Thursday 20 December 2012
Inundated
I take the back road this morning, both for some quiet reflection and to avoid the queues of cars driving slowly through escaped rivers now flowing over bridges in the Forest. Black waters inundate the roads but they remain passable with a care I abandon on some straights, aquaplaning from island to low island across the heaths. The concentration required to do this saves me from self examination. Like the water flowing across novel waterways, my reflections are fragmented by undertows and currents.
Tuesday 27 November 2012
Build a better one
Two weeks ago, or there abouts, a mouse entered our lives rather more intimately than we felt comfortable with. It probably jumped in through the conservatory door on the Friday and, finding the interior warmer, and plentiful food supplies, settled in for a quiet winter. I first noticed its presence on Sunday when there was an unexpected rustling sound by the window when I went out to check the conservatory plants. The rustling repeated on Monday, when I went to fetch the battery lantern and then on Tuesday, as I tapped away on the keyboard of my office, next to the conservatory, a brown mouse ran behind my comfy chair from the conservatory door.
The conservatory, garden room and my office are all well interconnected, but the doors giving access further into the house are mildly more rodent proof. I started being careful about closing these doors. More worryingly, the garden room is currently being refurbished and there is access to the house wall cavity from there, end thence the loft and who knows where else.
After failing to remember where my mass-produced and highly efficient humane mouse trap is stored, I thought to use a model one I put together for the amusement of my children a few years back. This device has only ever worked once with any success, when I managed to get a mouse in my car. I found the base and the lid, baited the contraption with peanut butter in a milk carton lid and left it primed in the centre of the room, with a paint pot to prevent the lid being lifted. The following morning I found my trap with the door wedged half open with the milk lid, but no mouse in evidence except by the tooth marks in the butter.
I left the trap, more carefully primed in the same place for the next half week, and then thinking that the mouse may have suffered some trauma with it the first time round, tried moving it to a new location, but to no avail. The mouse was evidently still free and active, visiting my office again, rustling on the window sill (where there was a scattering of birdseed from a split bag).
Last Saturday, I checked the trap as normal and decided to clean out the bird feeder that hangs outside the kitchen. I levered all the old peanuts out, washed it, refilled it using a bag of nuts from the conservatory and re-hung it outside. I closed the conservatory door to the kitchen carefully behind me and sat in my office, playing on the computer. Half way through the morning there was a frantic scrabbling sound, as of trapped rodent. At last my trap has worked I thought. I walked round to the conservatory, but the trap was still open. There on the window sill the bag of peanuts was jumping around. I grabbed the top, rolled it, pegged it and peered at my little adversary. My children showed some friends up the road and then let it go 300 yards and a water course away from the house.
So I have to ask myself; had I not planted the idea of peanuts in the mouse's mind, would it still have risked the peanut bag? or was it just the most cunning psychological mouse trap ever?
The conservatory, garden room and my office are all well interconnected, but the doors giving access further into the house are mildly more rodent proof. I started being careful about closing these doors. More worryingly, the garden room is currently being refurbished and there is access to the house wall cavity from there, end thence the loft and who knows where else.
After failing to remember where my mass-produced and highly efficient humane mouse trap is stored, I thought to use a model one I put together for the amusement of my children a few years back. This device has only ever worked once with any success, when I managed to get a mouse in my car. I found the base and the lid, baited the contraption with peanut butter in a milk carton lid and left it primed in the centre of the room, with a paint pot to prevent the lid being lifted. The following morning I found my trap with the door wedged half open with the milk lid, but no mouse in evidence except by the tooth marks in the butter.
I left the trap, more carefully primed in the same place for the next half week, and then thinking that the mouse may have suffered some trauma with it the first time round, tried moving it to a new location, but to no avail. The mouse was evidently still free and active, visiting my office again, rustling on the window sill (where there was a scattering of birdseed from a split bag).
Last Saturday, I checked the trap as normal and decided to clean out the bird feeder that hangs outside the kitchen. I levered all the old peanuts out, washed it, refilled it using a bag of nuts from the conservatory and re-hung it outside. I closed the conservatory door to the kitchen carefully behind me and sat in my office, playing on the computer. Half way through the morning there was a frantic scrabbling sound, as of trapped rodent. At last my trap has worked I thought. I walked round to the conservatory, but the trap was still open. There on the window sill the bag of peanuts was jumping around. I grabbed the top, rolled it, pegged it and peered at my little adversary. My children showed some friends up the road and then let it go 300 yards and a water course away from the house.
So I have to ask myself; had I not planted the idea of peanuts in the mouse's mind, would it still have risked the peanut bag? or was it just the most cunning psychological mouse trap ever?
Tuesday 23 October 2012
Cold snap coming
Yellow adorns trees, not yet clothing, nor yet the year's floor shrouding. Large forest mammals wear their thickened coats, proof against frost's fingers, that catch the low sun glowing. Our adopted, suburban, festival of the dead marks this fall, but also the kick back of the clocks bringing colded and stilled wildlife to our road verges.
Wednesday 17 October 2012
All roads, not created equal
Bloodied by yesterdays confluence of road works and accidents I swore off the nearest town route to work this morning, clogged as it already is by gas-main repairs. I was lucky yesterday to avoid the worst effects of the traffic mess, in part because I had chosen my route to pass a petrol station in case my recollection of the level of fuel in the tank had been a little optimistic.
This morning began with a plan to avoid everyone else by selecting my longer route to work and, after a couple of turns, and before I had left the village, I was confronted with a broad patch of road inundated to about 8 inches. Such is considered no barrier to navigation and so I simply drove sensibly, avoiding the bow wave of others (more suitably dressed in 4x4 vehicles) until the tarmac came to the surface again. The road carried the marks of yesterday's chaos. Tracks on the verges marked the departure of many a heavy vehicle from the hard standing, and coated the paved surface with mud. This will take a few weeks to mend at this end of the year in contrast to the New Forest Show traffic peak in July, which grasses over in a couple of weeks.
Half way and my route was disturbed again by a diversion with, rather than against my direction of travel; many vehicles that would otherwise simply cross my path now joined me for a stretch commonly blocked by wandering herds of cattle. Fortunately today there were only a few animals on the road and so the flow was steady, if busy, to the next junction where normality was resumed. I saw some deer, including a white fallow I think and a small herd calmly grazing the rain-soaked heath at Ocknell. The sky was clear in patches here though the clouds grouped into a small fleet to the East, already stacking up in height, though quite narrow.
Lunchtime was sunny, but in the afternoon it has rained cats, dogs and antelope. The antelope were mostly on the roof I think. In the usual way the car-park drains backed up after a few minutes of deluge and a lake formed over them. The intensity was such that it caused me to wonder what would happen if an inch of rain fell en-bloc. A big splash I expect, but not as pretty as the sweeping, soaking curtains that patterned the ground today , forming twisty linear shapes and paisley shapes in the gusty wind that accompanied the squalls.
This morning began with a plan to avoid everyone else by selecting my longer route to work and, after a couple of turns, and before I had left the village, I was confronted with a broad patch of road inundated to about 8 inches. Such is considered no barrier to navigation and so I simply drove sensibly, avoiding the bow wave of others (more suitably dressed in 4x4 vehicles) until the tarmac came to the surface again. The road carried the marks of yesterday's chaos. Tracks on the verges marked the departure of many a heavy vehicle from the hard standing, and coated the paved surface with mud. This will take a few weeks to mend at this end of the year in contrast to the New Forest Show traffic peak in July, which grasses over in a couple of weeks.
Half way and my route was disturbed again by a diversion with, rather than against my direction of travel; many vehicles that would otherwise simply cross my path now joined me for a stretch commonly blocked by wandering herds of cattle. Fortunately today there were only a few animals on the road and so the flow was steady, if busy, to the next junction where normality was resumed. I saw some deer, including a white fallow I think and a small herd calmly grazing the rain-soaked heath at Ocknell. The sky was clear in patches here though the clouds grouped into a small fleet to the East, already stacking up in height, though quite narrow.
Lunchtime was sunny, but in the afternoon it has rained cats, dogs and antelope. The antelope were mostly on the roof I think. In the usual way the car-park drains backed up after a few minutes of deluge and a lake formed over them. The intensity was such that it caused me to wonder what would happen if an inch of rain fell en-bloc. A big splash I expect, but not as pretty as the sweeping, soaking curtains that patterned the ground today , forming twisty linear shapes and paisley shapes in the gusty wind that accompanied the squalls.
Wednesday 10 October 2012
Hygrometer Gate
Our front gate; our new front gate, although if I measure in sensible units, a few years old now, has a pony latch. Essential where we live; all gates have either a folding buckle latch or a sprung hook. This latch, installed by the employed rather than someone like myself, who cares about the result, is attached to the bolted gate. In my opinion, and from experience, it would be so much easier to use if it were attached to the swinging gate. Correctly installed such a latch can be managed one handed, ours may not. With loaded hands, a foot is required to steer the swinging gate to the latching point.
This latch is pinned by a coach bolt with a domed nut that tends to undo itself unless monitored by someone who cares, rather than the employed or the young. Continued attention has maintained the combination of bolt and nut through the few seasons that needed to elapse before corrosion started to do the job of holding the two in a secure embrace. The bolt passes, uncolleted, through the oaken timber.
