- The deer that shot out from the covert in Long Lane, looked curiously at me, then shot back again
- The barn owl, hunting earlier, the colder it gets
- The snow revealing the lines of molehills in the paddock - their direction and symmetry
- Skiddaw and Blencathra written in white against a blue sky
- Cumberland sausages eaten in Cumberland
- Interesting change management challenges with Rod and Cyril
- A reminder of campari and orange juice
- My potion for B worked a treat
- Llama Karma on the A66
- A singing V8
- Apple logs on the fire, cut from my own orchard
Thursday, 12 February 2009
JOYS
Tuesday, 10 February 2009
Saturday, 7 February 2009
EAST IS EAST?
Something I notice this morning is how far south the sunrise has gone. It changes the quality of its winter light and this morning showers the copper beech, my east marker, with truly golden light.
FORWARD
It is good, occasionally, to be told of your own impact. A tested friend did just that. By tested, I mean he has stood by me in the face of dissent. Fine man. The impact he described was of encouraging him to stop and look. I like it. It's all very well to be going forwards. Society pushes us on that way. But when the forwards motion is unaware of what now is, it can get dangerous. So, good to know there are moments to stop and be here, to look, even in the busiest of lives. And very nice indeed to be told that I have been a force for that good.
WILD ROVERS
It is one thing to say rash things like "live unwisely", another to do so. Still, my most beloved partner in crime always urges me on to do so, and I thank him for the many hilarious and spirit freeing adventures that this ethic has produced. The latest: a night time Peak District jaunt, that had taken us across snow clad moorland to the Anvil Stones and then, beautifully into a pine forest so deep in silent snow that the silence hurt your ears. And at the end of it, we find ourselves on a track where we had left the range rover, facing the continuation of the track, an unlocked gate and thousands of acres of snow drifted land.
It was too much for us to bear without doing the unwise thing of releasing the gate and piling the range rover into its sternest test yet. My mind is so filled with the vivid and hand-sweating tension of that foolhardy trip that I can scarcely spill it out. As ever, every new disaster was met with nothing but laughter. Again, how privileged I feel to have a friend who embraces abandon so readily and frees the maniac in me. To say we got stuck doesn't cover it. The range rover was bucking like a wild animal trying to free itself from enveloping snow drifts, whilst Ged and I rehearsed phone calls to the AA, helpless with giggling. No AA van in the country could have gone where we went. Indeed, even we thought "we can't go there...", then did. That we, and the vehicle emerged unscathed is a miracle born of the fine engineers who conceived and realised it, little knowing that two idiots who are both old enough to know better would test it by living once again, so unwisely.
It was too much for us to bear without doing the unwise thing of releasing the gate and piling the range rover into its sternest test yet. My mind is so filled with the vivid and hand-sweating tension of that foolhardy trip that I can scarcely spill it out. As ever, every new disaster was met with nothing but laughter. Again, how privileged I feel to have a friend who embraces abandon so readily and frees the maniac in me. To say we got stuck doesn't cover it. The range rover was bucking like a wild animal trying to free itself from enveloping snow drifts, whilst Ged and I rehearsed phone calls to the AA, helpless with giggling. No AA van in the country could have gone where we went. Indeed, even we thought "we can't go there...", then did. That we, and the vehicle emerged unscathed is a miracle born of the fine engineers who conceived and realised it, little knowing that two idiots who are both old enough to know better would test it by living once again, so unwisely.Thursday, 5 February 2009
NOBLESSE OBLIGE
I have sometimes lunched like a Lord, but rarely get to lunch with a Lord, which made yesterday special. Then, to be invited to his wonderful house with its very uneven floors and dating back to 1683, was special indeed. We sat and talked in the tranquil drawing room, with its huge fireplace and views out across the snowy grounds. I'm not a particular fan of aristocracy. But I like nobility when I see it. And I see it in my noble friend. It is the nobility of the spirit that eschews its own dark places, and lives in the light of coming forward to others, open hearted and fundamentally well wishing. That does not deny the ability to win people over to his ambitions. This my friend has. And he is subtle, which I also take as a sign of his nobility. He has become accustomed to power and knows how to use it. And, indeed, as our conversation unravelled, it is difficult to think of him without it. I drove home reflecting on (dare I?) his peerless company.
At home I thought of Sue, and my lovely friend B, both of whom are ill. And George, a champion now laid low with illness too. Magically I did the following. Take from the cupboard three bottles. One is an old bottle that was filled with elderflower champagne made from the elders at the edge of the orchard. Another is an age old bottle that contained Balsamico from the old castello outside Arezzo where George, only three summers ago but then, how strange to think, still a boy, ran with Yas through the pine clad hills together with the dalmation from the castello. A third is a bottle that contained wine from the Lebanon, a small miracle of the survival of beauty in conflict. Cleansing these three bottles I pour into each as much of my health giving wishes as would fit and stopper them quick so as not to lose any of this noble (that word again) substance. Stop. Rewind. That pouring was a slow pouring of a very precious substance, made with qi, made mindfully, made with prana, made wishing for the kindest connection of mind and body. A slow pouring it was, made very full of thought. Their assignment to their recipients is enough, though I mentally send them. And off they go, to do their unstoppable, inexhaustible thing.
