Something New

At Sea*

Almost time for the new school year to begin and this year Miss Evie goes into year one at Big School. Doesn't time fly past? I say that even though it is a pet peeve how people talk of time flying.

What happened to the endless hours waiting for the school bell to ring at the end of the day, the ever lasting months in the run up to Christmas and that long, long stretch of summer holiday viewed from the first day of July? Time didn't fly back then and I'll bet Miss Evie thinks it was half a lifetime ago when she started off at nursery school. 

I read somewhere that all it takes to make time slow down is to do something different so I'm doing something different tonight, going to an event in the Ulster Museum in Belfast. I'm looking forward to seeing Glen Hansard (part-timer) and I'm looking forward to seeing my brother-in-law Breanndan Ó Mhuircheartaigh and the Kerry Sister. 


*I am not certain of the provenance of the picture. I think it is by Kerry Sister.

Off Again!

No posting this weekend as I'm off to Donegal for a couple of days. And with all the potting, watering, cleaning, packing and catching up with my wine-making I really need a break!

Peaches and Oak Trees

This has been a wonderful year for raspberries and peaches. Raspberries are over now. A week of wet weather and the wasps finished them off but not before we shared, made gallons of wine and filled the freezer. The peach trees cropped heavily too; the free standing tree lost a branch under the weight of fruit. I need to improve the management  of these trees with more summer pruning and thinning. Meanwhile I need to continue giving them away, making peach wine and peach and raspberry wine, chopping and freezing for even more wine and the odd pudding. Howard was here this evening helping me get the fruit on the highest branches and he said that peaches are rather good soaked in rum and eaten with cream. That might well do for a Saturday treat.

Peaches and garlic

I took four dogs and a cat for a walk in the wood today in the hope I might catch a glance of an owl. All I spotted were wood pigeons. This is a shameful admission but it is over a year since I've been in there - Bert's wood, only five minutes from my door. It's also been quite a while since I've climbed the stairs to the tree house. Thirty seconds from my door. I really must do better.

Whilst in the wood I saw Matty's oak tree, a little sapling that she had in a pot by her back door. It was given to Mum by her friend Marie who, I think, grew it from an acorn. That's what Matty said anyway. Bert planted it in a good place and now that I know exactly where it is I'll have to keep an eye on its progress.

Little oak tree

The Return of the Owls

One fine evening last week I went out to check that the chickens were closed in and heard the long-missed sound of young long eared owls calling for food. It's a strange call, almost like a creaking wooden gate. At this stage of their lives the young owls will be able to fly short distances and are agile enough to move from branch to branch, even from tree to tree in a wooded area. They still depend on the adult owls to bring them food and the calls are to let the parents know where they are. There were at least two calling.

Chances of seeing them are slim for they live in the wood now. Back in 2007 they nested close to our house and were easily spotted even during the day. But even if I cannot see them or photograph them it is wonderful to know that they are breeding near us. Owls and buzzards. We are blessed.

There is more good news. My mother's wedding ring which was lost for more than a year has turned up. I found it wedged under the skirting board in my private, secret sitting room. What a relief. I'd never even told my siblings it was missing. Obviously if I was more of a thorough housewife, dusting my skirtings regularly, I'd have found it long ago.

And here - post from seven years ago with photograph of a juvenile owl. Perhaps it is a parent or grandparent of the ones we hear now.

I Miss My Baby Owls

baby owl springhill 2009, originally uploaded by NellyMoser.

For the second year running there has been no long eared owl babies at Springhill. I miss them very much.

We think that buzzards took over their nesting site. Last year there were at least three young buzzards reared on our land. Buzzards are OK but I'd much rather have owls.

A Horticultural Tale

Many years ago when I lived in town I had these very unexpected visitors. Mick, my first husband, was at work and myself and the girls were all at home. I was washing dishes and noticed a parked car with at least four adult occupants. It seemed out of place at nine o'clock in the morning but I never thought it would have anything to do with me. Then the door knocked and there on the doorstep they all stood, the occupants of the car, and the tall bearded one was brandishing a piece of paper which he said was a warrant to search my house for drugs. He might have announced it differently but that is how I remember it. They were one woman, three men and a golden labrador. The woman sort of herded the children and I into the living room while the men and the dog set to searching the house. Katy, who was about six, was very excited about the dog and wanted to know if we could keep it. I was worried. About a year previously I'd held a party in the house and someone had cannabis and I fretted that there might be a fleck of it left behind for at that time people were being charged and taken to court for very small amounts of hash.