When the timber is dry, the latch swings freely. It opens with a clank, as the latch handle digs ever deeper into the bolted gate's top rail. It closes on the swinging gate with a similar sound; useful when gardening in the back, to alert the arrival of guests. When wet, the latch will stay, stable at almost any angle, but happiest vertical. This is my hygrometer. A glance out of the kitchen window will tell me if there was rain in the night, but the pony latch will tell me how wet it was.
Most summers, the pony latch swings free, clanking and chipping the rail for several months. This summer it has been better behaved except for a broken period of about 5 weeks. According to the gate, autumn has been here for over a month, yet, the leaves are only beginning to fall now and there is much green remaining. Only the bracken seemed to turn early with the latch's sticking point.
This latch is pinned by a coach bolt with a domed nut that tends to undo itself unless monitored by someone who cares, rather than the employed or the young. Continued attention has maintained the combination of bolt and nut through the few seasons that needed to elapse before corrosion started to do the job of holding the two in a secure embrace. The bolt passes, uncolleted, through the oaken timber.
When the timber is dry, the latch swings freely. It opens with a clank, as the latch handle digs ever deeper into the bolted gate's top rail. It closes on the swinging gate with a similar sound; useful when gardening in the back, to alert the arrival of guests. When wet, the latch will stay, stable at almost any angle, but happiest vertical. This is my hygrometer. A glance out of the kitchen window will tell me if there was rain in the night, but the pony latch will tell me how wet it was.
Most summers, the pony latch swings free, clanking and chipping the rail for several months. This summer it has been better behaved except for a broken period of about 5 weeks. According to the gate, autumn has been here for over a month, yet, the leaves are only beginning to fall now and there is much green remaining. Only the bracken seemed to turn early with the latch's sticking point.
Tuesday 2 October 2012
what inner wolf?
Middle son alone joined scouting peers for a walk in the deep dusk yesterday evening. Youngest was guest at a Birthday party, oldest confined to snuffly bed.
Called out from work to be a taxi, whilst DW went out to practise her bowing muscles, proved to be an uncommon pleasure; otherwise I might have not gone out in the moonlight and had time to watch the stars and to drive the dark forest.
The moon was less than 24 hours past fullness and yet I met it with a gentle, reflective mood; no thought of howling. My inner wolf only surfaced behind the wheel, splashing through the flooded railway bridge and flying across the heaths, eyes peeled for large mammals on the way, but only finding a strolling toad to steer around.
Called out from work to be a taxi, whilst DW went out to practise her bowing muscles, proved to be an uncommon pleasure; otherwise I might have not gone out in the moonlight and had time to watch the stars and to drive the dark forest.
The moon was less than 24 hours past fullness and yet I met it with a gentle, reflective mood; no thought of howling. My inner wolf only surfaced behind the wheel, splashing through the flooded railway bridge and flying across the heaths, eyes peeled for large mammals on the way, but only finding a strolling toad to steer around.
Wednesday 26 September 2012
Autumn. Yes.
As the structures were left behind and the first lawn spread out, a broad and unusually lit view was revealed. In the sky a deep bank of cloud held grey from West to East with, below, a lighter band just beginning to leach a fringe of rain streaks. The ground was still well lit showing a condensed flock of seagulls to the right and sparse ponies in ones and twos munching on the wet grass to the left. The spattering of water on the windscreen coalesced and ran and the gloom deepened before the next stand of trees which held off the rising wind but pattered the road with loosened leaves and ripe seed cases.
Local traffic pulled off the road, delivering workmen and tools, out of my way before the next heath by which point the rain was meandering already across and along the road, reflecting light from the thinner cloud patches. Water on the heath had collected into pools divided by ditches and banks designed to prevent motoring ingress, forming a terraced effect that in other places might soon be seeded with rice. A robust red cow stood facing the road allowing its calf, standing with forelegs in the ditch to suckle comfortably. She watched me breeze by on the opposite gutter, unworried by the falling wet.
A left turn and my senses were briefly fooled by the lighter reflection under the wings of a descending crow; thinking it a larger raptor in this part frequented in previous years by a buzzard often standing on the grass, or swooping low under branches by the road. Another crow (maybe young) was disturbed from its perch as I barrelled by. The clouds looked ridged, rather than ragged, although hanging curtains of rain decorated the dark edges in a receding pattern, like stacked veils.
Before the trees approached the road, the junctions and bends, dips and concealing shadows I had time to watch the raindrops falling towards me. Straight and parallel, then buoyed up by the car's passage through the yielding air, curving upwards again to hit the screen or be swept over. Closer to my work, sun again cut through, low; making me squint at the junctions, making deep pools of darkness beneath boughs.
Local traffic pulled off the road, delivering workmen and tools, out of my way before the next heath by which point the rain was meandering already across and along the road, reflecting light from the thinner cloud patches. Water on the heath had collected into pools divided by ditches and banks designed to prevent motoring ingress, forming a terraced effect that in other places might soon be seeded with rice. A robust red cow stood facing the road allowing its calf, standing with forelegs in the ditch to suckle comfortably. She watched me breeze by on the opposite gutter, unworried by the falling wet.
A left turn and my senses were briefly fooled by the lighter reflection under the wings of a descending crow; thinking it a larger raptor in this part frequented in previous years by a buzzard often standing on the grass, or swooping low under branches by the road. Another crow (maybe young) was disturbed from its perch as I barrelled by. The clouds looked ridged, rather than ragged, although hanging curtains of rain decorated the dark edges in a receding pattern, like stacked veils.
Before the trees approached the road, the junctions and bends, dips and concealing shadows I had time to watch the raindrops falling towards me. Straight and parallel, then buoyed up by the car's passage through the yielding air, curving upwards again to hit the screen or be swept over. Closer to my work, sun again cut through, low; making me squint at the junctions, making deep pools of darkness beneath boughs.
Monday 17 September 2012
A pick a pen is not
Over a year into my experiments with plucked instruments and 8 months after investing in a mandolin that is actually playable I have learnt something about the right hand technique.
For all this time I have been holding the pick (the plectrum) as if it were a pen. All the illustrations of hands holding picks show the index finger tucked under, the pick against the first knuckle, but when I held a pick it was almost always near the tip of my finger and all the action was coming from the fingers, using the fine control muscles that I use for writing - wrong!
The action has to come from the wrist; the digits mere grips for the pick and, suddenly, striking two strings is possible.
This revelation followed some experimentation with different picks. For months I'd been using a 2mm large triangle. I bought a Dunlop Americana, some Ultex Vs, polycarb and nylon stubbies and the break through came with the 3mm stubby for some reason. I think it helped that I had been trying to strum more recently too. I had tried, with my old and incorrect technique to change the grip on the pick, but it wasn't really helping. Unfortunately I have a lot to unlearn now and find it difficult to play anything accurately. The sound is much better though, with less tightness, two strings and a better ring. The main improvement is an immediate introduction of rhythm; it is so much easier to space the notes with the whole hand moving. I had been struggling to join up a tapping foot with the finger movements.
For all this time I have been holding the pick (the plectrum) as if it were a pen. All the illustrations of hands holding picks show the index finger tucked under, the pick against the first knuckle, but when I held a pick it was almost always near the tip of my finger and all the action was coming from the fingers, using the fine control muscles that I use for writing - wrong!
The action has to come from the wrist; the digits mere grips for the pick and, suddenly, striking two strings is possible.
This revelation followed some experimentation with different picks. For months I'd been using a 2mm large triangle. I bought a Dunlop Americana, some Ultex Vs, polycarb and nylon stubbies and the break through came with the 3mm stubby for some reason. I think it helped that I had been trying to strum more recently too. I had tried, with my old and incorrect technique to change the grip on the pick, but it wasn't really helping. Unfortunately I have a lot to unlearn now and find it difficult to play anything accurately. The sound is much better though, with less tightness, two strings and a better ring. The main improvement is an immediate introduction of rhythm; it is so much easier to space the notes with the whole hand moving. I had been struggling to join up a tapping foot with the finger movements.
Wednesday 29 August 2012
Cornish holiday retrospective 2012
Can it be three years? well it can. I remember that 2 years ago the weather put us off and last year - maybe the weather again. This year, despite already having been away once in June, we had a long week camping at Higher Chellew. Our hosts were as friendly as ever, although the campsite itself was a little quiet.
Even in the rain I am glad to be camping in Cornwall, so long as the temperature is not too low. The boredom is good for the children, especially if they can be separated from their gadgets for long enough to realise that, without exciting and engaging continuous input, brains start to work. This year we had a couple of days of rain, a couple of additional wet mornings and a share of warm sunny days with variable breezes.
For reasons of nostalgia we had booked The Balnoon Inn for Sunday lunch and, whilst the food (a carvery) was pretty good, we missed the old ambience. The place reportedly changed hands 18 months ago and the redecoration is now bright and a little minimalist. I used to like the old, cosy look; even when I banged my head on the stupid glass lamp shades. To be fair, the prices were also OK and anyone could get the number of covers wrong......
Also under new (to us) management was The Engine Inn at Cripplesease. We fell in there by default on our first evening, since it is close to the campsite. Very friendly staff and a good menu, with children's size portions of real food if required. The puddings also went down well. We revisted The engine a few times to try out their Acoustic Tuesday and also during their beer festival, when, despite the water that was running across the marquee floor, everyone was entertained by the bands and, naturally, the selection of beers.
