Fire Station. Not me, of course. But, while I was considerately leaving lots of room for Fire Engines another van driver (wedding planner) overtook me and plonked himself right in front of the Fire Station. I made a note of the name and number and decided never to avail of their services, ever. As if!

Whilst at the council recycling yard and encumbered with a huge pile of Ikea cardboard (hoarded from last year's kitchen buying and at long last fucked out) and half-blinded by my mask, I stumbled into one of the traffic cones they were using to help the punters socially distance and fell over. Grazed knee, barked shin and mucho embarrassment. The council workers were most solicitous and kind and I assured them it was my own fault and I would not be seeking a claim. Who could be arsed?

All blog posts must have a picture. This is it.

It's a selfie with aquilegias. One I prepared earlier.

Clare

Look at that pair of darlings, Aunt Clare and Matty, two sisters born ten years apart, both died aged 84. Not just sisters, they were also close friends from a close family of seven sisters and one brother. Clare was the youngest and she died five days ago, the very last of the Randalstown McAnespies.

Clare was very family orientated. She adored Matty, my mother and was always a great support to her, as she was to all her other siblings. I loved Clare because she was always the same, genuine, sharp, funny and loyal. 

My brother Joe and I called on her about three weeks ago. She'd been in hospital and during this Covid-19 thing, that meant no visitors. There were no hugs when we took our leave, not that Clare would have cared for she didn't go in for unnecessary sentiment although she'd tolerate it.

Clare was the one everyone turned to in a crisis. She cared about everyone in her extended family and she looked after both her parents until their final days. She was a great woman and I shall miss her so much.

Every picture tells a story. This was taken (by Zoe) at my sister Deirdre's wedding. Clare was always there at all the important family events. I don't remember what she said to me or why I am laughing but, knowing Clare, it would have been something really naughty and rascally.

Clare the teenager.

Yesterday

Yesterday morning, I'm getting ready to go into town. My bank first, as I need to set up internet banking so I don't have to actually go to the bank ever again and then Waterstones to pick up some books for my sister. And I might as well get some wine while I'm out. I'm going to wear a mask, a white cotton one that looks like I repurposed my knickers.

Upstairs changing into something civilised and I hear a siren in the distance. It gets closer. I look outside - a fire engine. Then police cars. Something bad has happened. I go to town and do my errands. It's not until I get home a few hours later that I hear what the bad thing was. Just one and a half miles from here three people lost their lives in a devastating car crash. Three people in their 50s, one woman, her husband and her brother. It made the news that evening. Six years ago there was another fatal car crash at the same crossroads, three English soldiers returning from a fishing trip, they overshot the crossing and collided with a tractor. Two died. We heard the sirens that day too.

 The thing is, that woman, her husband, her brother - yesterday morning, they were just living their lives, doing stuff, making plans. And now they are not. This isn't the city. Sirens are notable, recalled. This isn't a war zone, we're not used to sudden death any more. We were once, but the Troubles are over now. We lead quiet, uneventful lives and we like it like that. But, as Seamus Heaney wrote, 'Anything can happen.' And this, just this... because anything can happen, be good to each other, meet people half-way, say the kind thing, patch up your quarrels and hug your darlings.

The road, by Sinead

Today was my mother's birthday and it gained another layer of meaning. 

Don't Mow, Let It Grow

Every picture tells a story...

This used to be 'a lawn'. We'll work on making it less Yorkshire foggy more meadow flowery. Meanwhile, ringlets adore it.

To be encouraged...

Self Heal

 Yellow Rattle

Happy Birthday James

If it wasn't for the current situation I'd be counting down days until seeing this lovely five-year-old, my first and only grandson. Happy fifth birthday James. See you as soon as we can.

Screen Time

Like many other children, my two oldest grandchildren would like to spend a lot of time with a screen in front of their faces. In this, they are not alone as Granny Nelly is also often found in front of a PC screen for she is old school.

However, their sensible parents place some restrictions on their screen time which allows more free time for reading, songwriting, gardening, trampolining, crafting, fighting, dressing up, imagination, conversation, slime making, art, more fighting. You get the picture.

