Travel Anxiety

I'm not much of a traveller and when I do get around to it I am filled with anxiety. For a start, I'm never sure I'll even be allowed on the plane. So what if the plane falls out of the sky. If I get to board I will be as happy as Larry.

So, all being well I will get on a plane tomorrow and I will visit with my Norfolk family for four days. Then I will take a train to London and visit London Sister and Ganching for three days.

Actually this time I'm not that anxious at all. Oh dear! Hope that's not a bad omen. It's OK. I'm anxious again.

Today, my last day at home for a week, I packed, cleaned the hen house, watered the plants and binge-watched Bodies on Netflix.

I cannot wait an entire week to see how it ends.

I wonder if Cleo will miss me? I know Woody will.

 

A Bit Of A Catch-Up

First of all, Woody has responded well to the magic juice provided by the vet. No more coughing and he's eating tremendous amounts of food and... he loves everybody. Especially Hannah, Evie and Martha, and even Nellybert.

Then there was the matter of Bert's book choices. Strumpet City was turned down because it was too big and he fell in love with David Sedaris. Bert never ceases to surprise me.

On the subject of books, First Daughter was laid low with COVID-19 for a week and has since made a full recovery. I asked her if she'd filled her downtime with books or streaming. She told me she'd just sourced a book, a dystopian novel set in Ireland that she'd hoped would fill the hours. But, because of current real-life events, the novel proved to be a tough read. If only I'd known I could have loaned her my small collection of Eva Ibbotson romances.

Speaking of which, it was Ganching who alerted me to Eva Ibbotson's adult fiction which, as Ganching informed us, Ibbotson wrote for 'very intelligent women with the flu'. It just so happened I'd already found three of those novels in a charity shop and hadn't got round to opening them as I thought they'd be a bit saccharine. I'm on the third one now and finding it and the previous two quite delightful. 

Zoe getting the Covid spurred me to book my free jabs, flu and the coronavirus. That happened this morning and straight after I was off to Antrim to breakfast with Jazzer. We had a quick look around the charity shops to see if we could find a particular kind of knee-length boot that Martha needed to complete the Buffy the Vampire Slayer costume she wanted to wear at Halloween. Unfortunately, we did not find them except we did but three sizes too small.

Then we went to Dobbies. I was quite excited about this as the last time I was in a Dobbies (somewhere near Lisburn) I got the most gorgeous crocus bulbs and some  Nasturtium 'Phoenix' seeds . Nothing appealed to me at Antrim Dobbies apart from a new pair of cuttings snips. The prices were sky-high. I discovered that the monster deliciosa I dismantled (because it got too big) and turned into six new plants would have cost me £120. We could not wait to get out of it. I won't be back. At least until the spring of 2024 if the world still exists then. 

Back at Jazzer's, I gathered nasturtium seeds from her plants. Mostly Phoenix. Funnily enough, she has a lot of them in her garden because I grew them from my collected seed and accidentally gave her all the seedlings because I'd neglected to label them. 

So that is my catch-up. I will try to get a few posts in over the weekend as I am going to Norfolk and London next week and Will Not Be Blogging.

And speaking of London, I heard the sad news this week that an old friend from Ballymena had died there at the start of the month. Kevin was one of the people that sent my life spinning in a new direction. And that's a story on its own. 

He was a good bloke. Too good for Ballymena.

A Visit to the Vet

 

Woody had a cough which turned into a gurgle so we took him to the vet. He means too much to Hannah, Sara and Ben for me to neglect his well-being. On the way there I found myself catastrophising. What if he has a tumour? Hundreds of pounds worth of tests needed and then he might have to be euthanised anyway and our last kitten cost us £1300 before she was even six months old. How can I  tell Ben, Sara and Hannah the sad news that we cannot afford to spend thousands of pounds curing Woody's cancer. 

At the vet's the waiting room was full of adorable dogs in their mid-teens that were obviously not long for this world. I was torn between feeling sympathy for their loving owners and a mild resentment that their dogs got four more years than Ziggy did.

Woody was a brave soldier. Vet said he had a viral infection, but we'd got him in on time, an antibiotic should sort him out. Relief all round. He got a thermometer up his bum, half a worm tablet, small bottle of the magic juice and a bill for seventy quid. And, as I said to Bert one time,

I wonder what people without animals spend their money on?

