Hazie Daze

Fine day Monday at Lackford Lakes with the weather bright and crisp. All of which puts one in a reflective mood.

(It can only get worse...Ed!)
The old ticker gave a leap of joy as I recognised the flight form of one bird that I had never seen before, to my knowledge, in the feathers, as it were (take that as fast failing memory...Ed.) A kingfisher, which had been masquerading as a little brown job on a pole in the mid-distance, took off and flew across our line of sight. It banked and flashed its finery at us. A Mr Macfarlane had something to say about the weather too, and Halcyon Days, and kingfishers.

I'm so grateful for having RM's word of the day pointed out to me! Nice one B!

Everything in the Garden

Summertime and there is a certain uneasiness about the world (I do wish you would avoid the pull of the understatement... Ed.) However, as the sun shines and the butter flies, the bees polish their knees and life takes on a softer feel, for some, it is interesting to reflect on the boon of the land.
Patrick Barkham enumerates the benisons but not without reference to the political in a Grauniad article today.  To quote

A garden is more than a space to recharge, though. As George McKay points out in his book Radical Gardening, the collective endeavour that gardening can often be is evinced by everyone from Gerrard Winstanley’s 17th-century Levellers to today’s guerrilla gardeners. It isn’t always progressive – plenty of fascists revere gardening – but when enlightened gardening meets political power, it can rearrange the way we live. Ebenezer Howard’s reimagining of urban life in the 1890s led to garden cities such as Letchworth, and they continue to inform urban planning today.

McKay argues that allotments are “profoundly anti-capitalist” spaces. Modest council rents never reflect the true land value or what councils could earn from allotment land. Produce grown on allotments is consumed locally, and often swapped. Through allotments, we reject today’s dominant ideology of allocating resources via money and globalised markets.

I love that - plenty of fascists revere gardening - !

I would at this point show a picture of the family estate the pride and joy of us all including the head gardener, peace be upon her,  but I have a bad back, I am a lazy swine at the best and a wee bit of pain finishes me off! (You are excused, just the once, but man up there princess we only have one blog... Ed)

Helen of the D'Amberponts

Disclaimer.
The proposal for a romance/radio cereal/graphic novel is attached.
Any similarity with an everyday story of countryfolk or indeed Mr Hardy's underwhelming and somewhat febrile novel is purely coincidental. To be continued... (see omnibus edition No. 92)

Mayday

The first Sunday in May and six acres of bluebells in Haughley Park Woods.

Other photos are available -

http://www.haughleypark.co.uk/public-events/

It seems meet and just to celebrate Mayday with something blue. In the interests of balance however and to avoid any any suggestion that all that is yellow is not necessarily red can I direct you to Mhairi Black: SNP MP's maiden speech in full on You Tube! (I am confused, perplexed and banjanxed. You have me completely lost...Ed!)

Oja La.

We're Younger than that Now

The BFI, whom god preserve, have joined the i madness! There is now a BFiplayer...
This morning, sat with a cup of coffee, I watched an 11 min. short film about the Essex villages of Finchingfield and Great Bardfield in the 30's. Music courtesy of Benji B, the link takes you right there.


A different world, I tell you.

Autumnal Thoughts

Tinnitus in old age is just nature's way of ringing bells to no effect!

Normal for Norfolk

You may have noticed headlines, strap lines and lines of waving locals with words similar to the following

...Norfolk, England Welcoming visitors since 1061

or similar date.

Extensive research by the Buddhist Pizza Reseach Institute (BPRI reg in Cayenne Islands, Charity  number 666) has unearthed a much earlier date for the County's first visitors. As a result and out of a deep respect for the denizens we offer the following as an amendation...

...Norfolk, England Welcoming visitors for over 900,000 years

 (Is it not usual at this point to pass some comment about the stasis in the gene pool or some such like...Ed)

Are you joking? I make occasional visits to the bloody place and have no intention of doing any such thing.

