The Gods of Naples

THE GODS OF NAPLES

‘Ernest Hemmingway used to drink here,’ said Sue, as we entered the Foreigner’s Club in Sorrento. Frankly, that was good enough for me. The Club bustled with flirty waiters and an international cliental. We settled at a table overlooking the Bay of Naples; a vast gulf of azure water, intersected by the white trails from the launches and powerboats. Directly below us, a scary drop of high cliff away, were the port and the beach. In the far distance across the bay was Naples, a glittering slope of mammoth humanity. And, half obscured by haze and cloud, Vesuvius rose against the horizon. We also saw Vesuvius every time we opened the doors to our hotel room balcony, a looming and slightly sinister presence.  

          We’d been here less than 18 hours, but already we’d had our tour of Sorrento, one of the most sought after tourist venues in Italy. Marion, our guide, wove us through the baking streets and the manic traffic until she was sure she’d shown us everything we might like to see later at our leisure. We took in the Best Ice Cream Shop in Italy and the shady cloisters. The Foreigner Club was her last spot, and Sue and I did not plan to leave it any time soon. My pasta had an unbelievable fresh cherry tomato sauce and Sue’s wine was chilled and quaffable. 

          ‘The beaches non-plus me a bit,’ I admitted, staring down. All along the bay, are almost manmade beaches. Famous Beach (named before it ever was, apparently) and Bikini beach (named for the first bikini allowed on a beach here, and worn by local girl Sophia Loren) were visible on our journey from the airport, and Sorrento boasts two, each one so narrow that the parasols are practically overlapping. Where there is any sand at all, is a thin strip of course, grey volcanic matter. Pontoons extend the area out into the sea, creating a safe haven to swim. Below, there was a private and a public beach, where a five-some of young lads were stood out from the bobbing heads of swimmers. They formed a perfect circle knee deep in surf and punching a beach ball between them, as if they were being filmed. Perhaps they were. 

          ‘I could stay here all day,’ said Sue. ‘I love people-watching.  Look at that table next to us.’ 

          A foursome, Italian and beautifully young and slender, were eating pasta and gesticulating loudly across their small table. One of the girls wolfed down a huge plate of pasta, then cut up her Amalfi lemon, added salt and olive oil, and ate it like an orange. Sue was on a mission for Amalfi lemons, which make normal lemons look like marbles in contrast. The noise from the Italian’s table grew...something to do with the cigarette the other girl was smoking as she leaned against the balustrade. We couldn’t help glancing surreptitiously over at their antics. I leaned across and lowered my voice. ‘I think they are Mafiosi. Look - they’re the only party here who have a tablecloth.’ Our guide, Marion, had already informed us about the Napoli Mafia, the  ‘Camorra’.

          ‘They practically run Naples,’ said Sue. She should know; her partner's family are from Sicily. ‘We’re seeing Naples tomorrow. I can’t wait.’

I couldn't wait to see Naples Museum of Archeology – it  contained original marble statues of all my favourite gods and goddesses. I was going to be in pagan heaven.

It seems we can trace the many-breasted Diana back to further ancient times. First, to the Hellenistic period, when the deity worshipped in Ephesus was commonly called “Artemis.”  But the goddess venerated in Ephesus does not really resemble either Artemis or Diana, rather, resembling Near Eastern Mother goddesses.Temple of Artemis/Diana in Ephesus, now in modern Turkey, was among the ancient world’s Seven Wonders. Although destroyed, early reproductions of the statue of the Many-Breasted Goddess survive, so we know what she looked like: a beautiful, regal, crowned woman, her torso completely covered by multiple breasts, indicating her capacity to nurture and provide for all, her long tight skirt covered by reliefs of animals and birds. Date palms were among the most sacred trees throughout what is now the Middle East. Inanna–Ishtar is sometimes depicted as a date palm, as is Asherah, famed as the wet nurse of her pantheon

Marion was a lady about our own age, who was married to an Italian. She had a soft, slightly gravelly voice with a descending cadence which became our gentle but clear companion around all the sights and sites of the tour. She knew her Italy and her Italian, and constantly entertained us with her stories of living here...although now she lives with her husband in England, her children being long grown.

          ‘We no longer allow you to walk around Naples,’ she told us as our coach drove us in that direction, past Famous and Bikini beaches. ‘We will go into the museum and return immediately to the coach. A tourist has recently been stabbed, so it’s not considered safe anymore. And then there’s the problem with rubbish.

Venus (Aphrodites) was the Olympian goddess of love, beauty, pleasure and procreation. Medieval paintings about, especially of her rising from the foam of the sea. She is thought to be the most beautiful  of goddesses. Herr attributes included a dove, apple, scallop shell and mirror, and also her golden apples. Her adulterous affair are renowned and many, with myths about her and the god Ares (Mars), her love for Adonis, and a shepherd prince called Anchises. She is famous for her part in the judgement of Paris which resulted in the Trojan War. The statue of Pygmalion which was brought to life by Aphrodite. Finally, she is known for the sad persecution of Psyche, the maiden loved by the goddess' son Eros (Cupid). 