I also thought, Woody had litter mates and they probably all had that viral infection (cat flu). Could it be that he, who probably hitched a lift under a car, got dropped off in the middle of Portglenone, avoided being run over, was rescued by Ben and Sara, ended up with Hannah and Nellybert and he turns out to be the lucky one?

 

I really hope so.

  

Mrs Librarian Woman

 A commenter on this blog asserted that I led an 'interesting life'. I beg to differ as my life is mundane, even a bit dull. I hardly go anywhere, rarely do anything, just sort of exist really. I should break out a little, get on a train now and again, wear things from the very back of the wardrobe, spend more money, cook with apricots, book a trip to Manaus.*

Yet I do find life interesting most of the time. It's all out there, even just outside the front door or, if it's wet, the front room. Outside the front door there are snails and owls and moths and in the front room there are dogs, and people, all-the-time people. People with dogs.

And even when there aren't people in the front room, Bert's room, there are dogs and Bert who gets bored much more easily than I do.

He was channel-hopping on his giant TV, said that even though there are hundreds of channels there is nothing worth watching. I was watching a programme about David Beckham in my private secret sitting-room and thought it well worth watching. Amazingly, some of the best bits were scenes from football matches. I don't even like football but the film-maker was good at the job and made it interesting.

So, when I was done with that I went to see Bert who was watching something horribly gory about vampires. He told me he had nothing to read as he had finished his book this morning. Somehow this has become my responsibility. I gave off to him.  

Why do you always tell me you need something to read at quarter to eleven at night?

I told you I finished my book this morning.

And you don't have at least four books in your to-read pile? Don't you be coming into my room at midnight looking for a book.

You have all the good books in your room.

That is balls. I have all the P-S books in my room. There are four other bookcases throughout the house containing books A-O and T-Z. Is it not enough that I source all the books, buy all the books, shelve all the books that I have to choose all your reading matter too? 

I secretly enjoy doing this but not late in the evening. So before climbing into bed I threw him in Strumpet City and a David Sedaris. I don't think he'll like the Sedaris.  

*I'm reading Eva Ibbotson.

Slither Night

This is what I have become...

Sometime between ten and eleven o'clock at night I'll be out with the dogs and the big torch, ostensibly to keep an eye on Cleo, to make sure she actually pees instead of crashing through the back door in search of a high-value treat. She hasn't that many accomplishments but being able to open every bloody door in the house is one of them.

But what I am actually keenest on doing is counting and observing garden snails. They are such fascinating creatures. The snails range in size from tiny translucent babies whose delicate shells might be broken by a breath to the big lads with shells as large as walnuts. I say lads, but snails are hermaphroditic. A couple of times I have spotted a pair of them closely entwined and suppose that they are having snail sex although I'm not sure how they do it. Philip Watson explained it all to me about thirty years ago but I was phobic about slugs and snails then and couldn't bear to listen to him. There was something about knives maybe? 

My slugs and snails phobia originated in that ghastly nursery rhyme, which I took literally. It was horrible thinking of dismembered puppy tails mixed up with slugs. My fear and dislike of slimy things was not helped by having Cousin Patrick pelt me with those huge black slugs found on the shores of Lough Neagh some sixty years ago.

Soft rainy nights are best for snail-watching and I know all their favourite spots. Near stone walls, tiled paths, Bert's hostas, the sunflowers, around the windows. I have to be very careful where I walk. I try not to tread on them. Most nights I count around eighty.  Tonight it was 14 slugs, 84 snails and two accidentally crunched.

This is what I have become. 

Woody

Martha wanted to know today how many pets Bert and I have had and although I couldn't tell her straight away I showed her my Pet Records spreadsheet. She spotted immediately that Cleo had not been added so I suggested she remedy that. Her mother thinks she might become a fan of spreadsheets. I do hope so as she can give me tips.

Not counting the pigs, Bert and I have had seventeen pets since we've been together.

Six of these are cats, and eleven are dogs.

Eight were rescues, six dogs and two cats. The two cats and three of the dogs came directly from the streets, either lost or abandoned.

Six are still with us, and eleven are buried in the garden.

After Martha had finished updating Cleo I had a little updating of my own to complete.

