Seven Years

 It's been an ordinary day. I woke up far too early, got up, went back to bed with coffee, then fell asleep again and had a crazy dream about being in a crowded, confusing house with far too many disparate people. This is becoming a recurring dream and it all seems so strange. Actually, that used to be my life and sometimes, even in waking hours, it still is.

I forgot that it was Mammy's anniversary.

Instead of remembering I had one of those pleasant, mooching about days. Bert and I went out for breakfast and when we came back we both pottered. I've been admiring the primroses that are naturalising at the edge of the old laneway that backs our yard. Sometimes it is good to just let nature take its course. Matty would have approved.

Bert was wondering what he should do next. It's good when that happens on a pottering day. A day when you don't have to do anything. The birds had other ideas. They started to scold because their feeders were empty. He knew what to do next. Matty would have approved of that too. She always took notice of the birds.

It was London Sister who reminded me of the day that was in it. And I remembered that last year I met the occasion with a great deal of melancholy. Not this year. She'd have approved of that.

Tomorrow we are going to her house to remove the last bits and pieces of furniture before we put it up for sale. I'm not sure what she'd have thought of that. I'm not sure what I think of that either.

Seven years. Where did it go? I think I might have spent it pottering.

Monday Suppers: Spag Bol

I tried something new today. Spaghetti Bolognese. Spaghetti Bolognese! The dish that even students can make and that everyone else has been serving up for over half a century. I have made it before, probably at least 480 times before but today was the first time ever I used a recipe.

And this is the book I used. It's a great favourite of mine although generally I just make desserts.  

This is the recipe. Usually, when I make spag bol I go overboard with the herbs and throw all kinds of vegetables in. That's what happens when you've been making the same dish since you were twenty. Bad ideas become a lifetime habit. This recipe just uses onion, tomatoes, garlic, carrots and celery. Not a bell pepper in sight. And the solitary herb used was oregano. I cooked everything far longer and slower than I normally would and the only variation from Penny Stephens' book was using damson and blackcurrant wine instead of red plonk.

The verdict? It was very tasty. Dave called it a 'triumph', Zoe had a small second serving and Martha and Evie cleared their plates and asked for seconds despite having already eaten spag bol for school lunch. Bert said it was nice but too many carrots. I'm having the leftovers on sourdough toast for tomorrow's breakfast. Hannah said that Thai people would be horrified by what Irish people eat for breakfast. She was referring to something she called 'slop' and I would call 'porridge'. Apparently, Thai people eat supper's savoury leftovers for brekkie and so shall I. Tomorrow anyway.

And these are the grandchildren with Hannah and Mel. They are drawing nicely with every Sharpie, colouring pencil and oil pastel in the house. Last week they had that table upside down in the middle of the yard with my blue silky cushions padding it and a small dog wearing a pink plastic tiara perched on top. I'm afraid I was cross and I regret that. I should have taken a photograph instead.

Another Visit to The Home Place

My two younger sisters and my niece are up visiting from Kerry and Leitrim respectively and yesterday we went to the Seamus Heaney Home Place in Bellaghy. I've had the pleasure of accompanying seven close family members over five visits and can report that there has been an 85% high approval rate.

Kerry Sister runs an AirB&B on the Dingle Peninsula and she said she will be recommending the centre to any of her guests who are planning to visit Up North.

My take is that even if Seamus Heaney is not one of your favourite poets you will still get a feel for the sort of place that made him. It is one of the best places to visit in Ireland.

And, as well as The Home Place being fascinating, moving and so worth it, the people who staff the centre are a delight and the coffee shop serves delicious food. Just go there and see for yourself. I'll be back soon myself and hope to be bringing two more family members with me. Martha and Evie will definitely love it.

I have not been paid for writing this blog post.

Incey Wincey...Aaargh!