          I was pretty certain the dangers of the Mafia were being over-emphasized, but the rubbish problem certainly was not. The streets we drove through were ankle deep in litter - paper, cans, bottles, more paper. It piled up against walls and blew around corners. Forget stabbings; I was worried we’d all come down with Wiel’s disease. I’m not clear why there is a problem...but the Mafia are pretty much to blame for everything, so it was a safe bet they were involved. However, we did observe the locals dropping their unwanted bits and pieces from the safety of the coach. Their approach seemed more ‘if we’ve got it, we may as well contribute’, rather than ‘if we stop doing it, things won’t be as bad’.

Atlas  was a Titan condemned to hold up the heavens or sky for eternity. He stood at the ends of the earth in extreme west, and has become associated both with Atlas Mountains in northwest Africa and the upper vertebrae, which hold the head erect. He was credited with inventing the first celestial sphere, a depiction of which can be seen in this statue. 

   

The museum was calm and cool, and plain.

Many of the rescued artifacts have ended up here. Firstly, they were lifted from the excavations and gifted to kings and nobles, but it was the 18C at the time. Now, the wonderful mosaic floors, the household artifacts, the silver oil lamps and the impressive statues of gods and men are housed here. 

        

  Our guide was a dapper Italian in his forties with a smooth bald head. He took pleasure in pointing out the Romans were shorter than we are, but I bet he could have fitted into their battle dress easily. He showed us the treasures on each floor, but honestly, I only had eyes for the goddesses. Their statues felt almost alive, so perfect were they in their execution. I took picture of Venus (the only woman to be depicted naked), Artemis, the Roman Isis, Juno, Athene and Flora. Apart from Isis, the statues depicted perfectly the particular qualities of their characters. I found it wonderful to know that these statues had been created by such ancient artists at a time when these deities were worships reverently.

Athena (Minerva) is mention first in Linear B tablets  as Lady of Athens. She was born after Zeus experienced an enormous headache and she sprang fully grown and in armour from his forehead. She is associated with warfare and wisdom, handicraft, courage, inspiration, law and justice, strategic warfare, mathematics, strength, strategy, the arts, and skill. She is one strong goddess. 

My only grump about Naples Museum is that there was no coffee shop. Breaks for coffee were the only thing I was missing, which seemed incongruous in the home of great coffee. By this point, we’d already met several people we were enjoying the company of, and they seemed to agree with me on the coffee break issue. Michael was a true gentleman and a retired bank manager, Trish and Tony were both in the theatre, Tony as a writer/producer/educator while Trish still enjoys a vibrant career in acting. Jenny and Don, Tony and Maureen, Jim and Jill and Eddie and Joan were all lovely to meet and chat to. Kate was a student of art and a young breath of fresh air in our party. All of us were keen to see the museum’s treasures before going to Herculaneum and Pompeii. But first we were going to Capri.

THE ISLE OF CAPRI

There is something magical about every island; I love Lundy, and the Orkneys and Aran especially, and have memories of Maui that still leave me breathless, but this temperate island really is a jewel. Our first adventure was a boat trip around the island, showing us the many grottos; cliff base caves that have intrigued and attracted visitors for years. The White Grotto is famous for its pale stalactites, and the Blue Grotto for the special effect of light on its walls, which reflects not only the colour of the sea, but its waving motion. We were able to see the cliffside hotels of the rich; some almost hanging over the precipitous sides, and the villas of the famous including that of Gracie Fields. .

          For Sue and I, the highlight of the day...almost of the week...was the trip from Anacapri to the top of the mountain in the chair life. It looked a little nerve wracking as we queued, but as the most elderly member of the tour took off and sailed upwards, I felt I would have to quell my nerves. I was almost bundled into the chair - they don’t actually stop, being on an eternal loop - but once the thin metal bar had clanked down to prevent a fall, I was off at a run, the sounds of the launch platform, the shrieks and squeals and the cries of the men, faded away. Suddenly all was still and calm except for the intermittent groaning of the metal rope over the cogs. I moved slowly upwards with a certain grace as scents drifted up; the herbs, flowers and sweet spices of the Mediterranean blending on the warm breeze. Below, bird-eye views of gardens, some neatly arranged in terraces of vegetables and vines, some haphazard harmonizations of nature; fig trees, japonica, oleander and bougainvillea, where terracotta statuettes, weathered with age, were half hidden by overgrown beds. In one, a black manikin from a shop window was decorated to become a Madonna, in another a thin, sleepy cat stretched over the pathway. The gardens dissolved into woodland and I found my feet touching the tops of oaks, sweet chestnuts and poplars, and looking directly down at carpets of wild flowers, carpets of yellow, white and pink, and explosions of purple, orange and red. As we were yanked higher, the deciduous trees gave way to the resiny smell of conifers and bird song surrounded me. I could have gone on forever, when the landing platform came into view and I was tipped from my seat seconds after Sue.

          ‘I could do that time and again,’ she said. ‘I loved it.’

          At the top of the island, Capri town spread before us, I felt I could see forever, the view filled with in the colours of the Mediterranean…sapphire blue, apricot, deepest green and white.