Meet Woody. Found straying on a busy street in a nearby village. Ben and Sara were his rescuers. 

And On That Theme

 Another one from an age ago...

The Stack Garden

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Currently, his names for fields are,

The Field Across The Road

The Meadow

The Corner Field

The Hall Field

The First Hill

The Second Hill

The Third Hill

The Big Hill

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

The Wee Field On The March With Gregg's

The Boag Field

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

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

*doag - dog

This post brought a comment from my youngest sister,

Don't tell Bert but we also had bogs. The 3 fields behind the field in front of Heffrons. The wee bog was drained and the one farthest from the house had a beautiful weeping willow.

I remember that weeping willow. I wonder if it's still there?

I couldn't find a photograph of the Stack Garden that wasn't boring so here is a picture that has got a lot going on. The area behind the five-bar gate is the Stack Garden. 

One From Fourteen Years Ago

 

Tuesday, September 08, 2009

Come Into My Parlour

The other day I asked the household where some kitchen gadget had got to. Bert says,

The last place I saw it was on the sill in the parlour.

Parlour? Where’s the bloody parlour?

I never said parlour. I said…you know…that room out there.

Do you mean the room with the washing machine in it?

Yeah. That room, the – you know?

The scullery. Or utility room if you like. Where did parlour come from?

I never said parlour.

You bloody did.

It’s a big problem for me this shifting of place names. The outside is a nightmare. The sheds are referred to something like this -

• The Woodshed

• The Milk House

• The Byre

• The Cattle Shed

• The Workshop

• The Hen House

• The Pig House

• The Calf Shed

• The Back Shed

• The Potato Shed

• The Turf Shed

• The Silo

• The Tractor Shed

• The Tool Shed

• Ian’s Shed
  

Of course, we don’t have fifteen sheds. We have about six shed-type buildings, each with at least three names depending on which decade Bert’s mind is settled on that particular day. For instance, if Bert refers to the Turf Shed, will he be speaking of the shed which currently contains turf (unlikely) or does he mean a shed that was used for turf storage twenty, or even forty years ago? This is not much use to me as I don’t know where they kept the turf during the Swinging Sixties.

It was the same in our last place where we only had a garage and three polytunnels.

Where are my orange-handled secateurs?

In the tunnels.

Which one?

The one with the clematis.

They all have clematis.

The montanas.

Big ones or liners?

Och, you know. The one with Denise’s potting bench.

She has two bloody potting benches! Here they are! Why couldn’t you just have said the middle tunnel?

I blame his mother.

When this was her house there were three rooms referred to as The Scullery, two known as The Pantry and two called The Good Room and two more called The Front Room. Upstairs was The Room, Bert’s Room, Lizzie’s Room, Uncle Andy’s Room, Our Room, My Room, The Good Room, The Room With The New Window, The Room With The Broken Floor, The Cupboard, The Back Room, The Room With The Good Bed, The Front Room, The Big Room, The Wee Room, The Best Room and the Attic. As far as I know, The Toilet and The Bathroom were never called anything else but I could be wrong.

There was none of that nonsense in our house. Upstairs we had 4 bedrooms which were named according to the persons who slept in them,: downstairs had The Kitchen, The Scullery, The Room, The Bathroom and The Room Before The Bathroom. It never changed downstairs. Outside sheds were named and stayed named. You knew where you were in Tannaghmore.

And don’t get me started on fields.

Missed

This wee man has been on my mind all day. It is two weeks today since he left us and the place just isn't the same without him. 

The world without Ziggy is taking some getting used to.

The Merry Wobblers

To Cleo's thrilled delight, Saturday night brought Banjo Man, Jazzer and the two dogs. Their pup, Arlo, is just a couple of weeks older than Cleo and they spent ages play-fighting. Fun for them and fun to watch too.

After an excellent meal cooked by Jazzer, we settled down to watch music videos on YouTube. Marty was raving about an Irish band he'd been listening to.

You'll love them Nelly. Just your kind of thing. Young band. From Dundalk. Where's the remote?

He starts shouting at our giant television.

Play the Merry Wobblers!

Merry Christmas featuring Elton John and Ed Sheeran came on.

No! Play the Merry Wobblers!

Jah Wobble came on.

I said,

The TV doesn't understand your Belfast accent. Try speaking like Bert.

But Marty was too distraught. He tried again.