It is tiring, all that loving.
I go to bed reading HE Bates, and I dream of the Larkins, revelling in enough, and of magical potions, and of noblesse oblige.
At home I thought of Sue, and my lovely friend B, both of whom are ill. And George, a champion now laid low with illness too. Magically I did the following. Take from the cupboard three bottles. One is an old bottle that was filled with elderflower champagne made from the elders at the edge of the orchard. Another is an age old bottle that contained Balsamico from the old castello outside Arezzo where George, only three summers ago but then, how strange to think, still a boy, ran with Yas through the pine clad hills together with the dalmation from the castello. A third is a bottle that contained wine from the Lebanon, a small miracle of the survival of beauty in conflict. Cleansing these three bottles I pour into each as much of my health giving wishes as would fit and stopper them quick so as not to lose any of this noble (that word again) substance. Stop. Rewind. That pouring was a slow pouring of a very precious substance, made with qi, made mindfully, made with prana, made wishing for the kindest connection of mind and body. A slow pouring it was, made very full of thought. Their assignment to their recipients is enough, though I mentally send them. And off they go, to do their unstoppable, inexhaustible thing.
It is tiring, all that loving.
I go to bed reading HE Bates, and I dream of the Larkins, revelling in enough, and of magical potions, and of noblesse oblige.
Wednesday, 4 February 2009
SNOW
It changed our interactions so that people recognise more the basics of survival in others. E.g. Clearing the old dear's path. The van driver who pulls aside in the lane and for whom I then have concerns about him being able to get back onto it; our waves mean very slightly more than thanks, mate. Saying are you ok to someone slipping. Just two or three sentences more to my neighbour walking his dog. More exchange with Pete, our fantastic postman. Just that little bit more concern.
Which is why its going leaves me missing it. That, and the fun of getting the Range Rover into low transfer and messing about on and off road around the lanes.
Yesterday, the snow was all beauty - Nature the signwriter's drop-shadow on branches, emphasizing her creation. Today, in a dull purplish dawn, it looks like it regrets its own diappearance.
Which is why its going leaves me missing it. That, and the fun of getting the Range Rover into low transfer and messing about on and off road around the lanes.
Yesterday, the snow was all beauty - Nature the signwriter's drop-shadow on branches, emphasizing her creation. Today, in a dull purplish dawn, it looks like it regrets its own diappearance.
Monday, 2 February 2009
KNOT
When you go fishing you use a surgeon's knot. And so the fly stays on the line. You've got to be nimble to tie one. I struggle. But then, I'm not a surgeon. If I were, I just might gain that admirable dexterity. Tying knots might be life or death then.
A perfect knot is a thing of beauty. A perfect conversation with a bight and bitter end. Just occasionally I've see one tied. A Turk's Head. A perfect bowline. A timely hitch. Once, in the Celtic sea, a full lash which held a mainsheet. Tying unlike things perfectly together. And today I saw one. A surgeon's knot it was, beautifully done.
A perfect knot is a thing of beauty. A perfect conversation with a bight and bitter end. Just occasionally I've see one tied. A Turk's Head. A perfect bowline. A timely hitch. Once, in the Celtic sea, a full lash which held a mainsheet. Tying unlike things perfectly together. And today I saw one. A surgeon's knot it was, beautifully done.
Sunday, 1 February 2009
ALT./URL'S:
.CON Nigerian Bank transfer offers. Replica Rolexes.
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.COMIC E-zine
.COW Views in black and white, no bull.
.COE.UK Find out about the Olympics
.ORG Pure spleen
NOEL COWARD
One of my most treasured friends has a penchant for BEING Noel. This shows in how well written is his emailed comment on this blog:
A most curious blog! I did like the 3G one..your Wolseley story put me in
mind of those lovely days when at university, I would take the train to London
on a crisp January day, when the sun is glinting through, touching your face,
and yet there is still a shiver, a chill and thrill in the spine. You arrive at
about 10ish, take the tube to Piccadilly, and emerge into the busy road, with a lilt in your stride. Then, you turn the corner into St. James’s Square, where the whiteness and the crispness merge, your senses eagerly awaiting the experience ahead..such anticipation as you bound up the steps of your club, and inhale the smell, the atmosphere..you head for the smoking room, pluck a paper from the rack, ring the bell for coffee..and life IS GOOD. Youth, eh?! Wasted on the young.
I have often thought of blogging, though I can never get past a) my own inertia b)
the concern about further clogging up cyberspace. Still, please continue, I love to hear about your thoughts, which are of course as random as
you are (and we love you for it!)
I think that you have a longing to be an art teacher – the cord jacket, the Lamy pen (most disappointed not to hear of a Moleskine sketch pad - tsk tsk!)
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