Named after Hercules, whose massive form we saw in the museum, the  Roman town of was buried under boiling mud when Vesuvius erupted. Overlooking the sea, which at t Herculaneum hat point before the eruption, had reached the edge of the town, Herculaneum had been a posh settlement for the rich of the area, and the houses and high street shops have been wonderfully preserved. Only a quarter of it has been excavated, but that was many hectares and there was plenty to see, all built in the honeycombed style of the stone walls layered with the slender red brickwork Romans loved.

        

          The villas were wonderful, floors of mosaic and walls decorated with brilliantly coloured frescos. Naturally, these were faded, but it was easy to imagine how civilized it would all be. Many of the villas faced the bay, and so had winter and summer dining rooms, where the view could be enjoyed when the sun shone. The baths were impressive too, room after room that a well-heeled Roman could spend his or her leisure in, being oiled, massaged and scraped, followed by saunas and plunge pools and warm, luxurious bathing areas. David Lloyd eat your heart out!

          It had rained on the way to Herculaneum, but it stopped just as our coach arrived, and out peeped the sun. So, when the punters tried to sell me a brolly for 5 euros, I waved them aside, sure that Italy would prove true to form and keep its clouds at bay. It wasn’t long before thunder clapped directly above us and massive raindrops pelted down. A lot of us were extremely damp by the time we returned to the coach, and pretty glad when we reach Sorrento again. I capitulated on the way out and bought a brolly, which I used precisely once that day; the 30 second sprint from the umbrella stall to the coach.

       

We all enjoyed the visit to Pompeii more than we thought we would, having seen Herculaneum so thoroughly. It was the big metropolis down the road from Herculanium’s dormitory settlement. There we found the huge amphitheatre, the gladiatorial ring and the wide forum where everyone would gather to talk (and probably show off their finery). Here also were the plaster casts of the victim’s bodies, taken after they had dissolved inside their ash shells like fossils…the dog, chained to his ring, a pregnant woman, her hands trying to protect her baby, a man’s body, stiff in death. These were a moving sight, reminding us all of the transitory nature of everyone’s life.

 Venus was the patron goddess of Pompeii, and The Sanctuary of Venus is placed on spectacular artificial terrace  overlooking the bay. This really was the place to be in 50 BCE,

        















 

        

It seemed to me, moving though streets, houses and temples, that Pompeian citizens were surrounded by their own images of the sacred.Statues of divinities often y set up as votive offerings. The bottom line in Roman society seemed to be; Praise your gods, and they will reward you – attend your gods, or they may be vengeful.

 The coach took us up the side of Vesuvius to where the walk to its rim was just thirty minutes. The place feels unloved; winding road is too narrow for passing coaches, and the loos in the car park smell from thirty metres away. Marion told us that the local government had received an EU grant to aid the upkeep of this important ancient and geological site - one of the most visited in the world. But they had spent it all on the statues that lined the winding road. I was reminded of Mickey Blue Eyes, where Hugh Grant plays an auction room owner in New York who finds himself selling rubbish art for millions in a sting by a Mafia painter. I thought the statues were at best comical and at worst obscene, like spending hundreds of pounds on your baby’s romper suit.

  The walkers set off; Sue and several others, including Joan, stayed behind. Sue’s legs were playing her up, but I didn’t really worry that she would have a boring time once I discovered the coffee shop sold wine by the glass.  I hired two sticks from the wizened old man who whittled thin branches into walking aids at the start of the climb. These were particularly useful on the way down, when the scree  became hazardous. However, as soon as I began to pick my way up, I realized they had a sorry side-effect; I had brought my new, and as so far unused, umbrella to afford myself some shade from the relentless sun, which had now reached a temperature of 40 degrees, but with a stick in each hand, I had no way of holding it over myself. Sadly, it returned to England still a virgin brolly, having kept me neither dry nor cool.

          The path upwards, black with the lava scree, was bordered at first with wild carrot and the broom, yellow with flowers, that grows into impressive trees. There was little else on this barren mountain, but below us stretched the vast Vesuvian plain, with its slug of lava sliding down the mountainside like a concrete river. 

          I plodded on, getting into a rhythm with my feet and my sticks. 15 minutes later, I’d reached the halfway stage. I was dripping with sweat (obviously not a lady, then) and my lungs had reached that wonderful stage where they feel as puckered inside as a lemon (and not an Amalfi one, at that). I love that pressure that comes from massive exertion; it means that later you will have an endorphin high and your lungs will feel as if they have been reborn.

          I started up again, moving through the shacks of souvenirs, and immediately came to the rim of the volcano. The path continued on around the edge, but the steep climb had gone. I was there, the black, purple and brown basin of rock, deeply shadowed by the sun lay before us, and we all had a great time climbing over the barrier to be photographed inside the rim. Across the basin were swirls of steam rising from the smoking vents. Best not stay long, then.  Anyway, we had to be back in the coach. 