Play! The Merry Wobblers. An Irish band. From Dundalk.

An item about Dundalk FC came on.

I left the room and googled Irish Band From Dundalk. Came back, said to Marty,

They're called the Mary Wallopers.

Banjo Man was right. I did love them. Even though some of them had mullets and Dave Hill fringes and Lemmy moustaches. 

Next day I checked their tour dates and they're playing Belfast in December. I'm not going. The last gig I went to was Django Django in Derry and I got mistaken for the singer's aunt. If I was to go to the Merry Wallopers I'm sure to be took for their granny.

A World Without Ziggy

 27th August- 8th September 2023

We had a wedding, a big family get-together, a funeral, two birthdays and then - Ziggy died.

He'd been diagnosed with heart failure one month previously. Tests showed his heart to be massively enlarged. He rallied with his initial treatment but it didn't last. He wasn't in pain but he was stressed and uncomfortable and things weren't going to get any better. Hannah made the decision that it would be unkind to try and prolong his life. 

Ziggy was a smashing wee dog, so full of character. He had many friends. But Hannah was his number one, and he was hers. We will all miss that little fellow, the Zigster, Zigatron, Wiggler, the best boy there ever was. 

Elderberry

 

We are now down to three hens and one rooster. I went to feed the hens this morning and found one lying stiff and cold. It was a surprise as she had seemed fine the previous day. Looking back at my blog to discover how old she was I saw that we'd called her Elderberry when she was a chick. That was seven years ago and I'd totally forgotten she had a name. I always called her the White Hen.

It's like when Bert's mum died and Martha, very young at the time, said,

Shall we get another old woman and call her Pearlie? 

I always thought that was sweet for it showed that Martha thought that Pearlie was a good person to have had around.

I shall have to get myself another white hen and call her Elderberry.

The Day After The Wedding

 

First of all, we had the best day at the wedding. Beautiful bride, handsome groom, prettiest flower girls, cutest attendants, great speeches, tears of joy, poignant moments, happy guests, super venue, delicious food, flowing drinks. Bert said it was the best wedding ever which, if you know Bert, is high praise indeed.

Then tonight we had a family gathering at my youngest brother's home. I was looking forward to it as I didn't get the opportunity to have an in-depth convo with all the siblings. And guess what? It also turned out to be a surprise party for me! And I genuinely did not expect it. It's 12 whole days before I turn seventy. But when I do five of the sibs will be in far-flung places so they took an opportunity. 

This is a picture of all of us in order of age, me being the oldest and Joe at the other end, the youngest. The surprise had not been sprung when the picture was taken. If I look chuffed there, imagine what I looked like a bit later on.

By the way, I love that Ziggy (bless) photo-bombed the picture. 

Apparently, I should have taken the photograph before I blew out the candles. And speaking of blowing out candles I had to ask for assistance from Martha and Evie. They have so much more puff than me. Thanks girls and thanks be for my lovely sisters and brothers.

The Night Before The Wedding

The photograph above is a definite out-take. Yet something about it kept me from disposing of it years ago. There's an air of jollity about it and Daddy looks so dignified. It must have been a special occasion, a birthday or an anniversary. Mum's in there too but a rascally child seems to have got right in front of her. I wonder who took the picture. Maybe they were laughing so much they just couldn't keep the camera steady. 

We'll be having another family get-together tomorrow as that rascally child is getting married. I hope she and her new husband get themselves a better photographer than whoever it was who took that one.

Bit Of A Catch Up

 

On Wednesday Bert and I took Ziggy to the vet for his X-ray and scan. First, the vet (one of my faves as she is so straightforward) gave him a check-up. The medicine was working well and his lungs were clear. I said goodbye and left him for his tests. Back to the vet at 2pm. I saw the X-ray. Poor Ziggy's heart is very enlarged, leaving little room for the rest of his organs. Still, the vet said the meds would keep him comfortable and give him a better-quality life so well worth it. The wee fellow was glad to get home.

Thursday was Martha and  Evie Day and we had three friends around. They are five busy girls, what with school, orchestra, football, drama, Irish dancing and camogie and it was the first time in an age they were all together. Four of them are now considerably taller than me. Only Maria is smaller but she isn't even in double figures yet so it can only be a matter of time. The girls spent all day outside, made a swing, broke a swing, made another swing, communed with the kune kunes and involved themselves in a whole other of other outdoor activities their mother and granny knew nothing about.