I won't list all the places that you should include on your Cornish itinerary, which would anyway vary with the weather (your age and fitness, etc). Suffice it to mention that it is surrounded by beaches, covered in beautiful, if man-made countryside, possessed of interesting industrial history and monuments and serviced by unpredictable weather. From our location, between St Ives and Penzance, we had a free choice of South and North coasts which, though only ten miles apart, frequently display entirely different weather, depending on the wind direction and other, more mysterious factors.
Though the bank holiday weather was predictably wet, we were fortunate to have a warm Tuesday with a light breeze to drop the tent dry and save all the hassle of re-erecting it in the back garden to dry out.
Even in the rain I am glad to be camping in Cornwall, so long as the temperature is not too low. The boredom is good for the children, especially if they can be separated from their gadgets for long enough to realise that, without exciting and engaging continuous input, brains start to work. This year we had a couple of days of rain, a couple of additional wet mornings and a share of warm sunny days with variable breezes.
For reasons of nostalgia we had booked The Balnoon Inn for Sunday lunch and, whilst the food (a carvery) was pretty good, we missed the old ambience. The place reportedly changed hands 18 months ago and the redecoration is now bright and a little minimalist. I used to like the old, cosy look; even when I banged my head on the stupid glass lamp shades. To be fair, the prices were also OK and anyone could get the number of covers wrong......
Also under new (to us) management was The Engine Inn at Cripplesease. We fell in there by default on our first evening, since it is close to the campsite. Very friendly staff and a good menu, with children's size portions of real food if required. The puddings also went down well. We revisted The engine a few times to try out their Acoustic Tuesday and also during their beer festival, when, despite the water that was running across the marquee floor, everyone was entertained by the bands and, naturally, the selection of beers.
I won't list all the places that you should include on your Cornish itinerary, which would anyway vary with the weather (your age and fitness, etc). Suffice it to mention that it is surrounded by beaches, covered in beautiful, if man-made countryside, possessed of interesting industrial history and monuments and serviced by unpredictable weather. From our location, between St Ives and Penzance, we had a free choice of South and North coasts which, though only ten miles apart, frequently display entirely different weather, depending on the wind direction and other, more mysterious factors.
Though the bank holiday weather was predictably wet, we were fortunate to have a warm Tuesday with a light breeze to drop the tent dry and save all the hassle of re-erecting it in the back garden to dry out.
Wednesday 1 August 2012
three blazers
When written, of 2012, history will record English rain. Droughts elsewhere of course, all things being equal. Respite last week arrived in the form of three days of sun; baking roasting sun, ameliorated mildly on Thursday by a breeze.
I saw the local highland beast collective standing knee deep in a forest sink, their belly hair sucking up moisture like the skin of a thorny devil. Half shaded, but with blessed cool silted hooves, they were the usual picture of content.
Butterflies bloomed briefly, in greater numbers than hithertoo and I saw two slowworms patrolling without having to seek them out. Last week there was one on the front path, soaking up the radiance from the crazy storage heater paving; a near rival in size for the one I accidently took to the domestic waste site in the spring.
Olympian tales of sailing and the slow passage of cloudy goliaths makes me regret my desk-bound existence, but I am waiting, until badminton time.
I saw the local highland beast collective standing knee deep in a forest sink, their belly hair sucking up moisture like the skin of a thorny devil. Half shaded, but with blessed cool silted hooves, they were the usual picture of content.
Butterflies bloomed briefly, in greater numbers than hithertoo and I saw two slowworms patrolling without having to seek them out. Last week there was one on the front path, soaking up the radiance from the crazy storage heater paving; a near rival in size for the one I accidently took to the domestic waste site in the spring.
Olympian tales of sailing and the slow passage of cloudy goliaths makes me regret my desk-bound existence, but I am waiting, until badminton time.
Sunday 22 July 2012
out to grass
I was summoned from the cool and restful shade of my shed by the singing of a goldfinch from the top of the nearest apple tree. The rough grass under the trees was cut and the broad sward of the main lawn called, looking hot and exhausting.
Eight, or was it nine boxes of cuttings today. Every four lengths of the garden the mower ran too heavy and demanded lightening. Every four lengths of the lawn a walk to the compost heap and a moment of quiet to listen for the bird again, or to watch out for the passage of gatekeepers, solitary wasps, wild bees and, occasionally a ground beetle or a devils coachman.
The cutting equipment away, I've come inside to the cool of the house. Soaped and rinsed my hands, splashed my face. The kettle is on and, while I wait, I fill a mug with cold water and drink, looking out at my work. I catch the smell of the fennel by the compost on my arm and feel the prickle of sweat on my scalp.
Eight, or was it nine boxes of cuttings today. Every four lengths of the garden the mower ran too heavy and demanded lightening. Every four lengths of the lawn a walk to the compost heap and a moment of quiet to listen for the bird again, or to watch out for the passage of gatekeepers, solitary wasps, wild bees and, occasionally a ground beetle or a devils coachman.
The cutting equipment away, I've come inside to the cool of the house. Soaped and rinsed my hands, splashed my face. The kettle is on and, while I wait, I fill a mug with cold water and drink, looking out at my work. I catch the smell of the fennel by the compost on my arm and feel the prickle of sweat on my scalp.
Wednesday 4 July 2012
The rain, the rain, it's at it again
The outlook varies from standing water to standing water with ripples. We are, again, promised a month of rain in 48 hours - I sincerely hope it isn't last month's rain in 48 hours, since last month we got three months' rain. For all that the rain is warming up and I find it quite pleasant to be lulled to sleep by falling rain.
The foals care not where they wander any more. I first motored between a foal and its mare two weeks since, but now they care less. There are remarkably few butterflies. I have seen both a male and female stag beetle in my garden. Middle son said he saw an adder, which is not impossible - and he is generally a good observer; what he saw was, at any rate, probably too large to be one of our rather common slowworms.
The increasing judder in my car brakes turned out to be in line with my three year old instinct, that the front discs were going gently square. A mere three hundred quid, added to the cost of MOT work and new tyres has resolved that small problem. At least the new discs are manufacturer's originals and not just the cheapest tat that was available.
Dad is living at home again. I must phone and see how he is coping.
There is the smell of fresh paint at home, as if the Queen were about to visit.
Tiredness and insomnia battle it out as the first rays riffle the curtains in the mornings. A shame to feel half way through the year, but a blessing that the light mornings are toning it down a bit. Actually, with the weather the mornings have been almost gloomy this week.
I dare not go on, lest this entry join the previous few in being too long.
The foals care not where they wander any more. I first motored between a foal and its mare two weeks since, but now they care less. There are remarkably few butterflies. I have seen both a male and female stag beetle in my garden. Middle son said he saw an adder, which is not impossible - and he is generally a good observer; what he saw was, at any rate, probably too large to be one of our rather common slowworms.
The increasing judder in my car brakes turned out to be in line with my three year old instinct, that the front discs were going gently square. A mere three hundred quid, added to the cost of MOT work and new tyres has resolved that small problem. At least the new discs are manufacturer's originals and not just the cheapest tat that was available.
Dad is living at home again. I must phone and see how he is coping.
There is the smell of fresh paint at home, as if the Queen were about to visit.
Tiredness and insomnia battle it out as the first rays riffle the curtains in the mornings. A shame to feel half way through the year, but a blessing that the light mornings are toning it down a bit. Actually, with the weather the mornings have been almost gloomy this week.
I dare not go on, lest this entry join the previous few in being too long.
Thursday 14 June 2012
Greek sail, summary
My family and I spent a week on a sailing boat chartered from Sail Ionian in Vliho on Lefkas. The boat was in excellent condition and everything worked, but I will make a point of ensuring that I can stand up in some part of the cabin of any boat I hire in the future. The attention and assistance from Di and Neil and the rest of their staff was matchless; nothing was too much trouble for them. They came out to help us at 9pm one evening and I heard other stories of their willingness to assist, including driving 15 miles in a rib to untangle an anchor chain. Very friendly too.
We spent the week largely circulating around Meganisi, returning frequently to the various coves and bays of its North coast for moorings, anchorages and swimming in the sun-warmed shallows. Sun-warmed shallows are desirable because, though it is not generally cold, the sea around the Ionian islands is mostly rather deep. After a week sailing these seas it was amusing to reflect that at any indicated depth less than 10 metres I was starting to get twitchy, since the bottom comes up rather quickly in many places, just like the land above the water, which is predominantly steeply rugged maquis. We also visited Kalamos and a couple of ports on Lefkas itself, as well as stopping to swim in the bay on the South side of Scorpios.
Food and drink were generally good, with some highlights (for me) including a white snapper at Stavros' in Vathi, greek salad almost everywhere we went and a mousaka in Porto Spiglia (in the bay beneath Spartakhori). The low point was the Dolphinia restaurant in Sivota where the lamb Kleftiko turned out to be a lamb stew with chips wrapped in foil - this was possibly due to the meal being taken during the Greece-Poland football match, so disabling all the men on the island.
We failed to see any dolphins, but the water was full of fish and crab life, as well as star-fish and octopi. The afternoon breeze was good for sailing most days, though we spent some afternoons just archored in a bay and swimming from the boat. Winds, when significant, were 10-20 knots with the notable exception of a storm on Tuesday afternoon which blew up to 28 knots (that I saw) and brought half an hour of torrential rain, which was almost the only rain we saw all week. Mostly the weather was hot and sunny with daytime temperatures up to 30 centigrade.