That night, officially our last tour day, the hotel put on a special dinner. As usual, we pulled some tables together (rather tricky as they are circular) to join our new friends. The lights were low and candles flickered in globes. A rather loud electronic organ played to us. We had an extra course (pears with prosciutto), followed by the usual pasta, followed by an entire roast veal, brought in and paraded round. Heaven knows what the vegetarians thought, but I have to say the veal was utterly delicious. The chef carved it himself, although I was quite surprised to think he’d shown his face in the dining room. Hadn’t he heard the whispers from us British about his food? His cooking was excellent; I had a great gnocchi one night and several fish dishes I loved, but he seemed to imagine that we all were wedded to canned goods and served them at both breakfast (canned fruit, reconstituted fruit juice) and dinner (canned diced carrot, potato and peas for godsake). Even in the gala, the mushrooms were from a tin. There was always a huge basket of fresh fruit on the sideboard, but it contained only apples, pears oranges and bananas, as if to remind us of home, while directly outside the hotel was a man with a small stall selling four kinds of peaches, nectarines, grapes, watermelon and apricots, none of which we got a whiff of inside. 

          And that was it. A lemoncello out on the terrace for a farewell moment with everyone, then Sue and I retired to our beds and an early morning call at 6 for our plane. It was so sad to say Ciao to all our newfound friends. But to Italy, l only said Arrivederci…see you again soon.  I will bring the memories home, and still work with the beauty of the ancient deities of this beautiful and ancient land.

Ceredwin of the Golden Cape (and beautiful brown eggs)

Well done to Ceredwin, our broody hen, who has been safely delivered of five strong (and noisy) chicks! She is such a proud mum, a bit protective, but finally brought them out for this photoshoot when we offered them mini mealworms, which the chicks loved. The story starts 21 days ago when our smallholding friend Jane from   up the road brought us a clutch of six eggs from her chickens, who are lucky enough (!) to be getting chicken-nooky from Jane's not inconsiderable number of cocks.                          

 Ceredwin (of the golden cape) didn't seem to mind in the least that these were not her own eggs. She took to looking after them like a duck to....well, like a hen to a brood nest, actually. She sat on them for more than 23 hours a day, coming off only when I made her, taking a quick drink of water and a peck at some corn - and a quick poo as she kept the nest spick and span at all times - before rushing back to her babies.
She also liked making clucking noises off the nest, in practice for when the babies arrived, and she did a lot of running backwards, stretching her wings wide, again a signal, I think, for the babies to understand.

She grew feathers on her feet, to aid the warmth and cosiness of the nest, but lost all her breast feathers, which helped line the nest, and created a 'hotspot' for the eggs.

All we had to do was check she was okay - she did the rest by herself.
So we set to and made a run for them, to keep them safe from predators; magpies, polecats and even, until they're a little bigger, the other hens.

Then 21 days later, I came out to find two eggs hatched and two, very wet and bedraggled little chicks under my hen. I'd lifted her in the usual way, but she ran back quickly without even drinking, knowing the other eggs were hatching still.

 Finally, five out of the six were hatched, and are showing their breeds, which might be Orpington and Bluebell and we have definitely got one 'naked neck' bird, an unusual cross-breed. (see picture on right)

But our lack of experience showed with egg number six. I saw Ceredwin pecking at it, but left her to sit on it; I should have actually helped her get the chick out of the egg. Five out of six is apparently a good ratio though, and although we couldn't possibly be as proud of our chicks as Ceredwin is, we think they are the most gorgeous things in the world right now.

If you want to see them, come quick; they'll be gaining their grown-up feathers in 6 or so weeks time.

The Great Radio Debate

Amid the hype around the Jubilee was a short article in the Sunday Times by Paul Donovan paul.donovan@sunday-times.co.uk which, when it didn’t have its tongue all the way up the regal arse, included some interesting statistics.

In 1953, an adventure series called Journey into Space was the last evening radio programme to command a bigger audience than an evening TV programme. ‘A watershed in national life,’ is how Donovan described it, and went on briefly to pose the question ‘how does radio survive - indeed, prosper - in the age of television’. Although no single radio programme can out-perform the best loved TV programmes for viewing/listening figures, radio still has a massive overall Share of the Ear. This little phrase is built from statistics covering all man-made sound devises which reach the nation’s ears...CDs, downloads, various radio sources and TV included. In fact, radio’s Share of the Ear is an impressive massive 83% overall (60% for under 35’s). http://www.radioacademy.org/wp-content/uploads/Chris%20Kimber.pdf 

I read these statistics with interest because, for a high proportion of my adult life (about 83% of it, probably!) I’ve been a non-TV owner. In other words, my household generally had no television anywhere within it. Or, to quote my daughter’s friend when she came home from primary school for tea with Becki; ‘what, no telly? How am going to watch me cartoons?’

We knew we were in the minority - less than 10% of the population watch no TV within each week of their lives (and I’m actually surprise it’s that low, well done to the 8% who own a telly and choose not to watch it every single day). I know that, as the kids were growing, they missed being part of the TV playground culture. The answer my children came up with was to make sure they knew enough about each programme that was a hot topic with their friends...to have watched it once at least in someone’s house, so that they didn’t look ‘uncool’. But with no TV and only very early computers, I think they had great childhoods, doing the sorts of things that kids today are being encouraged to return to. 

Having no TV in the house is a freedom and a joy. It allows you to plan your day without interference from a head full of soap characters. It means you look for a variety of evening entertainments that, in our house, include playing games, studying, writing, reading, taking walks, chatting on the phone and making music as well as listening to it. 