Frostwork

And in the night Jack weaves his way from web to flower,
And in the day the sun discloses where the diamonds are.

We're Doomed I Telt Ye, Doomed!

Old BP's country lore:- 96 in a series.

They do say a black fox has been sighted in these parts. The legend is very clear, my dears. We are going to hexperience some dreadful times. Plague, famine, war, Gideon's Budget, terrible though they are, will all seem like a calm benefice compared to what lies ahead. The Fox was killed. Expect to see bakers marching in the streets waving French bread, investment bankers having to live on their salaries, the top 0.01 per cent of the population leaving for tax havens in droves, Germans being smuggled into the country in petrol cans.
I tell ee, it is very close to the end times!

Bloomin Gorse

Lovely day at Weston Fen. The sun shining, the gorse bloomin.
Who said January is dreek and miserable.
Don't believe me - here's a wee picture I did on the old magi phone?

David Hockney eat your heart out!
(Ed. May I remind you that Mr Hockney has years of experience, immense skill and expertise and is currently enjoying a very successful exhibition at the Royal Academy :- A Bigger Picture.)
You just happened to forget to mention that he was from Yorkshire.

Autumn

A child's excitement
Crayfish in the bucket
Another on the line

Mother frets at only two
With an eye to the pot
A friendly parting

Wood remains to be cleared
A dinosaur smiles
Across the river

The cock miscrows the hour
An October sun
Is at its highest in the sky

Warmth flows into
My drug thinned blood
I am the noonday devil

I am the Lord of the Flies
Butterflies and dragonflies attend
I turn to the village in peace

What news of
Banker's bailouts and
Dictators in the desert?

Moth Eaten

We were returning home to Buddhist Pizza Towers from the Amnesty 50th birthday bash; wild since you ask a good time was had by all, worthy petitions to sign everywhere, bless'em! On a high of orange juice and flute music I blurted out to Lady BP:-

Moths are very important!

Poor woman she has much to put up with. I explained the connections, and links in my moth eaten brain and why I had made such a statement. I won't bore you, having imposed such tortuous amblings on herself last night. She is long-suffering but nothing if not polite!

Imagine my joy at seeing this article by Martin Wainwright on the Observer website this morning. Not quite what I had in mind but the attached photo gallery shows beauty takes many forms and is important.

The Bees Knees

I am sat at my computer listening to Late Junction for 2/6/11 on the iPlayer. Nils Henrik Asheim / Gjertrud's Gypsy Orchestra are playing — Chopin: Mazurka Op. 68 No. 2 in A minor. (Mazurka: Remaking Chopin, LAWO LWC1016.) The sun is shining through the blind and the 'bees', which have squatted under our eaves, are dancing in the sun casting their small shadows on the blind.

Retable

So; I thought it would be good to go back and take a picture at Thornham Parva church.
Even though as a lad I had been steeped in the trappings of holy mother church I was not conscious of the word retable until my late forties. A trip to Burgos and its churches produced more retables than you could shake a stick at. In fact they probably had retables in the bawdy houses but, of course, we didn't check. Anyway here is a poor snap of the one at Thornham, very famous.

In the church we were able to look on the Retable and ponder.

Making our way through the churchyard we stumbled across the last resting place of Sir Bas and Lady Joan Spence.

Being creatures of little sensitivity and lowly station we pitched up on the only bench in the churchyard amongst the departed and had our picnic. The heat of the day and the food caused some of our stout party to lie back and enjoy the sun. Those of us on the bench promised to cover with the vicar, if he appeared, and say that they were only getting in some pre-burial practice.

We had a good walk and if you are interested you could trace our steps here!

Way beyond the blue.

I have been reading Notes from Walnut Tree Farm compiled after Roger Deakin's death from 45 lined exercise books of his jottings. I had enjoyed Waterlog and Wildwood so much I thought I ought to give it a go. I am greatly enjoying it. Your man Deakin had a rare eye for detail, to wit; page 8 ......

good hills are hard to find in most of Suffolk.