My mother was a bit of a hypochondriac, overly concerned with her health and I have always tried not to be but, as a body grows older it gets harder and harder. My hypochondria, such as it is, manifests itself in the middle of the night if, for some reason, I find myself unable to sleep. Or, even worse, I am wakened by some inexplicable discomfort. Like this morning, when I started from sleep because of a sore and itchy left hand. At first I thought I'd slept on my paw, it was stiff and slightly swollen and worst of all itchy beyond belief. I scratched and scratched which only brought a moment's relief. Anxiety kicked in. It must be an allergic reaction. What did I do? What did I eat? I scratched some more then remembered I had some antihistamines left over. Anything to relieve this damnable itching.

Within half an hour the itching had eased but my hand was still stiff and sore. Still, I managed to fall asleep and did not wake again until nearly ten o'clock. My hand was still swollen but the itch was gone. I felt down, firstly because I had slept too late and secondly because my body was a wreck and I was going to end up allergic to everything. What had I ate? There was the blackcurrant wine but I'd had it a few nights ago and no reaction.  Oh yes, pine nuts. I'd added pine nuts to a rather bland salad and as the packet was still sitting out I'd had a few more spoonfuls after supper. I'm trying to ease off on sugar (afraid of diabetes) and when I do that I always turn to nuts. No more pine nuts, no more pesto. God, this was getting depressing. I might even be allergic to dairy or wine and where was it going to end? Living out the rest of my days eating a dreary diet of milkless porridge, green vegetables and whatever first class protein my stupid immune system permitted me.

I plodded on with my day. Sowed some seeds to cheer myself up. Peter called in. I was recounting the story of being woken up, hand on fire, batting of my husband's puerile jokes about the duvet in flames when Bert said,

Probably something just bit you.

And then I remembered, the last time my hand felt like that was about ten years ago when a spider I was rescuing from a sink bit me on the finger. Knowing what it probably was made me feel a lot better because I can still eat pesto and drink blackberry wine. Unfortunately for the spider clan I might be less careful when cleaning and vacuuming for I'm always watching out that I don't hurt my eight-legged friends. But from now on I'm going to look the other way and hoover the fuck out of them. Imagine it, a decent wee woman sleeping away and Incey-Wincey lowering himself on to her pillow and the good wee person accidentally brushes him with the back of her hand and next thing allergic reaction. And if that doesn't deserve a good run of Hettying  I don't know what would.

Actually, I probably will still be nice to spiders. Getting bit once every ten years isn't too awful. And I can still drink blackberry wine.

Argument

I had an argument with Clint this afternoon and I didn't even know it was an argument until he stormed off in a state of high dudgeon. My conclusion was that this meant the argument had been won by me.

The conversation started, as it so often does, on farming.

Bert drew my attention to a compliment that Clint had received from another farmer on his success with calf-rearing. I too, was complimentary.

We then went on to discuss Bert's imminent retirement from the cattle trade. Clint posited that Bert's experience in livestock was 'a disaster'. I took exception to that as he had managed to keep all cattle alive that were meant to be kept alive so it was hardly disastrous. Clint countered with Bert's failure to get cows in calf. I suggested that this was a disappointment rather than a disaster. Anyway, there was a little more in this vein and then the talk turned to the weather.

Everyone was in agreement that the weather was a real disaster. Clint said that the last good day we had was the Twelfth of July and I said that there had been the odd good day here and there but he insisted that Orangeman's Day was the last decent day we'd had. I expect he hoped that this might enrage me as I am a Shinner but I let it go. Instead I mentioned that I'd read a report in the Guardian that studies indicated that the Gulf Stream is now at its weakest since around 400AD. "And how would they know that," says Clint. I said, "Science."

Bert interjected by saying it hardly mattered what the weather was going to be like as Trump and Putin are going to blow the world apart. I think I have mentioned before that Bert leans toward a very simplistic and pessimistic world view. That led to a discussion about Trump which is a subject Clint and I usually avoid, him being an admirer as well as a card-carrying Brexiteer.  I said that if Trump's blustery tweets did turn out to be more effective than old-fashioned diplomacy then I for one would not be unhappy. Clint took this as a capitulation, that I had changed my tune on Trump. I took an opportunity never before open to me to ask him why he had supported Trump even before he'd taken office. He trotted out the usual. Breath of fresh air. Successful businessman. I took him to task on that one. He countered with one of the richest men in America, funded his own campaign... I picked him up on this,  for Trump only self-funded to a point... and the next thing Clint's storming off - which is where we came in.