We opted for no TV the day we moved into our first house in the seventies. We both agreed that watching telly was a banal occupation and waste of our time. We were already hooked on Radio Four, which we thought then (and it’s still true today, in my opinion) had the best current affairs and general interest programmes, and that the drama and book readings were superior to all the TV dramas, because you see the best pictures in your head. In any case, Radio Four has the very best of all soaps...The Archers. Like most soaps, this has had its up and downs, but I still maintain it holds poll position.

Radio has just had a further accolade; while in Britain, yesterday, Aung San Suu Kyi met up with Dave Lee Travis, specifically to tell him how she listened to his BBC World Service programme, A Jolly Good Show. During her long incarceration under house arrest, his banter and music had lifted her spirits, and, apparently, allowed her a link with real people that the news items could not. It’s not just it has the best pictures...TV is never as interactive as radio can be, with its phone-ins and request shows. 

The trouble with TV - a trouble radio listening does not share - is that it is addictive. It’s easier than winking to flick the remote and switch it on. And once on, something holds the mind in a sort of thick, warm, sweet soup, as if ones’ thinking facility has gone into melt-down. Despite the fact that there are really good TV programmes, especially on BBC 2 & 4, the difficulty with actually owning a TV is stopping the watching when there’s really nothing on the box. 

We knew this 30 years ago, when we were bringing up our kids television-less. I know this for sure now, because, at last, we do own a TV. We made the decision during the process of moving last year. Among the big discussion points that arise when you’re on the move; what will we do with all our extra furniture? When will the solicitor pull out their fingers? How can we get the vendor to bring down their price? Where is that certificate from the council they’re asking for...a Most Important Question arose...will we have a telly in the new house? Our old house wasn’t wired for TV reception, although we had taken to watching DVDs, to save cinema costs. Then Becki left us her HD TV when she went off to France. We took it with us in the move and set it up in our new lounge...and switched it on. 

Instant entertainment.  And, to Jim’s delight, instant 24hour news.  So now I know absolutely just how addictive the TV is. We tried to have rules...no TV one evening a week, for instance...but we’re breaking them; by 8pm we are so brain-dead that a little TV viewing feels like the only thing we’re capable of...it’s just too tempting to sink into the warm, sweet soup. I guess I have learnt new things from some of the TV I’ve watched over the last year. But certainly no more than I learnt in any year listening to the radio. 

Okay, we’re getting older and perhaps we deserve to settle down on the sofa for a couple of hours in the day. But at the moment, we do still have complete control over the on/off button. I know the rot will really set in...and I shudder at the thought...it will be when we are old enough to stop for a cuppa everyday just in time for Countdown. Hasn’t happened yet. Hope it never will.

This post also appears on my writer's blog; http:/www.kitchentablewriters.blogspot.com

MId May

We took a bit of time out to go and visit cousins Enid and  Nicky and Tim in Dorset, and Barbara in Hampshire. Joan, Barbara's sister had too bad a cold to join us, so hope you get well soon, Joan.

We travelled from a lovely day in Dorset to  Hampshire, staying overnight in Thruxton, just outside Andover in a lovely thatched cottage. The following day, Barbara took us to a gastropub, where we could feast on anything from wild boar to venison. Actually, I had the veggie option and it tasted truly wonderful.

It was nice to be back, though. We've had a lovely month so far...we've escaped the worst of the UK rainfall (yes - believe me!) anyway, we just get on with things. Now the chicken house is up, Jim is finally erecting his greenhouse. So far, it looks professional, good on the eye and sturdy...all it needs is glass(!)

I've been adding to the beds in the field, extending the flower beds as well as working on the veggies. We've now got three big beds; potatoes in the newest; onions, leeks and carrots in the next and legumes in the third. Up until now, we have not done well with legumes. Broad beans seem to struggle wherever we plant them, and the runners Jim put in the polytunnel to grow up into seedlings have all been eaten...or maybe the seed we used was just out of date. The French beans are doing fine, almost ready for transplantation, though.  I have dug two smaller beds (more manageable) this year; the first is a variety of things including lettuce, beetroot and parsnips. The second is brassicas...I'm particularly proud of Jim's Brussell sprouts, grown from seed and now sturdy plants. If anyone round our way would like some BS plants, just come and collect.

When Mark Webb, our butcher from Rhydlewis, pulls up on a Saturday morning, hooting his van like some boy-racer, I try to chose meats that will compliment what we've got in the garden. We are still eating out of the garden, even though this is supposed to be the lean time...a 'garden in waiting'. In the polytunnel we have early spinach and salad veg - in the garden last year's spring greens are now hearty and delicious and there is one remaining row of purple sprouting broccoli from last year which will make a couple more meals. Tonight, I'm cooking Mark's chicken breasts with spinach (and spuds and carrots are from the farmers' market in Newcastle Emlyn), and tomorrow we've got an oyster cut of beef so I think a bit of the spring greens will go well. What I'm really waiting for with anticipation are the polytunnel early peas; they are already fattening in the pods and maybe they'll be ready to eat by the time we get back from  Mark's party - Becki's partner will be 30 years young at the end of this month and Mark and Becki are flying in from Antibes for the ocassion. We're going down to Shoreham on Sea to celebrate with them all.