The police officer who was 'guarding' us attempted light conversation. She noticed some unfinished patchwork I'd been working on and talked about that. Apparently she had an interest in needlecraft too. I couldn't really engage with her for worrying about the untidiness of the home that they were rampaging through. At last the bearded one appeared. He asked me to come into the kitchen. My heart sank. Had they found cigarette papers, a grain of dope? No. I walked into my kitchen to find one of the officers holding a house plant. Beardy said,

Can you tell me what this is?

I was amazed and relieved and answered,

It's a plant my friend bought me for my birthday. She got it in a florist shop in Wellington Street. You're joking. You can't really think that it's a cannabis plant?

He wasn't joking.

We're taking it with us for investigation.

I got cheeky.

Well, I'll be wanting it back and you'd better water it!

They left.

A week later I'd heard no word so I went to the phone box at the bottom of the estate and phoned the police station and got through to the switchboard.

Hello. This is Nelly Moser. I'd like to speak to Sergeant Willis please.

I'm afraid he's not in his office today. 

I'd like to leave a message for him.

Certainly. 

Ask him if he has completed his investigations regarding my house plant I'd like it returned please.

The switchboard woman tittered and said,

I'll make sure he gets the message.

A couple of days later the door knocked and there standing on the doorstep was one of my unexpected visitors from that morning, the youngest of them, given the shit job of returning my birthday present. I took it from him and noticed it was light.

This plant hasn't been watered since you took it. It's bone dry.

We watered it every day!

I don't believe you.

A couple of months later my sister and I were at a friend's gig in the  Smithfield Bar and I noticed Beardy Willis and his drug squad chums sitting at the back. I quietly pointed them out to her,

That's the crowd that took my house plant.

They left soon after and the landlady set two drinks in front of us.

What's this?

That's from Sergeant Willis.

And that was that. My dizygotheca elegantissima lived on for a few years but eventually died and was never replaced. It never got to be as big as the one in Belfast's Botanic Gardens.

Dizygotheca elegantissima or False Aralia

Distant Donkeys

A person could nearly be happy if it wasn't for the relentless brutality of the reported news. Today Bert and I travelled to Loughgall to pick up clematis liners in one location, compost in another. There were friendly people,  friendly dogs, and slightly distant donkeys - Armagh and Tyrone are pleasant places. The orchards in Armagh are laden with apples but apparently it's not good news for farmers. More work for the growers with lower prices and the Irish cider companies have quotas. This is how market forces work in the 21st century, the better things are the worse they are.

In Springhill there is a glut of raspberries and blackcurrants and, hopefully, of peaches. This is a good thing. Nelly fills the freezer, all the visitors get free fruit and the birds, insects and pigs eat the leftovers. No money involved. When I'm picking currants one hen, the smart hen, follows me around eating the fruit that I drop. She's not actually that smart because she hasn't figured out she can pick the fruit straight off the branches. Those blackbirds could teach her a thing or two.

Pessimist

So many weeds to pull and so much fruit to pick. I say to Bert,

The days aren't long enough,

And he says,

You can see them getting shorter too! Winter is coming!

Damn you Bert, I may have anxiety but you are a pessimist. Yet it may be that I have nurtured my own optimism as an antidote to my anxiety.

In the right (wrong) frame of mind I can turn any pleasant thought to a negative.

My word, the raspberries are doing fine this year,

To be followed by,

I wonder how many years I have left in which to enjoy raspberries.

Short lived delights like laburnum bring sad thoughts too. It is glorious in the few weeks when it blooms, so loud with busy pollinating insects. Evie calls it the corn tree because, to her, the drooping acid yellow blossom look like corn cobs. Every year the laburnum's glory is tinged with sadness as I remember that my time to enjoy it grows less and less.

Perhaps it is me who is the pessimist.

Off To Norfolk

I'm off to Norfolk tomorrow to see Katy and family. Sweet Baby James will be one year old this weekend and soon I will have to desist from calling him Sweet Baby.