We took up sailing, a few years ago, with the idea that sailing holidays would be cheaper than skiing, only to both sail and ski for a couple of years. Now I think that although we still fancy skiing, the sailing holiday is a perfect alternative, working out slightly less expensive and more relaxing. Both holidays are made difficult by the need to fit around school holidays; this trip's cost was dominated by the air travel, rather than the boat charter - staying another week would almost have been cost-effective by offsetting the differential price of the air fares against another week of boat hire. I'm sure we'll do it all again soon.
Checking on Panoramio now I'm back home I find that I need not have taken a camera with me, since so many of the scenes I recorded are already available online. All I needed to do was to photograph my family in swimming attire and photshop them into the relevant images. Pride of place on my desk at the moment are two pictures from the holiday, both of the aircraft we flew out on, taken at Gatwick and Preveza respectively. In Greece the sun sparkles off the leading edge of the wing and my family look relaxed in sun hats; in London the sky is grey, the tarmac wet and everyone looks a bit down-trodden. If the sunny picture isn't enough to lighten my mood, then I look at the other one too.
We spent the week largely circulating around Meganisi, returning frequently to the various coves and bays of its North coast for moorings, anchorages and swimming in the sun-warmed shallows. Sun-warmed shallows are desirable because, though it is not generally cold, the sea around the Ionian islands is mostly rather deep. After a week sailing these seas it was amusing to reflect that at any indicated depth less than 10 metres I was starting to get twitchy, since the bottom comes up rather quickly in many places, just like the land above the water, which is predominantly steeply rugged maquis. We also visited Kalamos and a couple of ports on Lefkas itself, as well as stopping to swim in the bay on the South side of Scorpios.
Food and drink were generally good, with some highlights (for me) including a white snapper at Stavros' in Vathi, greek salad almost everywhere we went and a mousaka in Porto Spiglia (in the bay beneath Spartakhori). The low point was the Dolphinia restaurant in Sivota where the lamb Kleftiko turned out to be a lamb stew with chips wrapped in foil - this was possibly due to the meal being taken during the Greece-Poland football match, so disabling all the men on the island.
We failed to see any dolphins, but the water was full of fish and crab life, as well as star-fish and octopi. The afternoon breeze was good for sailing most days, though we spent some afternoons just archored in a bay and swimming from the boat. Winds, when significant, were 10-20 knots with the notable exception of a storm on Tuesday afternoon which blew up to 28 knots (that I saw) and brought half an hour of torrential rain, which was almost the only rain we saw all week. Mostly the weather was hot and sunny with daytime temperatures up to 30 centigrade.
We took up sailing, a few years ago, with the idea that sailing holidays would be cheaper than skiing, only to both sail and ski for a couple of years. Now I think that although we still fancy skiing, the sailing holiday is a perfect alternative, working out slightly less expensive and more relaxing. Both holidays are made difficult by the need to fit around school holidays; this trip's cost was dominated by the air travel, rather than the boat charter - staying another week would almost have been cost-effective by offsetting the differential price of the air fares against another week of boat hire. I'm sure we'll do it all again soon.
Checking on Panoramio now I'm back home I find that I need not have taken a camera with me, since so many of the scenes I recorded are already available online. All I needed to do was to photograph my family in swimming attire and photshop them into the relevant images. Pride of place on my desk at the moment are two pictures from the holiday, both of the aircraft we flew out on, taken at Gatwick and Preveza respectively. In Greece the sun sparkles off the leading edge of the wing and my family look relaxed in sun hats; in London the sky is grey, the tarmac wet and everyone looks a bit down-trodden. If the sunny picture isn't enough to lighten my mood, then I look at the other one too.
Forget oil, peak maintainability already past
Many (26?) years ago a new Hewlett Packard HP4L printer came into our lives and, other than a drum replacement due to low-usage, has worked faultlessly in all that time. This is not our only printer, but it produces clean, permanent black and white printing on A4 paper, essentially for the cost of the paper.
Just before going on holiday last week, half way through a physics GCSE paper, the usual quiet sound (as of a page being gently torn, followed by a few clicks and a hum) was replaced by a strident grinding noise.
Out came the (perfectly standard) screwdrivers, the Web immediately produced a PDF service manual, off came the lid and, after finding where to defeat the case-off detection sensors, it became apparent that the problem was the first nylon gear in the power chain, on the motor spindle. Close examination revealed that it had cracked, probably due to the ingress of a small hard black particle wedging two teeth apart and cracking the gear down to the shaft. Fifteen minutes on ebay and a replacement was sourced from the US for around ten pounds sterling. Yesterday it arrived; it was fitted this morning, and the physics paper set off to printing just where it had left off.
This demonstrates the best of the Internet and the original printer design, but it is not the sort of happy outcome that can be relied on with modern equipment. For colour printing we have had a selection of mostly free, cast-off printers over the years. The most recent to die was an HP 7310, a fine printer except for a serious design flaw in the too-fragile ink carriage. This results in a difficult repair job when an escaped spring pierces (very precisely) a flexible PCB, killing the print cartridge detection mechanism. No-where on the Web is there a tear-down of this printer, although there are several signs that many people have searched on a variety of forums. Having learnt how to do the tear down my self, I can see why it is not described anywhere and, having been unable to get the spare part, I haven't yet tried to reverse the procedure.
All that iStuff is designed, AFAIK, to be virtually impossible to take apart without specialised tools and my experience of repairing compact cameras is that the guts of these wear out so fast that it is barely worth the trouble of fixing them before the lenses jam because the gear wear stalls the motors.
We have gone wrong somewhere. My HP4L is still a useful device, it fills a niche in my printing needs, but all the more youthful devices have gone the way of dust either through (criminal) use of DRM which expires the ink before it is even used, or through simple design flaws and lack of design for maintenance.
</rant>
Just before going on holiday last week, half way through a physics GCSE paper, the usual quiet sound (as of a page being gently torn, followed by a few clicks and a hum) was replaced by a strident grinding noise.
Out came the (perfectly standard) screwdrivers, the Web immediately produced a PDF service manual, off came the lid and, after finding where to defeat the case-off detection sensors, it became apparent that the problem was the first nylon gear in the power chain, on the motor spindle. Close examination revealed that it had cracked, probably due to the ingress of a small hard black particle wedging two teeth apart and cracking the gear down to the shaft. Fifteen minutes on ebay and a replacement was sourced from the US for around ten pounds sterling. Yesterday it arrived; it was fitted this morning, and the physics paper set off to printing just where it had left off.
This demonstrates the best of the Internet and the original printer design, but it is not the sort of happy outcome that can be relied on with modern equipment. For colour printing we have had a selection of mostly free, cast-off printers over the years. The most recent to die was an HP 7310, a fine printer except for a serious design flaw in the too-fragile ink carriage. This results in a difficult repair job when an escaped spring pierces (very precisely) a flexible PCB, killing the print cartridge detection mechanism. No-where on the Web is there a tear-down of this printer, although there are several signs that many people have searched on a variety of forums. Having learnt how to do the tear down my self, I can see why it is not described anywhere and, having been unable to get the spare part, I haven't yet tried to reverse the procedure.
All that iStuff is designed, AFAIK, to be virtually impossible to take apart without specialised tools and my experience of repairing compact cameras is that the guts of these wear out so fast that it is barely worth the trouble of fixing them before the lenses jam because the gear wear stalls the motors.
We have gone wrong somewhere. My HP4L is still a useful device, it fills a niche in my printing needs, but all the more youthful devices have gone the way of dust either through (criminal) use of DRM which expires the ink before it is even used, or through simple design flaws and lack of design for maintenance.
</rant>
Thursday 31 May 2012
towards the Test
The sun was less fierce today and tempted me out for a lunchtime walk. I was only thinking of the exercise as I crossed the pig fields and entered the woodland, ready to share the path with one of the common runners that use this route. A few seconds into the shade and I heard a commotion in the shadows and saw the retreating form of a roe deer.
Out onto the glade, with its curled bracken fronds and islands of bramble I saw an orange tip. Across the stream by the bridge and over the muddy section of the Test Way I encountered four squirrels. Down to the next bridge, where the pool isn't any more, even so there was a banded damoiselle and a red damsel.
Rather than visit the cows in the following field I went along the field edge, following the stream to the remains of a fallen trunk, at least 2 feet in diameter, festooned with ferns, lichens and woodland flowers, across the stream. A rustle in the old root-ball alerted me to a quickly retreating grass-snake that had been basking. I didn't see the head but could judge the size from the disturbance it left in its wake and the width of its tail. At that corner of the stream there was the continuous song of a chiff-chaff with the usual background of pigeon, thrush and occasional bursts from nuthatches and pheasants.
Walking back I found a tick on my foot, still looking for a spot to bite. I encouraged it to learn to fly. In an impromptu glade at the broken base of a fallen tree I found my first red-admiral of the year. Under the canopy the trapped air was nearly as thick as soup, making vision misty and the atmosphere heavy in the lungs.
Forty five minutes of wild lunchtime.