 Meanwhile, we have our first floor in the extension; the utility room has been tiled with gorgeous shiny (but non-slip) ivory coloured tiles and we're delighted with the result.

Out in the garden early yesterday while putting the washing on the line, I heard my first cuckoo since we moved here...and my first cuckoo for about seven years, actually. He soon flew away out of earshot, but it was a great moment. We have dunnocks in our garden, so I must warn them to keep a weather-eye out for Rather Oversized Eggs in their nests.  And an owl has started hooting just before it becomes dusk each evening, another lovely country sound.

May at last

In dry weather (yes we have had some) the lark rises from the dandelion covered field next to us and belts it out up in the clouds. We rarely see her, but true to form we can hear her lovely song, which is presumably pulling our ears away from her nest somewhere in the grass. I hope it's safe! We have our own nest of field voles who live between the hedge and the veg plots. They've created deep runnells in the grass into holes you could just push a thumb down - if you were a mean 10yr old boy. They were safe until we tried to use the wheelbarrow they had hid under and so exposed them to light...and kites. Jim and I lay down in the grass and watched their lives for a bit. The babies are smooth haired and cinnamon coloured and have little ears and very short tails. We've covered them up from the kites again now in the hope they may continue to raise their brood happily.I don't know if they're the ones that ate our polytunnel tulips in the winter, but even if they are, we now know them personally, and feel no aminosity.

Sunset over Rhos Hill

It's like the moles. As we're not houseproud about our field grass, we're happy to let them hill up anywhere. When I was studying shamanism, the mole became my first 'power animal' and I would never think of harming one. We feel the same as Monty Don on this issue - he says in The Complete Gardiner...Moles cause a huge amount of damage...but I like moles. I think that they are beautiful. I always hate it when the cats catch them...because they seem such harmless, special animals - in the same catagory as otters, badgers or field mice.  Monty says the molehills make good potting compost - we've already discovered that trick -  and that although the desecration might feel vast it is usually only one mole in spring at mating time as they are otherwise solitary animals...I refuse to trap them...I think the only solution is to live and let tunnel...and we agree with him. The only animal we wouldn't not welcome onto our land would be the common rat, for obvious reasons...and soon...the fox...I'm happy for him to feed his family, but he ain't gettin' my chickens!

Over the week we've completed the chicken house and run. We chose a cute looking thing with a little ladder to an upstairs bedroom - foxproof we were hoping - but the construction isn't as good as we thought. It's a little bit flimsy and will need shoring up, probably. Anyway, there is time, we're not getting hens until the beginning of June.

On Saturday we went over to Jackie and John's in LLandybydder to help them build a stone circle. After all we're total masters of that art having one ourselves...ahem. John had found eight really good sized stones in his garden (in fact they were not the largest, just the largest he could move). We created the circle in the same style as the one at Rhos Hill - a stone in each quarter and a stone between - 8 stones in all - one for each point of the ritual year. Jackie also wanted an alter and had found a flat stone for that purpose, which we balanced on 3 white quartz stones. This process took us through lunch and afternoon tea, at which point the men lit a fire and Jackie began her ritual to bless her circle, her land and to welcome in the time of May. J&J's land is quite high and the view is incredible from every aspect; a 360degree panorama of hill, forest and field. It is a stunning location for a personal ritual circle, something I feel is important in my own life. I prefer to go out to my little circle and find more solace and power in it than even I do at stonehenge or Avebury. The ancient sacred sites are wonderful, full of mystery and awe inspiring, but I don't feel as if they belong to me, which indeed they don't. We will continue to discover ancient sites in our neck of Wales, just as we did moving round Britain, making pilgramages to all the famous ones, from Skara Brae to  the Merry Maidens, but guess it must feel a little like visiting great cathedrals do to Christian pilgrims; a transformational experience, but not quite as comfortable as the little church in one's home town.

After the ritual at J&J's, we where physically and metally and spritually whacked, but John, bless him, still rustled up a chilli with jacket spuds, which was wonderful fodder for tired ritualist builders. We watched a film and sank into bliss until we finally dragged ourselves home. Thank you Jackie, John and Rowan of course, for an amazing day.

April 1st

Not an April fool...I won first prize for my daffodils in the Rhydlewis Gardening Club Spring Show!

Sort of.

Okay, I’ll ’fess up. I won first prize in the category photograph of daffodils.

But, honestly, I could not have been more proud. 

The real winners were Janette, who lives ‘at the top’ of Rhylewis and Barbara, who lives in Brynhoffnant, which is on the way to the pretty fishing village of Llangrannog. Dilys, who teaches at the local school, won ‘best exhibit’ for her gorgeous daffs. 

The table in the village hall looked a picture of spring with its exhibits, and everyone - Jim and I including - put a lot of effort into choosing and arranging their entries. I was most struck by the camellias, these seem to do really well around here, both in pots and in gardens. So now I’m on the look-out for a cheapie cutting, as well-established camellias are almost £15 at the market.