2023

2018

Friday, Martha and Evie were still with us. We had quiet day, the only momentous event being Cleo getting hold of Martha's retainer and rendering it unusable. Martha was most upset but fortunately, she had a spare. The damage Cleo has wreaked since coming to live with us must by now be edging close to about five hundred pounds worth.

Saturday and Sunday involved some extra cleaning in preparation for visitors, both Antipodean and Wedding. Some gardening was also involved. Much Lucifer was banished to the hot place also known as the compost heap. There is a reason this gorgeous perennial is rarely to be found in garden centres. Anyone who has it will always be palming it off on fellow gardeners. I've got to the stage where I cannot get anyone to take it.

My New Zealand cousin thought Lucifer was lovely but she flinched at the sight of my agapanthus. Apparently, it is a noxious weed where she comes from.  And it wasn't the only noxious weed she spotted but the less said about that the better.

For those that wonder what the top picture in this post has got to do with anything the answer is - lots. For I heard a really good story today which featured a donkey that ate all the flowers in a granny's garden. And the wee blond lad holding the donkey's halter will be visiting from Vancouver this coming week and I'm really looking forward to seeing him. 

Family Trees and Kissing Cousins

 

In recent years Nellybert has let the garden areas in Springhill go to rack and ruin. Last week we decided to act and got a man in to do something about it. So far he has uncovered a forgotten hawthorn tree, some buried rhubarb and a rotten egg. He says he has a scythe. 

Martha has received some pleasing news this week. Thanks to her mum's family tree research she has found out that both of her step-grandparents are related to her for it turns out that Granda Mick and Granny Linda, who both hail from Leek in Staffordshire, are cousins! Neither of them were aware of this until Zoe told them. To be exact they are third cousins which means their common ancestors are great-great grandparents. We already knew through DNA testing that Bert and Martha's dad are related. No-one knows how. It's estimated between third and fifth cousins but as Bert's DNA is concentrated due to his maternal grandparents being first cousins and his mum and dad being second cousins, once removed, the issue is complicated. My best guess is that the common ancestor there might date from as far back as the 18th century. 

Still, as far as  Martha is concerned a relly is a relly and she is pleased with the connection to Linda and Bert. Not half as pleased as I am though, with my hacking and slashing gardener. Wonder if we're related?

By the way, for those who don't quite get it Martha is Linda's third cousin, twice removed.

And another thing - my great-uncle Father Joe Byrne was the person who explained to my mother how cousinship worked and she explained it to me. Father Joe was keen on the family tree research and being a priest had easy access to parish registers all over Ireland and beyond. He'd seek out distant cousins and even found his niece, my Aunt Roisin, a lovely husband in Middlesbrough who was a far-out cousin. I'm sure it was a blessing to Granny who must have thought she'd never get Roisin out of the house. 

The Joy of Tidying

 

Obviously the first thing to do when embarking on a tidying spree is to sort one's books in alphabetical order. That sparks joy.

Everything else is pure drear.

It has been a busy week with little time for tidying. There was a friend's party on Saturday evening at which I did not drink alcohol and had a great time. A practice run for Neesh's wedding. On Monday Bert and I borrowed Clint's trailer and went to the Council Recycling Centre where we dumped the clothes dryer and some other items. I suppose that could be considered tidying.  Tuesday, I took the girls for breakfast and took some stuff to a charity shop (more tidying). We went to Tim Hortons - my first (and last) visit. 

On Wednesday we bought a gigantic television set and then visited some old friends we hadn't seen for ages.

Thursday was a tough day. Ziggy hadn't been well the previous night and Han asked us to take him to the vet. She couldn't do it herself as she had work commitments. The vet spent some time listening to his chest and when she had finished she told us that his heart was failing. Blood tests were taken and he received two intravenous injections. He was booked in for further tests. We were told to bring him back the next day if he wasn't any better which worried me. It was hard having to tell Han when she phoned to ask how he'd got on.