Out onto the glade, with its curled bracken fronds and islands of bramble I saw an orange tip. Across the stream by the bridge and over the muddy section of the Test Way I encountered four squirrels. Down to the next bridge, where the pool isn't any more, even so there was a banded damoiselle and a red damsel.
Rather than visit the cows in the following field I went along the field edge, following the stream to the remains of a fallen trunk, at least 2 feet in diameter, festooned with ferns, lichens and woodland flowers, across the stream. A rustle in the old root-ball alerted me to a quickly retreating grass-snake that had been basking. I didn't see the head but could judge the size from the disturbance it left in its wake and the width of its tail. At that corner of the stream there was the continuous song of a chiff-chaff with the usual background of pigeon, thrush and occasional bursts from nuthatches and pheasants.
Walking back I found a tick on my foot, still looking for a spot to bite. I encouraged it to learn to fly. In an impromptu glade at the broken base of a fallen tree I found my first red-admiral of the year. Under the canopy the trapped air was nearly as thick as soup, making vision misty and the atmosphere heavy in the lungs.
Forty five minutes of wild lunchtime.
Monday 28 May 2012
amazonian woes
Sailing Saturday, or I would have if it hadn't been so gusty. Rather than swim with my boat I hummed around, photographing, watching my children, enjoying the sunshine and the gentle company of the sailing club. The sun beat down, testing our defences, from a bottle of Riemann P20.
Sunday, early to the North again. Easterly on the M27, the morning sun reflected off the road patterns; lines of cats eyes back-lit and dark, shining trails of obsolescent contra-flows, mirages of distant foliage looking like flickering moss carpets that fade with proximity.
I shop severally and unsuccessfully for small portions of full-fat chocolate mouse for Mum. Service station Marks and Spencer offering me nothing I need, but plenty that would tempt me in other times. In the end, refreshed only by petrol I arrive to see Mum almost without pausing. Plenty of chairs are traversing the pavement to the nearby public house; the garden is seeing some use. Inside, quiet, except for the usual suspects and some quiet singing - the television tuned to a level which seems uncertain whether it is to be heard or not, its presence is as congruous as the inmates'.
A rushed lunch meets ten minutes of the start of the Monaco F1. I see the only interesting part of the race on my Dad's television, water the plants, set the watching alarm again and drive, to find Dad relaxed, but not sleeping. Almost back to the state of gentle medical support that he achieved just before the bypass. We while a pleasant three hours and more, only slightly aided by the Sunday papers when rising sleep catches him unawares a minute.
I reprimand myself for all the rush, after all, time is all I have today. The travel and the visits will take the whole day, so why not relax a bit more. I could have settled into a chair and helped Mum with her mouse after lunch, I could have driven less frantically. At Northampton, with no help from the traffic reports, the motorway becomes a parking lot, who knows why? I leave a junction early and, rather than the marked alternate route, decide to miss Northampton with its information-free radio channel entirely. The A5 returns me soon enough to the A43.
A Chieveley pasty and watching a young crow, already knowing in the dance of chance as he hops round me, waiting for a broken crust. I am too hungry though. The car, parked in a row to itself, seems to wink at me like a 1960's Corgi toy with those plastic light channels from roof to headlights which first introduced us to the magic and possibilities of fibre-optics. In this instance due to the occlusion of the low, orange sun by high-sided vehicles on the nearby carriageway. Further up the sky the spiral condensation trails have been pulled by wind shear into spinal xrays; vertebrae contrasted by cloudy discs.
What's good is bad, from time to time. But although we can send stuff back to Amazon, some things we just get to live with. The promised thunder has not broken yet, pressures build behind my eyes.
Sunday, early to the North again. Easterly on the M27, the morning sun reflected off the road patterns; lines of cats eyes back-lit and dark, shining trails of obsolescent contra-flows, mirages of distant foliage looking like flickering moss carpets that fade with proximity.
I shop severally and unsuccessfully for small portions of full-fat chocolate mouse for Mum. Service station Marks and Spencer offering me nothing I need, but plenty that would tempt me in other times. In the end, refreshed only by petrol I arrive to see Mum almost without pausing. Plenty of chairs are traversing the pavement to the nearby public house; the garden is seeing some use. Inside, quiet, except for the usual suspects and some quiet singing - the television tuned to a level which seems uncertain whether it is to be heard or not, its presence is as congruous as the inmates'.
A rushed lunch meets ten minutes of the start of the Monaco F1. I see the only interesting part of the race on my Dad's television, water the plants, set the watching alarm again and drive, to find Dad relaxed, but not sleeping. Almost back to the state of gentle medical support that he achieved just before the bypass. We while a pleasant three hours and more, only slightly aided by the Sunday papers when rising sleep catches him unawares a minute.
I reprimand myself for all the rush, after all, time is all I have today. The travel and the visits will take the whole day, so why not relax a bit more. I could have settled into a chair and helped Mum with her mouse after lunch, I could have driven less frantically. At Northampton, with no help from the traffic reports, the motorway becomes a parking lot, who knows why? I leave a junction early and, rather than the marked alternate route, decide to miss Northampton with its information-free radio channel entirely. The A5 returns me soon enough to the A43.
A Chieveley pasty and watching a young crow, already knowing in the dance of chance as he hops round me, waiting for a broken crust. I am too hungry though. The car, parked in a row to itself, seems to wink at me like a 1960's Corgi toy with those plastic light channels from roof to headlights which first introduced us to the magic and possibilities of fibre-optics. In this instance due to the occlusion of the low, orange sun by high-sided vehicles on the nearby carriageway. Further up the sky the spiral condensation trails have been pulled by wind shear into spinal xrays; vertebrae contrasted by cloudy discs.
What's good is bad, from time to time. But although we can send stuff back to Amazon, some things we just get to live with. The promised thunder has not broken yet, pressures build behind my eyes.
Wednesday 23 May 2012
Sinuous squirrels and flaky foals
I saw the first Forest foal on the 7th of May this year and the first donkey foal last week on the 18th. The weather has changed from the misty, wet and miserable to the hot and sunny in a single bound, which is only displaying the still spring-fresh countryside in even greater beauty. The garden is still a little heavy for comfortable weeding, but I managed to cut the lawn again, removing about half the bulk I took off with the first cut.
I was suitably poetic as I drove by the longer route to work yesterday; watching out for young animals and the thickening canopy. On quiet roads I managed to catch a truck: Central Cleansing Services' tyres tore swirling dervishes from the dry gutter dust. On the greens were strutting jackdaws and mad rabbits with, in the road, lumbering cows and hungry calves. Ant nests marked the Ornamental Drive like needle cairns; hubs of radial foraging trails, coveted by green woodpeckers.
This morning, in my village, I saw a lady trapped by cows. Big golden Highland hybrid animals - possibly the most docile cow you could ever meet. She was on a footpath by the church, hemmed between rhododendron scrub against a fence and the roadside ditch. Two cows gently tongued the foliage on either side in her way and the rest of the herd rabble foraged quietly behind. She didn't look too distressed so I left her to her wait, or maybe to finally pluck up the courage to shoo the beasts away. I drove North West across the lawn, spotting sleepy foals seeking cool shadow already, beneath their mares, or in the cool dampness of the shallow drainage ditches. They lay, idle, trying out the taste of the green stuff in parody of their mothers' steady, concentrated munch. The waterways have already shrunk back between their banks, rippling rather than rushing under the bridges.
I drove North on Saturday, watching the countryside change, the air filled first with buzzard, then red kite, then kestrels on the motorway verges. I went to visit Dad, who had his heart bypass on Friday. When I arrived he wasn't really there; off with the fairies on the pain medication. I stayed for maybe three hours, speaking to the nurses, to his fellow ward guests and their visitors in turn. He seemed to take in his surroundings, observing me carefully if I drew close enough, to see who I might be. Six and a half hours driving for two dozen reluctant and rather utilitarian words. He would do the same for me and more in the reversed position. By Monday evening he was back on the cardiac ward, away from high dependency. On Tuesday it first occurred to him that he had had his operation and he was apparently a little angry that he had had visitors (me and my sister both) and that no-one had told him. He seems to have spent the day fiddling with his phone, a select few from his phonebook received a number of empty SMS. He phoned me to talk around 8:30pm, as I was digging a wider space in the vegetable bed, ready perhaps for planting. He'll be back to himself soon, although some of the swiss-cheesing from his heart-attack will haunt him a while. The surgeons who moved sections of his leg vessels into his heart also mended a couple of ribs which must have been broken by CPR.
In a spare moment, in the North, I dropped by the shop where I bought my mandolin to say thankyou. I haven't been practising enough, but I notice improvements when I do put the time in. I play it better than any other instrument I've ever tried playing, which is not to claim very much. I've been mostly finger-picking lately, rather than attempting chords.
The early fingers of the dawn creep very effectively round the curtain edges, disturbing my sleep to give me an extra hour of lying awake and thinking about life.
I was suitably poetic as I drove by the longer route to work yesterday; watching out for young animals and the thickening canopy. On quiet roads I managed to catch a truck: Central Cleansing Services' tyres tore swirling dervishes from the dry gutter dust. On the greens were strutting jackdaws and mad rabbits with, in the road, lumbering cows and hungry calves. Ant nests marked the Ornamental Drive like needle cairns; hubs of radial foraging trails, coveted by green woodpeckers.