 Today was a good day, I spent most of it planting vegetables and picking and freezing fruit, pounds and pounds of fruit, mostly white currants and raspberries. I still need to complete my packing.

The best thing about today though was the news about Theresa Villiers. Good bye and good riddance to the toffee-nosed witch. Northern Ireland has hardly had a worse Secretary of State and there have been some duds over the years. Hopefully this Previously Unheard Of (they usually are) will be a tad more useful than Helmet Head Villiers.

Anyways - back to the packing. I'll freeze the blackcurrants in the morning.

Ten Dogs At A Party

We had some friends around for a barbie yesterday and for the first time ever there were more dogs present than humans. Sadly, some of the dogs were not well-behaved.

There were our own three dogs,

Judy - she found it all rather difficult for she is not really a dog person. She much prefers people. Luckily Rod came round later and he is one of her most favourite friends. Luckily he is a dog person and was not too fazed to be greeted by nine dogs leaping on him as he came through the door.

Jess - like Judy she found it all a bit too much. Her sister Dora was there and her brother Rex. She likes Dora and always shows her where the best shit for rolling in is. Rex - she can take or leave him. Her best bit was when Rod came. He understands the shit thing and is not too precious about it, Rod and Marty retreated to the kitchen to play music and Jess lay faithfully at their feet. She is a huge Rod McAuley fan. In fact her other name is actually Sprollie McAuley.

Roy - Roy loves a bit of doggy company. He feels he is the old gentleman of the house and enjoys the odd row with the other boy dogs. He always wins.

There were the Reed dogs.

Frank - Frank is old and deaf and very bolshie. He also likes a row with the other boy dogs and always wins.

Dora - she is very sweet and loves to roll in shit. her favourite is fox, second favourite pig but when these are not available she makes do with cow.

There were the Kenny dogs.

Rocky and Dougie. - Good dogs, Jack Russell Terriers. Bothered no-one.

Dora - also a Jack Russell Terrier, Very small and sweet, wants to be cuddled and loved all the time. Actually quite needy. You'd think butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Until she got into the hen run. OMG! Swisser and I were gathering white currants and suddenly there she was, crept under the wire, through the tiniest gap and within seconds had one of the brown hens in her tiny little jaws. I went after her and she has down in a giant nettle patch. I tried to prise her jaws open but it was impossible, they were locked. Poor hen is squawking in pain and fear then Swisser gives the dog a good thump and it released. I caught the wee brute and got it out of the run. The hen disappeared. Carried it into the house and dumped it, quite unperturbed despite choking on feathers.

There was Swisser's dog - Rex. An absolute sweetheart, one of the sprollies, brother of Dora and Jess. Bit of a mummy's boy, not allowed to roll in shit. He was bullied by the old fellows, Roy and Frank but held his own.

Ziggy - Hannah's dog. Most well-behaved dog at the shindig. For a change.

And what of the hen? It wasn't easy finding her for it's a very nettly chicken run and full of fruit bushes. But we did. She hadn't a tail feather to her name, bruised but not bloodied. She has been moved in with the banties and their babies and seems content enough. Her poor sore bum is purple from that antiseptic spray. She keeps looking at it, perhaps wondering where all her lovely feathers have gone. The rooster is down to only three wives.

And what of the humans? They ate, they drank. they talked nonsense. Some of them argued, some of them went home early, some stayed up very late, some played music, some sang. Some banged on about politics and Brexit and Bonfires. Then they told me to give it a rest.

Until next year.

Day Trip To Portrush

Last year Hannah and I took Martha and Evie to Portrush to go on 'everything' at Barry's and Kiddieland. We had a great time so we did it again this year, except sadly, Hannah couldn't make it so Ben came in her place. I don't know if  a 17-year-olds can be a mensch but if he is too young right now, he's certainly on his way. He didn't mind carrying their pink coats, only flinched a little when I asked him to hold my Cath Kidston bag when I had to rummage through my backpack looking for even more cash to turn into amusement park tokens.

On the train

We took a few photographs while we were there. The best ones were of the more sedate rides as the hectic ones were all too fast for my limited photographic abilities.

Worst ride was the Ghost Train. Not even a tad scarier than it was when I were a girl and eight tokens for us all to go on. Martha referred to it as 'getting it over with'. Next year, if we are spared we're giving the Ghost Train a miss and having an extra ride on what Bert calls the 'hobby horses'.