And I've been feeling edgy ever since.

Botanic Gardens, Belfast

Clear blue sky in the Botanic Gardens. 

Miniature daffodils in Botanic Gardens, The McClay Library in background.

Glorious magnolia beside Peter Froggatt Centre.

Solanum Capsicastrum 

There were a lot of visitors in the Palm House today. I overheard a North American man ask one of the staff what the orange-berried plants were. He was informed ' Soranum, a relative of the pepper family'.

I took the opportunity of letting the visitor know (out of earshot of the person who had misinformed him) that it was 'Solanum'. With that information he can figure out for himself that the plant he was admiring is actually a member of the tomato and potato family. I love being a pedant.

Steeped In Folklore

There is a particular kind of child that I am very fond of and that is a child who has a morbid interest in dead and disgusting things. I was that sort of a child myself.


Years ago, when Ben was only a lad, we found a milk churn in the shed that had housed peanuts for wild birds. A few had been left moldering at the bottom of the container and a rat had climbed in and eaten its fill and then found that it was trapped. This happened more than once. By the time Bert realised what had happened and it was the sweet stench of dead animals that alerted him, there were at least five rats in there and only one was still alive. And what were we going to do with it. I said that the surviving rat had suffered enough and we should let it run free. So Bert upended the barrel on a piece of waste ground and Ratty shot out like a bullet zig-zagging to a place of safety.


The remaining contents of the churn consisted of mouldy peanuts mixed with a mummified rat, a couple of cannibalised rats and an out an out stinking rat. Ben was fascinated. It was a Bank Holiday and we were having people round and, as each group arrived, Ben wondered if they would be interested in seeing what had come out of the peanut barrel - we called it Ben’s Dead Rat Tour. I was slightly surprised at the number of folk who actually took him up on his offer.


I was reminded of this on Good Friday. The previous day Martha and I were exploring and I took her to see the calf’s placenta that Bert had hung on a tree not far from where the Dead Rat Tour had taken place a decade earlier. Like the gory little beast she is, she was delighted with it. She asked me why Bert had hung it in a tree and thanks to a conversation with Bert and some internet research I’d carried out I was able to tell her. In all the years that calves have been born here I hadn’t realised that Bert hung the afterbirth in a tree. Why? Because his father did it. Why did his father do that? For mine didn’t. Because it was lucky.


Apparently Johnny had a particular thorn tree he used but that’s gone now so Bert threw it over another tree. It was hanging fairly high so the dogs couldn’t reach it and Ziggy really wanted to. For it was his persistent barking at the afterbirth that drew my attention to it.


It seems that Johnny's habit of disposing of the cow's cleaning is an ancient tradition that is carried out all over the world. In Germany, the country folk hung the afterbirth on an apple tree to ensure that the cow would give birth again the following year. In Yorkshire a mare’s placenta was hung on a thorn tree to help the foal to thrive. Looking further, in South East Asia, Africa and North America human placentas were also placed on trees to bring good fortune.

Searching for an image I found on Flickr a photograph of a Tree Hung With Cow Placenta To Encourage Bovine Fertility And Milk Production, Kanadukathan Chettinad, India. I wish I’d got my shot of Tree Hung With Cow Placenta Because That’s What Da Did, Cullybackey, Ireland but I was tardy and a fox made off with the tasty treat.

I missed out on the rat photographs too. Sure, I took them but they don’t seem to have survived the occasional computer crash.

Martha and Evie had friends over on Friday and, following in Ben’s footsteps, she gave them a tour. First the new calf, called April and doing well and look, there is the afterbirth hanging on a tree! Shall we get closer and poke it with a stick?

The day of the Dead Rat Tour barbecue. Ben is taking his tour to the right of that shed in the background. Sadly there is no photograph of the placenta but it looked rather like a red and cream satin ballgown all tattered and torn.