For a while, in the garden, it has seemed like we were hard landscapers, rather than gardeners, and at least the Spring Show pulled our focus away from finishing the garage driveway, cementing the new greenhouse base into position and removing and moving turves from new veg beds to areas that needed a bit of grassy help. We wanted the garden to look at least a bit ‘up to it’ when Norma came, but it was the colour that caught her eye; the polys outside the front door, the anemones on the little bank beside the path and the daff that form a half-moon shape around the new lawn and the tulips on the front wall. 

We’ve been hoping Norma would pay us a visit; she was our next-door-neighbour for almost 30 years. She chose a wonderful week; the weather has been hot - record breaking  - and even West Wales. We were able to get out and about. I took Norma to the  National Woollen Mill, the museum of the history of wool in Wales. I hadn’t been myself, despite the fact that it is barely twenty minutes south of us. We had a good time, watching a traditional weaver use his loom, and looking round all the machinery that must have been noisy nightmare for the Victorian workers. We had an even better time in the woollen mill’s shop! Norma kindly bought me a Welsh wool rug which we use every evening on our knees when the temperature drops, and she bought Jim a pair of real Welsh Wool socks. 

The following day we took Norma to Brynhoffnant. The tide was in a perfect place to walk on both beaches and then have a G&T outside The Ship. We also dragged her off to see dishy Daniel Radcliffe in The Woman in Black; which the local book club is reading at the moment. I haven’t yet made a meeting of this book club, but I’ve got to know Vicky, who runs it, very well in the process of not going to meetings! Having read Woman in Black on my Kindle (cheap and quick to obtain) I have to say that the scriptwriters for the film did a very good job off strengthening the rather weak plot, adding interest to the rather weak characters, finding a much more satisfying ending and adding far more moments of real terror. When these shocks came at you in the cinema, the entire row of seats bounced as everyone gasped.

Mwldan, the arts centre in Cardigan, shows all the blockbuster movies; it also has live events, everything from travelling ballet to folk groups. We went to see Lennie Henry ‘live from the National Theatre’ in Comedy of Errors, recently. This does feel a little odd; watching live actors on a screen, but it did work of me, I soon forgot I wasn’t actually sitting in the auditorium. Our next plan is to try to do some of the opera they screen ‘live from the Met’ in New York. 

Meanwhile, back on the ground, its time to get the spuds in!

march

 Ah...it's lovely to sit in the front garden, drinking chilled wine as if it was the summer. Across the road on the bank  snowdrops are just going over; they were a clouds of white last week.  Tiny tete-a-tetes began to bob in their pots on the front wall, kept company by irises and crocuses. The daffs and primroses and anemones weren’t far behind. On the porch step, we’ve got bowls of jewel-coloured polyanthus, which we bought at the Llandysul Garden Festival. 

We went to several of the talks at this festival including a great one on how to propagate veg seeds. And finally, the sun is out and the temperature in the polytunnel creeps towards 30 in the day. We’re harvesting broccoli, kale and cabbage from it, as well as salad leaves. Then,  I scattered grass seed over the half moon lawn. A sort of vague greeness is appearing over it. At its edge, the daffs are blooming. Gardening has been generally full-on at Rhos Hill, both in the garden and in the office. Being joint secretaries of the the Gardening Club is a bit of an eye-opener as the printer churned out programmes, minutes and agendas. Maybe I might learn something about plants, too, you never know! (Just their names would be a start...)

We finally tackled the problem of having a garage with no drive - that is - no way of getting the cars into the garage! We ordered a lorry load of gravel...and a strong son! Put the two together and presto! more ‘Joe steps’ miraculously appeared. In three days, he transformed the massive pile of gravel into tidy steps going  from the driveway (from gate to garage) down the little hill to the shed and from there formed a pathway along the side of the garage, now running alongside the ‘half moon lawn’.  

While we were finishing the driveway, we also lining the lay-by with gravel, so that people don’t get their shoes muddy when they park up. As we were working away, a lady from Troedyraur (2 miles up the road) pulled up, introducing herself as Gwen and saying hi to new neighbours. She remarked that we’d made stirling progress at Rhos HIll since arriving. Nice of her.

February

We’ve been going to Storytelling classes since last September, and really do enjoy the experience – and the challenge. Esyllt Harker runs the class. She’s a professional storyteller and she tells stories to children and adults all around Wales.  

Each Monday, she has us looking at storytelling in all sorts of ways. Most classes, she has us up on our feet quickly, to work on our breathing and posture, as well as moving to sound. She gets us singing and chanting to work our voices. When we eventually sit down, she makes us close our eyes and use visualization to increase what we can see clearly in our mind’s eye. 

In the picture on the right, Esyllt is on the far left in the photo, followed by Daisy, Jill, Jim, Liz and Gareth.

Esyllt is tougher than her photo suggests; although slight of figure and fairly quiet of voice, she packs a storytelling punch.

Last term, we worked on landscape, using all sorts of settings in story to either create new stories or emphasize parts of familiar tales. She got us working together, which was great as we didn’t know each other. In one class, we each brought a small item that meant a lot to us, and then paired us off to tell a classmate what this was about...but it was our partner’s story that we had to work on, to create into a story we could tell. We use this sort of ‘exchange’ a lot, in an effort to ‘release’ stories and allow us to feel we have carte blanche over them.