We had the girls on Thursday but didn't see that much of them apart from at feeding time. They amuse themselves these days, playing with Cleo, drawing, loading apps on Bert's phone and watching Netflix on my laptop. Bert set the new TV up which kept him occupied. I worried about Ziggy, who, as the afternoon wore on seemed to improve a little, chest not thumping as much, coughing less. He fell asleep on my sofa but the minute Hannah's car came up the lane he sat bolt upright. 

Today we had a friend come around to help us clear an overgrown part of the yard. He is a big mate of Ziggy who was pleased to see him. There was lots of tail wagging and after they'd said hello to each other we left Ziggy to rest. But no, Ziggy wanted to hang out and that's what he did. The injections and the meds he has started seemed to have alleviated the worst of his symptoms. 

And the wild place got cleared (more tidying) with the promise of further clearing to come and Les and Mrs Les called round to collect a forgotten saxophone. How does anyone forget a saxophone? And Teeny Bird and her two lovely children and Uncle Ben and two welders and Howard (bearing home-grown strawberries, cucumbers and tomatoes) all called to visit and then Locky phoned to ask how Ziggy was, so a very full day indeed. 

And after everyone had gone and we had dinner we watched the Chris Packham programme on our giant TV then Naked Attraction. I'm not sure which was more harrowing.  

Pishmouls and Dictionaries

I have written before about Bert's habit of asking me inane questions. Some people might find this endearing but I find it irritating. For instance, this morning, he asked. 

What's the first word in the dictionary?

Go look it up!

I don't know where the dictionary is.

Big bookcase, right-hand side, top shelf.

Moments later, I found him searching the left-hand side of the bookcase. He has trouble telling left from right which I find odd. I admit, I jeered and the brute insisted I'd said the left side. I jeered more. Sometimes I'm just not very nice.

Later that day, Hannah called me out to see the roof of her car which was crawling with flying ants. They weren't doing much flying, just racing around, fighting, fornicating and attacking unlucky flies. In turn, I called Bert.

Come and see this.

What is it?

Ants, flying ants.

Pishmouls.

What!

Pishmouls. Ants.

You're making that up.

No! Where's the Concise Ulster Dictionary?

Big bookcase, on the left, top shelf.

I was astonished for he found it immediately and it turns out it is an Ulster-Scots word.

By the way, if anyone is looking for a copy of the Concise Ulster Dictionary the cheapest one on Amazon is £149.75. Abe Books has it at £120. Obviously, mine is not for sale. 

Cleo's First Trip to the Seaside

 

On Thursday, Hannah and Evie, myself and Ziggy took Cleo to see the sea for the first time in her life.

She was perturbed at first by the waves rolling in but it didn't take her long to realise that they weren't going to harm her.

Soon she was running to meet them and to seek out sticks.

There was a tough minute or two when a big dog chased her (no photos). She ran away, yelping, tail between her legs and was tumbled into the sea by the big dog. It was very big, I think a Newfie. He was a pup too, only playing but Cleo didn't know that. 

Another bit of fun in the waves and she'd forgotten all about it.

We went to Waterfoot Beach which is a lovely place - a good long beach, not too many people and a boarded walk through the dunes with lots of wildflowers and butterflies. We spotted a small copper but it was too fast for my camera.

On the way back we stopped in Carnlough for snacks. I left Ziggy and Cleo in the car for around five minutes. When I got back there was a French tourist standing by the car and Cleo trying to make her escape from the boot. He said, 

Is open. It trying to escape.

I thanked him for kindly looking out for her. A good day.

Check this out.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CviBwadO-v4/

In Which Heroic Bert Risks His Personal Safety In Order To Save An Insect

 

Giant horntail

Scientific name: Urocerus gigas

The giant horntail is a massive sawfly that is also known as the 'giant woodwasp' or 'greater horntail wasp'. A relative of the wasps, the female is black and yellow and has a long, stinger-like tail that is actually her ovipositor, which she uses to lay her eggs into wood, particularly pine. The larvae live in the wood of pine trees, where they spend up to five years developing. Found near pine woods, or places where pine timbers are used. The Wildlife Trust

Yesterday, whilst in the woodshed, Bert tripped over a log, fell over and hurt his hip. He said he was unable to save himself as he was carrying a newly emerged woodwasp to a place of safety.

The bad news is that he's a bit stiff and sore, and the good news is the horntail is fine. Here's hoping that she finds her way back to the wood to begin another generation of these gorgeous insects.