The Wrong Jelly and Other Stories

The girls are here for a sleepover and earlier today Bert took them grocery shopping. We needed some special ingredients for a sweet making session and for pizzas. He came back in a rage,

That Fullans is the worst shop in the world! They had nothing we wanted, No pepperoni, no anchovies, no mozzarella, no dislocated (sic) coconut! I'm never going in there again and all the staff do is stand about the aisles gossiping to each other!

But he proved himself a hero. Went to another shop, the trusty old O'Neill's, and got everything on the list except he bought packet jelly instead of ready made in a plastic tub. Jelly wasn't on the list but Martha convinced him that it was an essential. That's all very well but if the grandfather then fails to make the jelly and if at bedtime all a child wants is some jelly then Houston We Have A Problem.

So Martha and I jumped in the van and drove to Cully and bought the right kind of jelly. She was wearing a striped onesie and I forgot my partial denture but, who cares, we were on a mission. On the way back we went the long way and listened to Keltic Storm's version of  Mairi's Wedding three times. I love that me and the girls are so uncool we are actually cool and I'm sad that sometime in the near future they'll be letting me know that saying cool is no longer cool or even a thing.
 

This is the recipe book we are using for the sweets. It belonged to their mother when she was only a little bit older than they are now although this wasn't the cover of Zoe's book. If it had been I believe it would have been thrown out long ago. Both Margaret Powell and her pupil look terrifying. The early seventies can still send shivers.

Sleepovers mean bedtime stories. Tonight we had Madeline, a great favourite of the girls and of mine. The books are a pleasure to read, short and bitter-sweet. Tonight's story was about the time Madeline had her appendix out and how all the other girls were so envious of  the attention she received.

After that it was stories from real life.

Who do you want the story to be about?

You!

What age do you want me to be? Forty?

No! A wee child.

OK. I'll tell you about my first day at school.

So I did. And I told them about Malachy's first day at school and how kind Mrs Magee was and how mean Miss O'Neill was and about the time George didn't do his homework and stood up and read an essay he was supposed to have written at home and stood there looking at two blank pages and told the story out of his head and how I admired his nerve and then Martin told Cassie on him and George got the ruler and how I lost respect for Martin for ever and ever. I explained how Mrs Magee was always Mrs because we respected her but how Cassie was called Cassie behind her back because we did not respect her because she was mean and cruel.

After that I tried to think up some stories about their Mum when she was a naughty little girl but I couldn't think of any because she was a rather good child. There is only one and as Martha said,

Don't tell us about the time that she cut out pictures from a book and glued them on the wall and said the dog did it. We've heard that one a million times!

They were freshly painted walls, though.

The Last Picture I Posted On Flickr #1

First of all, I don't know for sure who the photographer was. The subjects are my mother, my brother and my brother's daughter and the occasion was London Sister's summer wedding in North London, twelve years ago. You wouldn't think it to look at the photographs but Matty was feeling poorly that day. It turned out she had shingles which was affecting her face. She was very stoic about it and did not succumb to complaint until she was back home.

That was Matty all over, a bit of a hypochondriac at times, she whinged about the little things, a hack on her thumb, a touch of cramp, but she could be remarkably brave about the big things. I'll never forget the day she received her terminal cancer diagnosis. The house was full, lots of us around, everyone shocked and filled with faint dread and yet, there was Matty apparently enjoying all the attention.

I sat down beside her on the sofa and squeezed her arm,

How are you doing Mammy?

She turned to me with a very open expression on her face and said,

Och, sure I always wondered how I would die!

Not the answer I was expecting at all.

People often say after someone dies from cancer that they 'lost a battle, bravely fought'. Well, Matty didn't fight at all, she just got on with it. She was brave, though.

Easy Peasy Wine-Making

I had an email today from someone near Portglenone who wanted to know if I could recommend (or give) classes on wine-making. Naturally, I was suspicious. Did this person really need advice or did he have some nefarious reason for seeking my counsel? I was  tempted to recommend the ancient tome First Steps In Winemaking by C.J.J. Berry which I threw out years ago (it was in tatters) but instead said soothing things. I couldn't remember the name of the Berry book so Googled 'ancient wine-making book' and it came up straight away.