This morning, in my village, I saw a lady trapped by cows. Big golden Highland hybrid animals - possibly the most docile cow you could ever meet. She was on a footpath by the church, hemmed between rhododendron scrub against a fence and the roadside ditch. Two cows gently tongued the foliage on either side in her way and the rest of the herd rabble foraged quietly behind. She didn't look too distressed so I left her to her wait, or maybe to finally pluck up the courage to shoo the beasts away. I drove North West across the lawn, spotting sleepy foals seeking cool shadow already, beneath their mares, or in the cool dampness of the shallow drainage ditches. They lay, idle, trying out the taste of the green stuff in parody of their mothers' steady, concentrated munch. The waterways have already shrunk back between their banks, rippling rather than rushing under the bridges.
I drove North on Saturday, watching the countryside change, the air filled first with buzzard, then red kite, then kestrels on the motorway verges. I went to visit Dad, who had his heart bypass on Friday. When I arrived he wasn't really there; off with the fairies on the pain medication. I stayed for maybe three hours, speaking to the nurses, to his fellow ward guests and their visitors in turn. He seemed to take in his surroundings, observing me carefully if I drew close enough, to see who I might be. Six and a half hours driving for two dozen reluctant and rather utilitarian words. He would do the same for me and more in the reversed position. By Monday evening he was back on the cardiac ward, away from high dependency. On Tuesday it first occurred to him that he had had his operation and he was apparently a little angry that he had had visitors (me and my sister both) and that no-one had told him. He seems to have spent the day fiddling with his phone, a select few from his phonebook received a number of empty SMS. He phoned me to talk around 8:30pm, as I was digging a wider space in the vegetable bed, ready perhaps for planting. He'll be back to himself soon, although some of the swiss-cheesing from his heart-attack will haunt him a while. The surgeons who moved sections of his leg vessels into his heart also mended a couple of ribs which must have been broken by CPR.
In a spare moment, in the North, I dropped by the shop where I bought my mandolin to say thankyou. I haven't been practising enough, but I notice improvements when I do put the time in. I play it better than any other instrument I've ever tried playing, which is not to claim very much. I've been mostly finger-picking lately, rather than attempting chords.
The early fingers of the dawn creep very effectively round the curtain edges, disturbing my sleep to give me an extra hour of lying awake and thinking about life.
Sunday 6 May 2012
Young robin bobs
Memory, like a summers' day with fluffy clouds obscuring random detail. A dizziness that accepts an arm to walk by. An angiogram strongly suggesting a touch of bypass and, maybe, some automated help with rhythmic security too. Hardly a compensation to have a bed by the sunny Southerly window.
With life however, hope. Already there are plans for long distance electric buggy trips into town (the driving license will likely be on six months furlough). My father remains a man of dignity and ambition. Always careful to pay his way and be independent, he accepts pocket money from me to buy his newspapers for the first time (So it seems to me).
My sister has a turn in the distraction seat today, no doubt hearing the same stories I heard yesterday. I have returned home, to younger family.
A beautiful Sunday. Warm in the sun, the slightest of showers thrown in just for form. The morning I spend filing ancient paperwork until lunch time, when I am distracted by the number of birds feeding on the lawn. Blackbirds, starlings, sparrows and dunnocks, pidgeons and, washing thoroughly in the bird-bath, a young robin - probably hatched in secret next to our conservatory and then fed under the right-hand border shrubs a couple of weeks ago. Short of tail and long on the speckles, some time yet from the salmon pink first breast feather that will mark coming maturity.
The birds on the lawn keep vanishing in the sward reminding me it is time to cut, the second cut of the year and, after four weeks (or so), I take 9 boxes of heavy wet grass off. The sod is wet underfoot, just past the stage of holding prints, but the dirt borders are too wet to stand on; weeds can only be pulled from firm-standing, the backs will have to wait.
With life however, hope. Already there are plans for long distance electric buggy trips into town (the driving license will likely be on six months furlough). My father remains a man of dignity and ambition. Always careful to pay his way and be independent, he accepts pocket money from me to buy his newspapers for the first time (So it seems to me).
My sister has a turn in the distraction seat today, no doubt hearing the same stories I heard yesterday. I have returned home, to younger family.
A beautiful Sunday. Warm in the sun, the slightest of showers thrown in just for form. The morning I spend filing ancient paperwork until lunch time, when I am distracted by the number of birds feeding on the lawn. Blackbirds, starlings, sparrows and dunnocks, pidgeons and, washing thoroughly in the bird-bath, a young robin - probably hatched in secret next to our conservatory and then fed under the right-hand border shrubs a couple of weeks ago. Short of tail and long on the speckles, some time yet from the salmon pink first breast feather that will mark coming maturity.
The birds on the lawn keep vanishing in the sward reminding me it is time to cut, the second cut of the year and, after four weeks (or so), I take 9 boxes of heavy wet grass off. The sod is wet underfoot, just past the stage of holding prints, but the dirt borders are too wet to stand on; weeds can only be pulled from firm-standing, the backs will have to wait.
Tuesday 1 May 2012
inundated April
Last week seemed primed to awaken my senses and drag me out of the mild torpor induced by a shortage of engaging and profitable work. After a little more funding trickled in on Tuesday for a project that had been largely completed before Easter I felt I had at least earned my keep for a day. I think my wife had gone out to play violin in the evening and so I had settled down at the end of the evening to find something soothing to watch on television, when I came across a broadcast of "Apocalypse Now". This is not a film I have to watch the whole way through (I have it in any case in my private DVD collection - i.e. not one I share with my sons yet) and so I sat and enjoyed the theater of the "Ride of the Valkyries" scene while my wife came home, warmed a cup of milk each and went to bed, leaving me to my incomprehensible explosions/surfing. I enjoyed the balletic carnage until the surfing was done, overlaying another choreographed combat scene from "The Fifth Element" in my mind. The trick that both of these scenes use is to create a tempo and grace in an otherwise chaotic and repugnant reportage, touched too by humour - though blacker in "Apocalypse". I slept well.
Wednesday dawned windy and wet; atmospheric. I drove out across the forest roads to look at the trees and was blessed with a close encounter with a cuckoo - or so I believe; it had the sharp wings and direct flight, but the view was too brief to be sure. It may have been a diving thrush of some sort. Radio 3 was playing and without the usual ante-listening pause, after an announcement that simply declared Bach, they played one of my very favourite pieces - the Allegro Moderato from the Musical Offering. The absence of any silent space and the unfamiliar recording left me confused for the first bar, but speechless for the few minutes of the work. And in the morning some more work arrived for me, stretching my load out towards September. I was quite contented and busy when I took the phonecall to say that my Dad had had a heart attack.
It was my sister who had heard the news first and it was she who went rushing round to see what she could do to help. With a dearth of new information I waited until Thursday morning before my instincts took me away from my work and onto the motorways.
In such circumstances it is always easier to be close to the root of the uncertainty than far away. Operating at a phone's length, trying perhaps to interact with real life when someone you love is being faced with real death, is hard. On Thursday we watched a sedated man, not moving. We heard the pessimistic (but realistic) talk about waiting a couple of days and then making hard decision, twice. We sat and willed whatever agency was left to hang around a while, to look after his wife and watch his grandchildren growing. We sat in intensive care, our eyes stung by the atmosphere, thinking (mostly) our own thoughts. This part had not been in the script. We had both, independently, anticipated a sudden loss, or an illness with a predictable outcome, but neither of us had expected the uncertainty of a life, hypothermically suspended in a medicated coma.
There were heavy showers.
On Friday, warmed and with the stupifying drugs removed, we watched and willed harder. The consultants had stretched their period of watchfulness before hope could be abandoned by a couple of days, based on the degree of body self-regulation indicated on the charting instruments.
The showers ganged up on each other and fought across the sky.
On Saturday there was some movement, but no sign of cognition. Expert opinion was becoming grudgingly less pessimistic. What reactions could be envoked were good ones (e.g. with some underlying intent to address the cause of attention, rather than being simply reflexes).
It was unrelenting rain that redoubled in the afternoon. The queue for the sole working car park ticket machine was miserable and, after paddling across the car park to the hospital, I considered whether getting my foot stuck in the Dyson Airblade was a worthwhile risk to take to dry off my sandals.
On Sunday the movement spread from left arm, right shoulder and hips, to lifting the left arm, moving the right, legs twisting and back arching. When asked firmly to open eyes, there was some evident attempt to comply. Eyes, were glimpsed, but still sightless. Breathing was entirely under self control, the machine just boosting oxygen.
It was glorious sunshine from an almost cloudless sky (although it did threaten to become showery again in the afternoon, the clouds just couldn't agree, so they dissipated again). On the way home it began to rain at about 10pm, around the M4.
On Monday, after removing the tube that had been used to support breathing since the sedation, Dad breathed through his throat and his mouth was freed for talking, and he did. Eyes open and thankful for the glasses which had been waiting patiently all week. Limbs moving but weak. Self rebooted, and although mildly confused (as can happen after 5 days slide by unnoticed), common sense largely restored.
Today, with stuff to do and somewhat happier, my return to work. On a work day I carry the briefcase that my Dad carried to work from some time in the mid-70s until he replaced it with a lighter bag. It is an old Custom case with plastic moulded sides and bright catches clamping an aluminium, hinged maw. For its age (older than many of my colleagues) it is in good condition, still with the Dymo label stickers in red/green for port and starboard that my Dad attached to remind him to open the case the right way up. Transfering keys and phones from hand to hand as I left the parked car this morning it slipped from my hand and accumulated another small dent on one bottom corner; a metaphor I thought for its first owner.