We worked on aspects of storytelling such as how to face an audience and how to pace our stories, both timing it and breaking it into sections, and working on telling parts faster and slower than others. We also worked on detail. My writing friends will know that I think detail is very important in written stories; Esyllt believes that in storytelling it is the five senses that count for the most; listeners can feel the emotions of the story via experiencing tastes and smells textures, pain and pleasure, the tapestry of sounds as well as describing colours and other visual descriptions.

One thing I really enjoyed as a writer, was Esyllt’s ‘storytelling packs’, which  contained random aspects of building a story. We’ve used these twice so far, once with a partner and once alone. I found it amazing, as someone who spends a fair time trying to create stories, just how simple this exercise was, and how a story fell into place each time.

This term we’re looking at the different sorts of storytelling; we’ve looked at myth, fable and fairy tales so far. Last week we went on a physical journey around the village hall we met in, and on the journey, met a ‘stranger’ who gave us a gift, which altered the story considerably. 

After the class was over, we went back to Jill’s where Jim had his Tarot told; Jill is an authority on Therapeutic Tarot. Then we took her down her local for a meal.  

S'now problem here

The snow arrived, falling as flurries and swirls from a rich blue sky, and in the morning the fields around us were defined as starched and ironed handkerchiefs of purest white linen. The massive red kite that likes to hover over the field opposite was black against the white clouds  and about fifty rooks had settled to have a chat on the overhead cables.

But, someone had come and salted the roads. When our cars are in the layby, that does mean the bodywork gets salted too, but hey. At least we were able to get to our storytelling workshop.
Jim went out and started digging an area for his greenhouse. Was he mad? Wasn't the ground rock hard and freezing cold? Well, once the sun was out, apparently it wasn't bad going. Certainly, one little creature was grateful, the resident robin came and perched close by, waiting for anything that was turned up by his spade, including worms that were clearly above his punching weight!

Luckily, the snow melted quickly enough for our latest visitor (other than the robin, I mean) to arrive safely. Trudy had come to talk about some work she's doing on the landscape of Wales. She showed us the work she'd achieved so far, wowing us with its complexity.

As dusk fell the night she arrived, she asked if we could have a little drive about. We set off, not really knowing where we were headed, and suddenly the full moon came up over the horizon, a massive ball the colour of a rose quartz. We pulled in and got out of the car. The evening was almost entirely dark by that point, and the cold came down and made us shiver, but the moon seemed to warm us from above. We    just gazed up at it from the edge of the road.

At this point we were only a mile or so from Llangrannog, so we took Trudy down the steep winding lane that leads to the village and the beach. The tide was full in, massive breakers were roaring onto the pebbles. The cliff loomed dark, and the moon hung overhead above all this. We took some water from the deep gushing freshwater stream that pours out of the earth to pour down into the sea. We used this two days later, when we held a little ritual in our garden. (See Pages - THE WHEEL OF THE YEAR AT RHOS HILL)

January is nearly over!

We’ve suddenly got all crafty at Rhos Hill. Jim decided to make a traditional cottage door. We need a lot of doors; there’s none downstairs and we’ll also need doors in the extension, once it’s finished. He made the door out of fairly narrow, well-planed spruce planks and used black ironmongery to add even more charm. We waxed the door, rather than stain or varnish it, and I’m so delighted with it I go in and out of the lounge just so I can use the quaint little latch. 

Meanwhile, I’ve taken up knitting again. I haven’t knitted since the kids were young. Viv and I used to knit together, side by side, when I lived in Fanshawe Road while Viv’s Adam and my Joe were getting up to  mischief in one of our bedrooms. But I was a terrible knitter; I dropped stitches and got the shape all wrong. I gave away all my patterns and equipment. So I had to go out and buy 2 pairs of needles to get going again. I’d been looking to purchase a pair of wrist warmers – all the rage round here, darling – and realized I could knit them at half the shop price. Since then, I’ve done myself a woolly hat and made Jim a pair of  leg warmers for when he sits down in the evenings. I’m on a scarf now...watch this space.

I went over to Vicky’s house in Brongest (about 2 miles up the road). She runs a book club, which I’m planning to join. But she also runs a knitting club, and was trying to recruit me for that, as well. I did try to explain that my knitting skills were patchy, at best. My enthusiasm might turn out to be patchy, too. But I will report back on both clubs at a later date. Vicky lives on her own in a massive old red house. I loved her home and garden; full of flavours of the East, with a massive Buddha in the front garden. She’s raised four children, all of whom have flown the nest and are doing well. The area is chocked with lovely people - slowly we’re meeting so many of them.

The roof is finally going up on the extension; luckily we’ve had exemplary weather while we wait for this development. The oak windows are being made; we’ve got to leave later to chose the shade of oil coating. We had some hiccoughs with the roofing; our project manager wanted a massive slope that blocked out our landing window. The builder (whom I looooove) told us we could have a much small slope; good for heating and light and the look of the thing, and cost! I thought it was supposed to be the Project Manager who kept an eye on the builder, but in our case its the opposite way round. Can totally recommend Huw Parsons, who’s a great builder.

Can’t wait to sit in our new lounge....hopefully all the readers of this blog will join us at some point to sit there too.