Amen brother, amen! Doesn't it also have some awesome skies?


I ventured out today, having no demands upon my person, to Mellis; Deakin's stomping ground. I tramped from the common, via Cowpasture Lane, to Thornham Parva Church where I sat down and ate my lunch of pork pie and an apple. I nearly wept with the joy of it for the pig must have been deeply christian, the sun shone and if ever a church could be said to be easy on the eye, St Mary's is such. It has the scale of humanity, a small, squat, tower with a pyramidal thatch. The whole edifice has the air of shelter and support. It does not set out to impress or oppress you!


We had the good fortune to explore the Tardis like interior when herself was invited to a poetry reading by Oliver Bernard and music from a group of young(ish) women in an a cappella ensemble - Way Beyond the Blue. They were good and the sound they produced let alone their feminine charms was enough to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window! I was recalling this when I heard a green woodpecker fly off into the woods with its characteristic mocking laugh. So I upped stumps and headed back to Mellis.
A pint of Adnams at the Railway Tavern calmed me down and I returned to the pueblo much restored.

Where Sheep May Safely Graze

A few days off; aren't they all?

Glastonbury at the solstice. I didn't go up the Tor for sunrise being, uncharacteristically, sound asleep. Those that did said it was like a drunken football match! I chose to go up the Tor solo, steady on chaps, and had a pleasant bimble in the sun, even being wished a happy solstice by a woman who ought to have known better. Later I had the privilege of sitting on the slopes of the Tor in a refurbished, mobile, shepherds hut. I shared a teabag, and looked out from the hut and saw this.


Sometimes, for the strangest of reasons, you can feel incredibly lucky and blessed.
As I may have said on a previous occasion:- Gracias a la vida

We then went off to see the shepherd castrate two of the little lambs that had been quite happily nuzzling their mum. Ouch!

We are the village green preservation society...

Interesting series of pickies from one of my favourite bloggers.
I may not always agree with her but she does have a lovely take on her life.

Shop local; what a good idea and even better if some of those shops are owned by the community especially if they are in the hands of a mutual society.

Manitas de plato.

A bridge over untroubled waters.

From a recent amble.



It's the first one we have been on for a few months.

We are so lucky to have such visions of beauty in our back yards.

Bucolic Plague 3

Arty Artichoke and Busy Bee

Bucolic Plague 2

Farmer Broon has been preparing the fields for the herd. Posts have been driven in and pastures dressed. When we arrived some years ago the herd was grazing. We spotted a very large bull. It was impressive, with huge shoulders, but perhaps rather too thick round the middle and rear, reminded me a bit of John 'two cormorants' Prescott. That was not the reason we called him John the Bull. It was probably the faded English quality of doing one's duty that he dragged around with him servicing the cows.
Two years later and half a ton of not so prime hamburger gone, replaced by a younger, more active, and who knows if you are a cow, a more attractive proposition. This beast had the look of a Spanish fighting bull so, of course, we called him Pedro! He pranced about very full of himself pursuing the cows but would then stop with a pathetic look. One of the older cows with a huge udder got fed up with this and showed him what to do. She mounted him and gave him what for with her udder!
I have never been to a bull fight. I'm not interested in making a sport out of cruelty to animals. That aside one of the things that I have thought about it is the basic unfairness of it all. Even if the poor beast gets his retaliation in first and tramples all over the matador or spins him a few times on its horns it still gets taken off and slaughtered!
If the English had invented bull fighting, and they have done worse, at the point where the fellow in the funny hat and tight trousers lies bleeding on the sand a man in a long white coat festooned with caps, sunglasses and white pullovers would come out and cry "Over!"
The crowd would clap politely and rise for tea and the bull would be led off to live the rest of his life in green pastures, stuffing his strut, with a small herd.