It all fair took my mind off Brexit and the Chilcot report. Sometimes we have to forget about the grim stuff and just have some fun.

Bonfire Tales

Scene: A car park in a village near Ballymena. Around one-third of it is taken up with the beginnings of an Eleventh Night Bonfire made up of wooden pallets interspersed with tyres. Near the main bonfire there is evidence that there has already been a smaller fire. The car park surface is damaged. Household furniture and other rubbish is scattered around and one of the two entrances to the car park is blocked. Several young boys are clambering over the pallets and hanging around. Most are under sixteen years of age. A vehicle pulls into the car park, inside are two young girls and their grandmother.

Six-year-old child: What is that Granny?

Granny: It's a bonfire.

Six-year-old child: What is it for?

Granny: Well, there are some people who have a special day when they like to watch marching bands, and people called Orange Men and Orange Women walk in a parade and lots of people come out to see them and the night before this special day they like to light a big fire and that's what that is.

Six-year-old child: But why is it so messy?

Granny: I'm not sure.

Six-year-old child: When is the special day?

Granny: It's the 12th of July, twelve more days. The fire will be lit on the night of the 11th of July.

Six-year-old child: So it's going to be left all messy until then!

Granny: Probably.

Six-year-old child: Will they clean it up afterwards?

Granny: (laughs) No. No they won't. It will get cleaned up afterwards but not by them. They should clean it up but they don't.



And this is a village that prides itself on being one of the best kept in the area. Apart from the annual eyesore in the car park it is a well-kept little place. Ah well. I expect the residents think it's an improvement on times gone by when the bonfire was built in the very centre of the village and they lived in fear of their homes and businesses being burnt to the ground. It's an odd thing, this culture lark.

Killing Slugs

The very minute you arrive in my yard I'll be saying,

Well! What do you think? Did the vote please you? How do you feel about it now? What about your silly oul'  Da that was for voting Leave because there was too much paperwork and regulations. What does he think? Your Ma, who was voting Leave because there were too many Eastern Europeans in the town, is she happy now? 

Or, if you're English I'll be saying,

I know you voted to Remain but what does it feel like knowing that everybody hates you? And that we're all thrilled that Iceland fucked you out of the European Championship.

And if you arrive in my yard and I know you voted to Leave I'll pretend that I don't care, mutter some banality and avoid you. It's a big yard and a big enough house so it's easy to do. And that's if I like you. If I don't like you, you're going on my list.

I thought I'd have to sort my Facebook friends but nobody that voted Leave is on there gloating so I haven't had to do that. If any of my Friends voted Brexit they must Regrexit so I'll leave that for now.

A casual friend turned up the other day with his delightful two year old. We went out to view Honey's chick,

Well Rodders, how did you vote? 

I voted Leave. 

Did you? Do you realise this means we can no longer be friends?

I mentioned my list. I kill slugs. I grow things, gardeners kill slugs. It's not a pleasant thing to do and I wish it wasn't necessary but I crush those slugs under my heel and I do it fast and hard and I only kill the sort that eat seedlings. When I kill slugs I have a mantra, it goes something like this,

Boris Johnson. Theresa Villiers, The Ballymena UKIP councillor, Michael Gove, That Unmentionable Harridan who writes for the Daily Mail, Gregory Campbell, The Daily Mail, The Telegraph, Kelvin Mackenzie, The Sun, Jim Allister, William Wright, Arlene Foster, Donald Trump...

The Bad Thing That Happened To Bert Before That Other Bad Thing That Happened

Here it is. My first post since England and Wales carelessly waltzed Scotland and Northern Ireland out of the European Union. I still cannot gather my thoughts to blog about it. Maybe tomorrow. There is still so much going on.

This has been such a difficult fortnight. I'd been so agitated about the upcoming referendum results not to mention the appalling horror movie that was the endless commentary. I was fearful that the result would not be the one I wanted and even fell out with Clint because he was voting to leave.

Then, a week before the referendum Bert bashed his ribs in an accident involving a cow. He was helping Clint dose cattle and standing on a five bar gate when the big beast banged into it, causing him to lose his balance and fall on to the gate on his left side. When it happened he was winded, could hardly breathe and was very shocked. Bert never, ever expects bad things to happen to him, unlike his wife who envisages her immediate death every time she descends the stairs.