What I would have liked to advise my Bannside friend was this,

Sterilise everything.

Take three pounds of anything flavoursome and fruity (or vegetably).

Steep it and add one bag of sugar. Lidls is good for cheap sugar.

Add one teaspoon of yeast with added nutrients.

Fiddle about racking and so on for a few months. Sterilise everything.

After about six months bottle. Sterilise everything.

After about three months fall to and get pissed.

Easy peasy.

Good News

We had some really good news about Roy today. It's two weeks since he was had the balls lopped off and not only has that healed very well, the growth on his anus has shrunk. Roy's buddy Adam (the vet) was jolly pleased. And so were we. Judy was seeing the vet today as well. She's looking good and can carry on with the pain relief medication.

Adam asked, how has Roy been? We were able to tell him that Roy had shoulder-charged one of Howard's dogs out of his way when the silly sprollie was interfering with his pig-herding duties. Still macho despite the loss of his cojones.

And although Roy is no longer on medication we intend to keep on giving him the cheese.

The patients

Remembering Home on Mother's Day

Although the house in Drumkeeran was the place I thought of as ‘home’ I only lived there for a very short time. In 1978, when I was expecting my middle daughter, I moved to Ballymena and lived in various houses there until Bert and I moved to a new build in Cullybackey. Nevertheless, the house on the Murphystown Road, where my parents lived was the place that I called home.

I was around seven when we moved to the Murphystown. It was a shoddily built farmhouse that belonged to people whose patriarch had never wanted it to fall into Catholic hands. Apparently the old man had died in the house and the moaning noises that I often heard coming from his bedroom might have been an echo of his dying or even a haunting, because his last wish had not been respected. Or, it could even have been the wind blowing through the rotting window frame. My father did not prioritise the maintenance of that house for his main interest was the development of the small farm the house came with.

We lived there for nearly twenty years before moving into a new bungalow that my parents built. That house is the one that my mother lived in until she died, the place that I thought of as ‘home’ for the next thirty odd years.

Our parents had hardly a bean when they moved there, all available funds having been used to build it so it was furnished on the cheap. It wasn’t exactly what our mother wanted but she made do. Making curtains, upholstering and painting and decorating. In what spare time she had left she also created a lovely garden, something she never had the space for before. Daddy was not a gardener but he bought a ride-on lawn mower and began to take great pride in his lawns. Over the years the house became more what Mum wanted. She had a bit more money to spare and she began replacing all the old stuff with better quality furnishings. She didn’t go mad though. She still had an eye for a bargain and many items were bought in charity stores. She became quite house proud.

I remember her saying many years ago,

I do try to keep this place nice but what with your Daddy and the dog it’s not easy….

When she got ill we all spent a lot more time at home. Yet it was only a matter of time that ‘home’ would be no more. That is when I started taking the photographs. The first batch were taken when she was still with us, the second batch soon after she died but before we cleared the house. It has taken until now for me to be able to look at them, sort them out and share them.

A Cure For Sure

Roy had his operation today. Not on the growth as the vet is going to leave that alone for the moment. Instead, the old lad had his testicles removed which will cut off the supply of testosterone to the lump on his bum and prevent it from growing. I hope it works.

So far, the old fellow has recovered well. He has enjoyed supper and taken a sedate dander around the yard.

Other news - I visited the pharmacist yesterday to inquire if she could sell me an over the counter medicine to ease my throat. She said that the most effective thing would be some sort of antihistamine but only a doctor could prescribe that. I said I had some in the house. She said I could give it a go. So home I went and raided the medicine chest. There were two cards of pills and I was sure one of them was antihistamine. This is where Wikipedia comes in handy. One of the pills turned out to be a sleeping tablet, the one that Bert took more of than he oughter when he first had the manflu. The second was antihistamine and Mumsnet opined that it would cure post-nasal drip, the cause of all my woe. A Cullybackey pharmacist and Mumsnet. This was a cure for sure!