Out walking at lunch time I saw an orange tip butterfly, and the sun shining.
Wednesday dawned windy and wet; atmospheric. I drove out across the forest roads to look at the trees and was blessed with a close encounter with a cuckoo - or so I believe; it had the sharp wings and direct flight, but the view was too brief to be sure. It may have been a diving thrush of some sort. Radio 3 was playing and without the usual ante-listening pause, after an announcement that simply declared Bach, they played one of my very favourite pieces - the Allegro Moderato from the Musical Offering. The absence of any silent space and the unfamiliar recording left me confused for the first bar, but speechless for the few minutes of the work. And in the morning some more work arrived for me, stretching my load out towards September. I was quite contented and busy when I took the phonecall to say that my Dad had had a heart attack.
It was my sister who had heard the news first and it was she who went rushing round to see what she could do to help. With a dearth of new information I waited until Thursday morning before my instincts took me away from my work and onto the motorways.
In such circumstances it is always easier to be close to the root of the uncertainty than far away. Operating at a phone's length, trying perhaps to interact with real life when someone you love is being faced with real death, is hard. On Thursday we watched a sedated man, not moving. We heard the pessimistic (but realistic) talk about waiting a couple of days and then making hard decision, twice. We sat and willed whatever agency was left to hang around a while, to look after his wife and watch his grandchildren growing. We sat in intensive care, our eyes stung by the atmosphere, thinking (mostly) our own thoughts. This part had not been in the script. We had both, independently, anticipated a sudden loss, or an illness with a predictable outcome, but neither of us had expected the uncertainty of a life, hypothermically suspended in a medicated coma.
There were heavy showers.
On Friday, warmed and with the stupifying drugs removed, we watched and willed harder. The consultants had stretched their period of watchfulness before hope could be abandoned by a couple of days, based on the degree of body self-regulation indicated on the charting instruments.
The showers ganged up on each other and fought across the sky.
On Saturday there was some movement, but no sign of cognition. Expert opinion was becoming grudgingly less pessimistic. What reactions could be envoked were good ones (e.g. with some underlying intent to address the cause of attention, rather than being simply reflexes).
It was unrelenting rain that redoubled in the afternoon. The queue for the sole working car park ticket machine was miserable and, after paddling across the car park to the hospital, I considered whether getting my foot stuck in the Dyson Airblade was a worthwhile risk to take to dry off my sandals.
On Sunday the movement spread from left arm, right shoulder and hips, to lifting the left arm, moving the right, legs twisting and back arching. When asked firmly to open eyes, there was some evident attempt to comply. Eyes, were glimpsed, but still sightless. Breathing was entirely under self control, the machine just boosting oxygen.
It was glorious sunshine from an almost cloudless sky (although it did threaten to become showery again in the afternoon, the clouds just couldn't agree, so they dissipated again). On the way home it began to rain at about 10pm, around the M4.
On Monday, after removing the tube that had been used to support breathing since the sedation, Dad breathed through his throat and his mouth was freed for talking, and he did. Eyes open and thankful for the glasses which had been waiting patiently all week. Limbs moving but weak. Self rebooted, and although mildly confused (as can happen after 5 days slide by unnoticed), common sense largely restored.
Today, with stuff to do and somewhat happier, my return to work. On a work day I carry the briefcase that my Dad carried to work from some time in the mid-70s until he replaced it with a lighter bag. It is an old Custom case with plastic moulded sides and bright catches clamping an aluminium, hinged maw. For its age (older than many of my colleagues) it is in good condition, still with the Dymo label stickers in red/green for port and starboard that my Dad attached to remind him to open the case the right way up. Transfering keys and phones from hand to hand as I left the parked car this morning it slipped from my hand and accumulated another small dent on one bottom corner; a metaphor I thought for its first owner.
Out walking at lunch time I saw an orange tip butterfly, and the sun shining.
Wednesday 28 March 2012
Following the feet
Even if March, a lunchtime walk beyond the first water meadow slightly dusts my feet. Mud is there to be found by the thirsty wasp, the probing beak of waterfowl, but the path is dry. The leaf litter rattles and pops in the sun and the occasional scurry of furred or feathered feet. Birds call out, love and alarm, threat and food. Great-tits saw, chiff-chaffs call eponymously, wrens laugh and trill in greater proportion to their size; crows crow and all over the woods, the nuthatches are whooping at each other like the ones in my garden. Amongst the brimstones I see a single white, a single brown (some sort of fritillary I wonder).
I pass the place I watched a chaser last year; this year just a stream, the pool deleted by waterway maintenance. Across the water meadow looking out for the swampy patches, flagged by soft rush, but finding only cracked mud. Black spiders run, avoiding my shadow; I avoid them in turn, twisting my footfalls to mimise the genocide. A ground beetle.
I pause on the following bridge to watch the still ditch. I hear gulls testing out the thermals over the wooded ridge, the alternating alarm and scalding of a wren, hoping to keep the destination for its full beak of moss a secret, but still in a hurry to build. The faint stink of still water frequented by livestock overcomes the air, which is otherwise almost undisturbed. The nearest hawthorn trees are marked with a green outline and further up the ditch is a willow with a straw coloured halo. These colour patterns follow the field edges and merge with the faint pink of silver-birch trees and the stubborn browns of the slower oaks and the beeches, still diplaying a crisp crop from last autumn. Towards the town and river a dog barks, its owner barking still louder, so I move back again, mindful of the spiders but watching the shape of two buzzards following the gulls and crows up in circles.
Joining the few open bluebells in the woods I find a single violet and, returning to fields and sun, a dead-nettle in bloom. The dandylions poke their golden muzzles up, measuring the year as surely as their later seeds will measure the hours.
I pass the place I watched a chaser last year; this year just a stream, the pool deleted by waterway maintenance. Across the water meadow looking out for the swampy patches, flagged by soft rush, but finding only cracked mud. Black spiders run, avoiding my shadow; I avoid them in turn, twisting my footfalls to mimise the genocide. A ground beetle.
I pause on the following bridge to watch the still ditch. I hear gulls testing out the thermals over the wooded ridge, the alternating alarm and scalding of a wren, hoping to keep the destination for its full beak of moss a secret, but still in a hurry to build. The faint stink of still water frequented by livestock overcomes the air, which is otherwise almost undisturbed. The nearest hawthorn trees are marked with a green outline and further up the ditch is a willow with a straw coloured halo. These colour patterns follow the field edges and merge with the faint pink of silver-birch trees and the stubborn browns of the slower oaks and the beeches, still diplaying a crisp crop from last autumn. Towards the town and river a dog barks, its owner barking still louder, so I move back again, mindful of the spiders but watching the shape of two buzzards following the gulls and crows up in circles.
Joining the few open bluebells in the woods I find a single violet and, returning to fields and sun, a dead-nettle in bloom. The dandylions poke their golden muzzles up, measuring the year as surely as their later seeds will measure the hours.
Monday 12 March 2012
First Magnolia
Unadorned yet with leaves, yet with tulip blooms revealing their inner layers, ready to point to the compass marks and every heading in between, an ivory feather duster palm greets the spring sunshine on my way to work, just as the camellias bring forth their third flush of pink and carmine. The best one in the village is just about to peak (again), but unusually has already started to grow out its shoots of paler green and fresh foliage. The bravest of all these plants began at Christmas, in that warm spell we enjoyed away from work and strolling and chasing children, who hoped, forlornly, for snow.
Now a variety of bees buzz in the garden, spiders are already looking round and ready to lay their silked eggs. The birds pair off by species. Robins are building by the conservatory, in a pile of pots; blackbirds strut and squabble; doves love and coo; a trio of coaltits confounded the still air on Sunday by the compost bins. Last afternoon, while washing up, a brimstone fluttered. Two weeks since, the pond started to gel with the spawn of frogs; the water's surface dances every time I pass en route to the shed with potential mates, bathing.
Saturday was beautiful. Saturday was gorgeous, down by the Solent, a few rounded sails passing in front of the needles. We visited the sailing club to sit or stand and chatter, laziness excused by refreshments. A very few were sailing, but spring cleaning and the first mechanical service of the year were being exercised out on the water; tenders plied and faces shone at the prospect of the start of water sports again.
Now a variety of bees buzz in the garden, spiders are already looking round and ready to lay their silked eggs. The birds pair off by species. Robins are building by the conservatory, in a pile of pots; blackbirds strut and squabble; doves love and coo; a trio of coaltits confounded the still air on Sunday by the compost bins. Last afternoon, while washing up, a brimstone fluttered. Two weeks since, the pond started to gel with the spawn of frogs; the water's surface dances every time I pass en route to the shed with potential mates, bathing.
Saturday was beautiful. Saturday was gorgeous, down by the Solent, a few rounded sails passing in front of the needles. We visited the sailing club to sit or stand and chatter, laziness excused by refreshments. A very few were sailing, but spring cleaning and the first mechanical service of the year were being exercised out on the water; tenders plied and faces shone at the prospect of the start of water sports again.