Does looking at my vast collection of short videos count as screen-time? Not at all. Martha and Evie would see this as an opportunity to study history. For instance, this screenshot of Hannah and Holly is from a little avi shot more than two years before Miss Martha was born. I always did think, back in the olden days, that no portrait could ever fail to be improved by the addition of a cat and a backdrop of long grass.

Flycatcher young in nest

Living Our Best Lives

I have a nephew, whose partner (my honorary niece) posts Instagram pictures of her two youngest daughters 'living their best lives'. It's inspiring. Last September those little girls lost their big sister to cancer. My nephew and niece lost their beloved first daughter. And there they are, less than a year later, broken-hearted, but for the sake of the two little girls, the two big brothers and themselves, trying hard to live their best lives. I call that heroic. For it's not easy and I say that having no idea what it must be like. I can only imagine.

I had a few flat days recently, no particular reason, pissy weather, not much going on, a bit bored.

Then I saw that Instagram post. My two great-nieces, living their best lives with the help of their loving parents.

AVA

This photograph was taken by Ava's Auntie Naoise at the Sunflower Field at Portglenone. 

Ava Grace Byrne might only have had eight years of life but she was, and I do not say this lightly, an inspiration, and a legend. Like Ava, and like her bereaved family, I am going to try hard to live my best life.

A Bucket of Bleach

My Granny Mac's house on the Staffordstown side of Randalstown had an outdoor toilet and no running water which was not unusual in rural Ireland in the late 1950s. Despite this Granny kept a clean house. Water was pumped from a well in the garden and carried into the kitchen in a white enamel bucket. Granny used a lot of bleach. Her pine kitchen table was scrubbed every day with a bleach solution and was as white as snow. Likewise, the wooden boards that covered the outdoor toilet. Bleach couldn’t disguise the toilet smell but it went some way.

I’d been warned never to drink bleach as it was a deadly poison. This lesson was so well learned so that when I used the outdoor toilet one morning just after Granny had scrubbed it and got bleach on my bum I was worried. I tried to clean the bleach off with the lavatory paper (cut up newspaper) but didn’t succeed except for transferring it to my hand. Poisoned bum and hand. This was a very bad situation.

Without thinking things through I went into the house and plunged my poisoned hand into the big enamel bucket of water in Granny's kitchen. Now there was no bleach on my hand. But then it dawned - the water was poisoned now and Granny would use it to make tea and everyone would drink the tea and then they would die. I would have to confess.

Aunt Clare came into the scullery and filled the kettle. I wanted to tell her about the poisoned water but I couldn't for she was scary. I couldn’t tell her and even if I told Granny, Aunt Clare would find out and she’d be so angry. She would shout at me, she might slap me. I couldn’t risk it.

So I said nothing and waited for them all to die. It was an anxious time.

Granny and Aunt Clare. They survived. No thanks to me. Aunt Clare is in her eighties now. I hope no one tells her about this. For she might still slap me.

The Family Rosary

When I was a child, the Rosary was an important part of practising the Catholic faith. The prayer would be said in Church services but it was also strongly encouraged as a communal evening prayer in Catholic homes.

Looking back, it seems to me that we did not always say the Family Rosary. I'm sure that we mostly said it but there were times when the prayer fell by the wayside. When the parents resurrected it after a fallow period I mightily resented it. Maybe that was the problem. If it had been said every single night I'd have been used to it.

I hated the Rosary. Ah sure there were times when I was trying to reconcile myself to a decent practice of the religion that I tried to like it but I could not. It was long and dreary and boring and tedious and off-putting. In the chapel, I could bear it but home – sure there were a million better things you could be doing, watching The Man From Uncle, playing with Bunty dolls, listening to Radio Luxembourg, reading books, fighting with the sisters, even just thinking.

Apparently, you were supposed to 'dwell' on the Mysteries. The Joyful were dreary, The Glorious tedious and the Sorrowful, they were interesting but, ultimately, deeply depressing. The Rosary just did not do it for me.

Then, when the five decades were completed there were end prayers. I think we did three. I actually liked the Memorare and can recite it to this day. The rest were an awful drag.

The worst Rosaries of all were when the parents decided to say it on the way home from visiting relatives, late in the evening when you'd be tired. It was so intrusive. Riding in the car, all of us children asleep or half-asleep was an introspective, thinking time, not a time to be reciting some dreary dirge of a prayer.