Thirty minutes after taking it my nose had dried up and so had my throat. Hot tea wouldn't lubricate it and wine didn't work either. But the good news is I've had three of those pills now and I'm feeling much better and the throat is getting back to normal.

I have decided to begin clearing my attic seven minutes at a time. Today I threw out the box, leads and manuals from three cameras ago. It's a start. To celebrate this achievement I am posting a picture of my youngest grandchild.

Sick Of Being Sick

It is a month now since I was in Norfolk and anxious that I would not carry the dreaded manflu to Katy and family. The very first night that I slept there I was woken up by that tickle at the back of the throat that is usually the first sign of a virus infection. For the first few days I was achey and sore and feeling well below par. Then I got the stomach bug and forgot all about the flu-like symptoms. Ten days later I was still feeling shitty - got home and found Bert wasn't much better. The virus travelled into my chest, a week or more of dry coughing then there were headaches. A couple of days ago I thought it was fading but no! Damned thing has settled in my throat. Still, mustn't grumble too much. It is years since I had such a persistent infection.

There was a rumour in Hannah's work that a tremendous amount of mourners at a recent very well-attended funeral had been struck down with this flu-like illness. Bert was certainly one of them as his symptoms began within days. Yet again, we must not complain as it turns out that the uncle of the fellow whose funeral it was caught the bug and died within a week. But he was well into his eighties, Bert and I have youth on our side. Well, Bert has anyway. I get my state pension this coming week. Fingers crossed I live to enjoy it.

Another sad story - bloody Beast from the East has destroyed my wallflowers and ceanothus.

One of the many wrens who live around here.

Roy Update

Roy had his return visit to the vet's surgery today. The growth on his anus has not altered despite him having been on antibiotics for nearly a week. The young vet (loves border collies, addresses Roy as 'Buddy', and Roy nuzzles into him like he's a long-lost pal) has consulted with the other vets in the practice and they seem to think that surgical removal would cause more problems than it would solve. As testosterone is the likely culprit they think that neutering would be effective almost immediately. He is booked in for the snip in eight days time. If the tumour is malignant and neutering doesn't impede its growth we'll hold on until he's not comfortable any more and then do the needful thing. I'm hopeful though.

Meanwhile, another member of our canine family is having problems. Zoe's older dog has a spinal problem and is in doggy hospital. Fingers and paws crossed that she will recover. She is around the same age as Roy but we've known her since she was conceived. Her mother is Kerry Sister's oldest dog who is, so far, in excellent health.

Get well soon, Miss Gracie.

Herding Pigs

Roy is on a course of antibiotics and does not like them. However, he is prepared to take them if I encase them in a thick layer of soft cheese. His anti-inflammatory meds are administered by syringe and both he and Judy find this more palatable. It seems like such a short time ago that I remarked to Bert,

Isn't it great having young dogs and no vet's bills to pay!

At least they are both in good enough form. Balls to be played with (Judy) and pigs to be herded (Roy and Judy). Our pigs are the best-herded pigs in the country.

It is Day Two of the quiet house. Hannah has landed safely somewhere in the Canaries. She was vague as to exactly where or maybe I wasn't listening. Anyways, as long as she has a wonderful time - that's the main thing.

Wednesday Catch Up

Not much blogging last week reason being that this damn Bert Flu really kicks in at night and that's when I usually sort Nelly's Garden out. And I'm too tired and worn out to do it.

The news is, we had a Musical Evening on Saturday. Well, Hannah did. There were four or five guitarists, a banjo player, a violinist, a harmonica player and a clarinettist. There were several very good vocalists. There was someone playing the kazoo but he got a mild telling off from the gipsy jazz guitarist. It was very enjoyable but oh so tiring and Nellybert weren't worth tuppence on Sunday.

Monday was Back to Gardening Monday. No Dave, as he is Game of Throning in Moneyglass. Just Zoe and the girls. I made spaghetti meatballs and a Golden Syrup steamed pudding. Had a kitchen meltdown (too many people in it) and then got over it. Rod came out to see the dogs and brought me a bottle of wine. Most welcome.

Yesterday I pottered.