Tuesday 6 March 2012
A third flush of camellia flowers
I've been reading about the process of learning mandolin on the forums of mandolin cafe from a bunch of folk who have been before me, and had enough interest to pass on some tips. The first tip that struck me as useful was to actually know the piece that you are trying to play, and I was reminded how poorly I knew some of the tunes in the my Hal Leonard Mandolin Method Book 1. Much of the material is folksy or bluegrass, neither of which genre is particularly familiar to me.
So I sat down and actually listened to the accompanying CD, indeed I ripped it to my MP3 player and listened to it and - some of it I don't like much and much of it is played technically perfectly, with great detail and precision, but a total lack of soul. I realise that this is part of the teaching method, and that more advanced techniques bring the soul back in and add some enthusiasm and verve, but it left me uninspired.
I've tried stealing my youngest's guitar tunes, but they have a bad habit of hitting G and carrying on down. So I decided to buy myself a mandolin book that I could have a bit more fun with: Beatles For Mandolin. Lots of tunes that I know, that I enjoy and that I can listen to with pleasure. Like all Beatles transcriptions, I'm sure that there are detractors of these arrangements, but some are suitably simple and fun and they sound fine to my ears. For example, it so happens that the introduction to "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" is very simple for mandolin, but instantly recognisable. I'm racing through "Here Comes the Sun" at the moment, but the instrumental parts are too hard for me.
The second tip that came to my notice is that the strike on the mandolin strings is an oblique one. With the arm still and rotating the wrist, the pick is stroked across the strings at an angle. This gives a much more mellow sound; sounding the two strings clearly.
Other suggestions were to make every fret count (In other words to avoid playing lazily and carelessly) and also to play loudly - I think because it amplifies the errors.
Anyway, the consequence of these ideas and a new book and some practice, is that I'm having more fun and improving. I also treated myself to a Snark multi-instrument tuner, which is a gorgeous little toy.
So I sat down and actually listened to the accompanying CD, indeed I ripped it to my MP3 player and listened to it and - some of it I don't like much and much of it is played technically perfectly, with great detail and precision, but a total lack of soul. I realise that this is part of the teaching method, and that more advanced techniques bring the soul back in and add some enthusiasm and verve, but it left me uninspired.
I've tried stealing my youngest's guitar tunes, but they have a bad habit of hitting G and carrying on down. So I decided to buy myself a mandolin book that I could have a bit more fun with: Beatles For Mandolin. Lots of tunes that I know, that I enjoy and that I can listen to with pleasure. Like all Beatles transcriptions, I'm sure that there are detractors of these arrangements, but some are suitably simple and fun and they sound fine to my ears. For example, it so happens that the introduction to "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" is very simple for mandolin, but instantly recognisable. I'm racing through "Here Comes the Sun" at the moment, but the instrumental parts are too hard for me.
The second tip that came to my notice is that the strike on the mandolin strings is an oblique one. With the arm still and rotating the wrist, the pick is stroked across the strings at an angle. This gives a much more mellow sound; sounding the two strings clearly.
Other suggestions were to make every fret count (In other words to avoid playing lazily and carelessly) and also to play loudly - I think because it amplifies the errors.
Anyway, the consequence of these ideas and a new book and some practice, is that I'm having more fun and improving. I also treated myself to a Snark multi-instrument tuner, which is a gorgeous little toy.
Sunday 29 January 2012
In search of 8 strings
Well, I spent some money on a mandolin at last. I think I tried enough different instruments to have a good idea of what I wanted and could afford and then finally found a shop which had enough choice, and staff who knew what they were talking about.
We had a trip to the North planned over the weekend and this seemed like a good opportunity to broaden my search for a new instrument without travelling too far specially. An Internet search had brought up a Crafter M75EO which I was interested in after I tried out an M70E in a second hand shop in Bournemouth. A small detour to Cambridge would have made a nice lunch stop, so I called Miller's Music to enquire about their special price on the M35EO. It seems the website is disconnected in some way from the shop, and the staff in the shop appear to have no knowledge of what is for sale via the website. It transpired that although they may once have sold such an instrument, the sale stock was all out by the time I asked. Oops, lost customer.
I had a look in Grantham on the way. Fox Music in Grantham came up on the yell search for Nottingham. We found Fox music easily on Westgate, just outside the George Arcade. Fox had two Vintage models, one electro-acoustic. For the money I quite liked the acoustic and then tried the more expensive model. This didn't play as well as the cheaper one and I took a sighting along the finger-board to find that it was flat up to where the neck and body joined, where there was a large bulge on the G-side. Sadly unplayable and leaving me with no confidence that the acoustic model wouldn't go the same way.
Eldest son had an ambition of his own to visit Nottingham, so with very little research, except to ask yell.com if there were any musical instrument shops in Nottingham, we set out with a varied agenda on Saturday morning to visit. We found a few things that we were shopping for, and an enquiry in a shop in the Victoria centre lead us to the Music Room. The Music Room were very friendly and helpful and had a sale of sheet music and books, but only one mandolin, a Tanglewood. I tried the Tanglewood, which was almost in tune and liked it, but it was slightly pricey. When asked the staff had no hesitation in suggesting that I try Dave Mann's music nearby.
Dave Mann's Music is a little wonder for string instruments. I didn't count all the mandolins they had! Give them a call and see if they can help. Such a pleasure to walk in to a shop where, not only do they have a wide range of instruments, but also know what they are talking about. Given a price range and a brief specification I was left to myself for a while with three instruments for comparison covering a wide range of prices and qualities. The first instrument I tried was an Ozark, all wood finish, out of my price range. I liked the sound, but the A-string seemed a bit intrusive, ringing rather loudly compared to the E. Really I'm not an expert, so take my opinion with a pinch of salt. Second a Brunswick F-style. I nearly dismissed this from serious consideration, since I had played one in a second hand store in Bournemouth, where I saw the M70E. That one was expensive and unpleasant. This one I couldn't really fault for the money. The third instrument was a Stagg, feeling light and rattly.
The Brunswick is a MM2155, an f-style and a bit of a tart to be honest. The sound is quite loud compared to my existing awful ebay model and I bought it because it is good enough for me to learn on, in the price range I had set, and because it was such a relief to visit a shop that took mandolins seriously and could offer a real choice. The finish on the Brunswick is not perfect, the tone is good, the action is a great change from the ebay banana. I can practise for more than 5 minutes at a time and just occasionally a chord will work first time; a barre is possible; a strum hits all the strings, even the ones that are fretted.
We had a trip to the North planned over the weekend and this seemed like a good opportunity to broaden my search for a new instrument without travelling too far specially. An Internet search had brought up a Crafter M75EO which I was interested in after I tried out an M70E in a second hand shop in Bournemouth. A small detour to Cambridge would have made a nice lunch stop, so I called Miller's Music to enquire about their special price on the M35EO. It seems the website is disconnected in some way from the shop, and the staff in the shop appear to have no knowledge of what is for sale via the website. It transpired that although they may once have sold such an instrument, the sale stock was all out by the time I asked. Oops, lost customer.
I had a look in Grantham on the way. Fox Music in Grantham came up on the yell search for Nottingham. We found Fox music easily on Westgate, just outside the George Arcade. Fox had two Vintage models, one electro-acoustic. For the money I quite liked the acoustic and then tried the more expensive model. This didn't play as well as the cheaper one and I took a sighting along the finger-board to find that it was flat up to where the neck and body joined, where there was a large bulge on the G-side. Sadly unplayable and leaving me with no confidence that the acoustic model wouldn't go the same way.
Eldest son had an ambition of his own to visit Nottingham, so with very little research, except to ask yell.com if there were any musical instrument shops in Nottingham, we set out with a varied agenda on Saturday morning to visit. We found a few things that we were shopping for, and an enquiry in a shop in the Victoria centre lead us to the Music Room. The Music Room were very friendly and helpful and had a sale of sheet music and books, but only one mandolin, a Tanglewood. I tried the Tanglewood, which was almost in tune and liked it, but it was slightly pricey. When asked the staff had no hesitation in suggesting that I try Dave Mann's music nearby.
Dave Mann's Music is a little wonder for string instruments. I didn't count all the mandolins they had! Give them a call and see if they can help. Such a pleasure to walk in to a shop where, not only do they have a wide range of instruments, but also know what they are talking about. Given a price range and a brief specification I was left to myself for a while with three instruments for comparison covering a wide range of prices and qualities. The first instrument I tried was an Ozark, all wood finish, out of my price range. I liked the sound, but the A-string seemed a bit intrusive, ringing rather loudly compared to the E. Really I'm not an expert, so take my opinion with a pinch of salt. Second a Brunswick F-style. I nearly dismissed this from serious consideration, since I had played one in a second hand store in Bournemouth, where I saw the M70E. That one was expensive and unpleasant. This one I couldn't really fault for the money. The third instrument was a Stagg, feeling light and rattly.
The Brunswick is a MM2155, an f-style and a bit of a tart to be honest. The sound is quite loud compared to my existing awful ebay model and I bought it because it is good enough for me to learn on, in the price range I had set, and because it was such a relief to visit a shop that took mandolins seriously and could offer a real choice. The finish on the Brunswick is not perfect, the tone is good, the action is a great change from the ebay banana. I can practise for more than 5 minutes at a time and just occasionally a chord will work first time; a barre is possible; a strum hits all the strings, even the ones that are fretted.
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