Y'know when I look back I think I must always have been a Crap Catholic.

Happy 21st Birthday, Mr Ben

Here are a few memories for you.

Looking forward to the next 21.

Blackbird Again

This is Mr Blackbird earlier this evening singing as loud as he could to drown out the Dreen Road traffic. This picture was taken from ground level. He is sitting at the very top of a very tall and dying ash tree.

Four days now since I fell out of the treehouse and there is something to add. Two feet, for the drop was twelve-foot, rather than ten.

Every day I'm a little less sore than I was the day before, and yet...

On Day One I was super-hyped on adrenalin and glad to be aliveness. The pain was almost a joy to me because I had survived the fall with no serious injury.

Day Two was more of the same but with less pain.

On Day Three my left breast was really sore. As always, I went to That Place. Then Bert noticed that there were a lot of butterflies in the garden. Mostly Small Tortoiseshells and a couple of Red Admirals. I grabbed my camera.

I spent a happy half hour taking pictures. And afterwards, the breast pain had completely eased. Not cancer then, just boob whiplash.

Today, Day Four. Just one sore area, somewhere under my left shoulder-blade. It was really annoying, much less bearable than Day One's multiple pains. I succumbed to pain relief even though it was against medical advice.

I have been thinking about the fall and have figured out why I got off so lightly. My legs must have got caught up in the trap door cover so than when I landed on the ground I only impacted my shoulders and upper back. My head, lower back and limbs were entirely unhurt apart from abrasions and a big bruise on my right arm where it caught one of the wooden struts holding up the platform. The strut broke, my arm did not. Zoe said I'm as hard as nails. I hope she's right.

Today I took some pictures of our flycatchers. Himself sitting on the sumach outside my window.

 
Herself sitting on their second clutch of eggs. They are a busy pair.

I might go out now to see if I can catch a glimpse of the long-eared owl babies that are hopping around the big trees at the back of the sheds. That is the second pair of long-eared owls that have nested here this year. One pair in the middle of the wood and another pair nearer the house. The young ones kick up quite a racket after dark.

Blackbird Singing

This is the blackbird which sits every evening in an ash tree and sings his heart out. It's not a good picture and I would dearly love to get a better one. I've tried using a long lens on a tripod and that didn't work for me so do I need a better camera or a better vantage point? Why not see if I can get a better picture from the treehouse?

I haven't been up there for more than a year. Bert was working on it last week, making the stairs safer. Ben stood on the platform to secure the swing. Evie was there too. I took photographs.

I was planning to use the rail to steady the camera and stepped on to the exact spot where Ben is standing in that picture. One foot on, then the second and the floor collapsed and I fell through landing on my back more than 10 feet below. The floor, actually a trapdoor where, when the treehouse was being built, was used to haul up furniture and a pot-bellied stove. The supporting frame had rotted away.

Well! Time seems to slow down when one knows one is going to hit the ground with a big thump. And maybe die. My life did not flash before my eyes but there was enough time in that split second to be hugely concerned about my camera. Which isn't even that great.

I landed. There was gasping and wailing. I wasn't sure if I would be able to get up but eventually, I did. I had a horrible headache. I got on to my knees, so slowly and first thing started looking for the camera. And couldn't find it. Then I pulled myself up and found I could walk. Very slowly.

I made it to the house just as Bert was leaving it. Called him back,

Bert, I've had an accident. I fell out of the treehouse. I can't find my camera. Can you get it for me?

He went off, came back a few minutes later as white as a sheet and holding the camera which hadn't a scratch even though the lens cap was off.

I can't believe you walked away from that!

So, I took some painkillers and after a while went back outside and took a photograph of that bloody blackbird. Still singing, no idea he was nearly the death of me. And then I set up the moth trap and went back in the house, had a wee medicinal whiskey and Bert and I watched an episode of Ozark.

That happened yesterday. I woke up this morning, so sore and stiff but after a couple of painkillers and a coffee, I was able to have a look at the moths. And bagged, for the first time a Light Emerald and a male Ghost. Both beautiful. Though the photographs were crap.