Today I finally got round to re-sowing chillis, this time in my brand new propagator that I bought on Saturday morning at Montrose Garden Supplies. The first lot I sowed before I went to Norfolk and they did absolutely nothing. Hopefully, the new lot will be more successful. Hannah headed off to Belfast as the first leg of her holiday. She's heading for the Canaries tomorrow.

Now the sombre news. We took Roy to the vet today as he had some sort of spot on his bum. Turns out it might be cancer. He has a course of antibiotics to take, then back to the vet next week to discuss his options. When he came to us we knew he wasn't neutered and decided not to do it because he was over ten. Turns out that if he had been neutered then he'd have been at less risk for this cancer that he might have. Anyway, we'll see. Dogs get old so fast. The poor old fellow also has mild heart disease which was diagnosed at his last checkup.

What I Did On My Holidays

The main thing I did on my holidays was fall madly in love with my fourth grandchild, Emily. She fell asleep on me a lot and there is a part of me, my left side from my shoulder down to my breast where she has left a psychic imprint.

The next big thing was immersing myself in the world of trains with James. I have probably watched at least half of the available episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine by now and together with James I watched hours of YouTube videos of steam engines in America. These films are surprisingly soothing and proved very much so the day that James had the vomiting bug. His psychic imprint is on my right side, where his hard curly little head dug into my shoulder. These were my best times.

Of course, I got sick myself. There was the watered down Bert Flu I brought with me which lasted the entire ten days and which I still have although it paled into insignificance when I got the vomiting bug. I wasn't much use to Katy and family that day.

Another highlight was my three sightings of a Little Owl hunting on Sculthorpe Airfield. There were no photographs as it was dull and rainy on each occasion. I'd never seen a Little Owl in the wild before so it was much more interesting just to watch it rather than fiddle about only to end up with a mediocre shot.

And that is pretty much how I spent my ten days in Norfolk. Owls and babies, babies and owls. What could be better?

One More Sleep

At last, the morning of the big push to Norfolk. Achievements so far,

Bought Guardian and paracetamol for the grievously sick husband.

*****

Early afternoon now. Not one single thing of mine in the suitcase yet. All James and Emily. The polytunnel has been watered and the poorly sick husband is up and about wearing complete rig out of farming clothes, big boots, boiler suit, beanie hat, heavy fleece jacket. He won't take them off as he is "too cold and miserable". I'd be miserable too if I was wearing all that stuff.

*****

Late afternoon - inundated with visitors. Polished my shoes while I chatted with them. I do like a bit of multitasking. Have already walked Jack Byrne in icy rain and had plain lunch. Bert still very sick man. One of the visitors said Man Flu is really a thing and if Bert needed sympathy give him a call as the poor fellow was obviously going to get no kind words at home. Not true! I made him a cup of Earl Grey and reminded him to take his paracetamol.

*****

Evening. Packing completed. Husband still sick. Polished my handbag and watched an episode on Inside No. 9. Feeling very excited. Hope Bert is fit enough to take me to the airport tomorrow. I took a photo of him sleeping on the sofa but it is too sad to show. Instead, here is one of Jack whose people will be collecting him tomorrow.

It might be a day or two before I get back to the Garden. See you!

Two More Sleeps

Today was supposed to be a day of preparing for the Norfolk trip but instead it turned into a day of two breakfasts, a trip to Ballymena with Leitrim Sister and Yer Man and a lot of chillaxing in front of an open fire and a glass or few of Lidls finest (and cheapest) Merlot.

All I have to do tomorrow is get up early, buy the Saturday Guardian (still can't get used to new format but at least Stephen Collins is still there), tidy and water polytunnel, fill suitcase with stuff for Emily and James and perhaps find tiny amount of room for a couple of changes of clothing for myself.

It was good to spend an hour or so with Deirdre and Nick and I'm almost certain I told Hannah that they'd be staying overnight. She did get an awful shock when she charged into the spare room at daybreak looking for clean socks. She met Bert on the stairs up for his early morning old-man pee and asked "Who are those people in the spare room?" so perhaps I only imagined I told her.

Still, as I always say on such occasions,

At least nobody died.