Clint was his usual unsympathetic self and carried on dosing the beasts. What else would you expect of a stoic?

Poor Bert. He was in so much pain and discomfort but all his friends rallied round and soon the painkillers were rolling in for it is a tradition among country folk to use up all the old medications before new ones are sought. He was even given Tramadol that had been subscribed for a dog but, I’m glad to say, he did not try it.

He seems to be recovering but it is such a slow process. When all his decent pain relief ran low he went to see his GP and she pronounced the ribs badly bruised. One of our friends is in the farm supplies and animal feeds business and he told Bert that there is hardly a week goes by that he does find one or two of his customers nursing bashed ribs because of rampaging beasts. See Bert! Now you know why I am timorous around cattle. You can never mock me again.

A Message From My Father

Sorry Reader. I cannot settle myself to properly update Nelly's Garden until this bloody referendum is over. Who cares about Trump? Even though I have detested him since first becoming aware of him. He'll be a disaster for the world and the USA if he gains the presidency but, at worst, it's only eight years. For us, leaving the EU will be irrevocable. I just can't understand why anyone, anyone with a grain of intelligence would think leaving would be a good thing to do. I hate what the debate has become, the exaggeration, the lies, the fear of  'the other'. I also hate that Northern Ireland's particular position has been almost totally ignored.

And another thing, you people, you otherwise good people who do not exercise your right to vote - it is time to grow up. Opting out is Not An Option. Opting out is not you being too fine a person to get involved in ugly old politics. Opting out is letting the bad guys win. It's Father's Day today and my father Seamus Byrne would metaphorically kick your arse. He always said that those who don't vote are like beasts in a field. Think about it.

Seamus and Bert. They always voted.

Another Only Child

One egg hatched. The rest, major disappointment. We have a two-day-old chicklet born on Sunday, probably half-Silky. He/she is very tiny. More learning. Flour is sitting on three, due to hatch in just over a fortnight. She is isolated from the flock, seems contented and I intend to - Let. Her. Be.

No interference, no moving, no disturbances. Every broody period is a learning experience.

On Eggs

I'm on eggs.

That was an expression I often heard my mother and aunts use when they were nervous or apprehensive about something. Well. I'm on eggs and I'm on eggs because Honey the bantam is on eggs. There were six, now only five and they are due (I think) to hatch this weekend. One broke on Friday, inside one rotten little embryo roughly 10-12 days developed. That is when I went on eggs. There was also a thunderstorm and Bert, teller of old wive's tales, informed me that electrical storms play havoc with developing eggs.

Who told you that?
Pearlie. But everyone knows that. It's been well-known for fourteen million years.
Rubbish. There were no chickens or people fourteen million years ago.

I know. I'm a pedant.

But it worried me enough to go on the internet and there I found that half the folk there believed it to be nonsense and the other half said it was true. I was unnerved. And when the little rotten egg was found next day I started to fret that poor Honey was wasting her time and energy sitting on a clutch of dead chicks.

I've been in and out of the hen house a dozen times today. Bert said I might hear tapping or cheeping but the country is so noisy you could hardly hear a thing. The songbirds are the noisiest, then the traffic on the road. At one point I thought I heard tapping but I might have been imagining it. I'd like to move her to the other house where she can have peace and quiet but I'm worried it would put her off. She is very easily put out, unlike Flour who is already in the spare house sitting on three eggs. I'll be up tomorrow at daybreak to see if anything has happened. So, on eggs, Honey, Flour and Nelly.

Eleven Years

Eleven years ago today we lost the kindest, funniest and most decent man ever. He was a much loved husband, father, grandfather, father-in-law, uncle, brother, friend and neighbour. Seamus, still very much missed today. Grateful to have had you in my life for fifty one years and sorry about that rough patch between 1968 and 1973 when I didn't appreciate you enough.

Bad Start To The Day

After yesterday's post I'm looking for a loaded shotgun myself or maybe even a  ball peen hammer. Coming downstairs I see The Bastard Fred playing with a piece of something on the hall floor, a wine cork maybe, or a piece of dried grass? No. A dead wren. We had a wren's nest this year in an old rusting piece of farm machinery and now there is one less wren in the world. Sometimes I hate cats.

Update: Once again I got it wrong. I didn't examine the corpse very closely and judged it on size. The little bird was a goldcrest. Bert is fit to be tied.

The Birds

Last week we went to visit Bert's Aunt Lizzie who had been in hospital. She was in a cranky mood, very cross with the magpies and the crows that were taking the food from her bird table. For Lizzie's birdy feasts are for pretty little songbirds, the blue bonnets and the finches, not the great greedy members of the corvidae family. She said to Bert that she wished he'd brought his gun, as if he was in the habit of travelling around with a loaded shotgun ever ready to blast crows and magpies off old ladies' bird tables. She went on at length about how much she hated magpies because of the damage they do to smaller birds. I pointed out how domestic cats are very hard on birds and she wouldn't want Bert to shoot them, would she? Lizzie is very fond of cats. I'm afraid that she is, like her sister Pearlie before her, very particular about the kind of birds she likes. 

Pearlie hated magpies, buzzards and pigeons. She loved blue bonnets (tits), robins and swallows. She looked forward to the swallows yearly arrival and there is a piece of family folk lore that has her saying,

I wish the wee boys were here. It'll be great when they come.

There has been swallows nesting in the sheds for as long as anyone can remember but this year there are none. They were spotted briefly but did not stay. Pearlie would have been disappointed.

Evie is a keen observer of birds. She is always pointing them out to me and is good at identifying them. She spotted one in the car park outside her nursery school and asked me,

Granny! Do you see that bird? Do you know what it is?

I wasn't sure and answered,

I think it's a starling.

No Granny! It's a jackdaw.

As Les says, 

Every day is a learning day.

Bert's Tough Day

Bert had a tough day yesterday. First of all he had to move the herd, all seven of them, from one field to another. This involved shunting them out of one field, crossing a busy B road, and shunting them into another. He had at his disposal three sturdy cow hands, Les, Peter and myself. Les was in charge of halting the traffic at the Portglenone end, I took care of the Cully side and Peter and Bert gathered them up. That was the plan anyway. One of the 'bastes' was a visitor, a young bull belonging to Clint - that was in with our lot to act as a teaser. A young Lothario there to help Bert figure out when the girls were ready for the AI* man. And he was a teaser all right. With no intentions of doing the right thing he made a mad dash for the hedge and charged through a barbed wire fence into another man's field - and the two calves along with him. Meanwhile the cows were all in the new field enjoying the luscious grass. Peter and Bert did their best but they hadn't a hope. We brought one of the cows back and eventually the calves joined her and back to the luscious grass they went but no sign of Clint's bull. Bert tramped the fields but no sign of the teaser. He had to tell Clint who, it turned out, took a philosophical view of the matter.

They both went out to look for the bull, Clint driving the roads and Bert tramping the fields in torrential rain. At last the bull was found and penned and Clint drove off to get a trailer. Bert trudged home, soaked to the skin. He had just reached the end of the lane when one of the neighbours stopped him, a trim woman in her fifties, driving a smart little car. She called him over.

Bert, I was meaning to ask you. What are you doing about the trees?

The trees? What trees? 

The wood. The wood at the back of our house. What are you doing about it? 

Nothing. Why do you ask?

It's just that we were told it was only going to be there for fifteen or twenty years and now we can't see the road or the nice green fields. All we can see are those trees. We all hate them. 

Well I have no plans to do anything with them in the near future. They'll be there for a while yet.

Bert was disconcerted about this exchange. It never occurred to him that anyone would have a problem with the wood. He loves it, loves the wild life that lives there and is delighted that bluebells are beginning to flourish in it.

He told Clint who was practical as always.

Huh! If she doesn't like it she should move house. It's the countryside. Things change.

Later that afternoon the AI man turned up. Not Henry VIII this time, his brother Prince Arthur. He'd been caught in a short, sharp hailstorm where big chunks of ice had hit his car. We could actually see where the paint had flecked off. That made the downpour we'd had seem like a treat.

It faired up later and Bert took four dogs and the wee grey cat for a walk in the woods where they saw a fox. It wasn't a bad end to the day but it made me nervous for the hens, especially as he'd spotted fox cubs earlier whilst tramping other fields looking for Clint's young bull.

Bert's Wood

AI* Artificial insemination.