Oh dear - far too busy with work right now to post anything relevant, but hope to pop something up this evening on the Better Late Than Never principle.
Monday, 15 October 2007
Blog Action Day for the Environment
Oh dear - far too busy with work right now to post anything relevant, but hope to pop something up this evening on the Better Late Than Never principle.
Saturday, 13 October 2007
Eating for England . . . Shopping for Scotland
Least favourite way to spend a Saturday afternoon: shopping. Ugh! Shopping is always considerably more pleasurable when it is a speculative exercise. When there's something specific one actually wants - or even more importantly, NEEDS - then there is absolutely nothing more soul-destroying than trailing round for five hours and coming home with precisely nothing on the list.
Colchester is not the best shopping venue in the universe, but even so, I did rather hope that I would be able to find at least one of my three relatively modest requirements before the end of the day.
It was not to be.
I wanted a small, vertically orientated, plain black leather bag on a long shoulder strap, suitable for wearing cross-wise under a jacket while travelling by train and sightseeing. Nowhere to be found.
Secondly, a largish totebag type of thing with two handles long enough to wear over the shoulder, for carrying books, newspaper, camera, water etc. Saw nearly the right thing in Monsoon, but not quite. Half an hour's search in TKMaxx was fruitless, also.
Finally, a new pair of Timberland boots.
I quite fancied some pink ones to replace my erstwhile lilac pair, now an unattractive shade of grey (having first consulted resident style gurus of various ages re whether it would be pushing my luck to step out in such footwear at the age of 47 and they all thought either 'probably' or even 'definitely' not). Pink ones are available in 'children's sizes', and hence do not attract VAT, and are thus comparatively cheap. Having size 4 feet, I've previously considered that buying myself children's boots was rather good wheeze - but Timberland are onto the likes of me. According to staff in two of the shops I visited, Timberland sales reps won't allow children's shoe departments to sell girls' boots (£55) above a size 2 or 3. Clever, huh? Not only does this stop 'boot-cheats' like me from buying zero-rated footwear, it also means that parents of girls who grow out of their size 3s and want some more pink or lilac or red boots have to go to a women's shoe department and pay a whopping £80+ for the privilege. Always assuming there were any decent stockists of women's Timberlands in Colchester, which, needless to say, there are not. Who would pay this for a pair of boots which will be outgrown in under six months? Not moi. Call me an old meanie if you will.
At 5.05 pm, with ten minutes to spare before quick sprint through Castle Park to collect My Boy from swimming pool, I decided to go for full-priced black boots (sorry not in stock in that size). OK, then, dark brown please (ditto). Came away empty-footed.
Looking on the bright side, My Boy and I did have tea and a shared cake in The Minories Garden Cafe - something we are trying to do as much as possible before The Minories closes to make way for the more sensational, multi-million £££ Visual Arts Facility, currently under construction.
Which will be perfectly fabulous, I'm certain, but the coffee shop will be run by some bland franchise or other; all the chairs and tables will match; there won't be delicious home-made, seasonal food or newspapers or interesting music or second-hand books to buy; and it won't have a delightfully secluded, walled garden in which to recover from the stresses of relentless consumerism.
As well as tea and cake, I awarded myself a small additional consolation prize - Nigel Slater's Eating for England.
Colchester is not the best shopping venue in the universe, but even so, I did rather hope that I would be able to find at least one of my three relatively modest requirements before the end of the day.
It was not to be.
I wanted a small, vertically orientated, plain black leather bag on a long shoulder strap, suitable for wearing cross-wise under a jacket while travelling by train and sightseeing. Nowhere to be found.
Secondly, a largish totebag type of thing with two handles long enough to wear over the shoulder, for carrying books, newspaper, camera, water etc. Saw nearly the right thing in Monsoon, but not quite. Half an hour's search in TKMaxx was fruitless, also.
Finally, a new pair of Timberland boots.
I quite fancied some pink ones to replace my erstwhile lilac pair, now an unattractive shade of grey (having first consulted resident style gurus of various ages re whether it would be pushing my luck to step out in such footwear at the age of 47 and they all thought either 'probably' or even 'definitely' not). Pink ones are available in 'children's sizes', and hence do not attract VAT, and are thus comparatively cheap. Having size 4 feet, I've previously considered that buying myself children's boots was rather good wheeze - but Timberland are onto the likes of me. According to staff in two of the shops I visited, Timberland sales reps won't allow children's shoe departments to sell girls' boots (£55) above a size 2 or 3. Clever, huh? Not only does this stop 'boot-cheats' like me from buying zero-rated footwear, it also means that parents of girls who grow out of their size 3s and want some more pink or lilac or red boots have to go to a women's shoe department and pay a whopping £80+ for the privilege. Always assuming there were any decent stockists of women's Timberlands in Colchester, which, needless to say, there are not. Who would pay this for a pair of boots which will be outgrown in under six months? Not moi. Call me an old meanie if you will.
At 5.05 pm, with ten minutes to spare before quick sprint through Castle Park to collect My Boy from swimming pool, I decided to go for full-priced black boots (sorry not in stock in that size). OK, then, dark brown please (ditto). Came away empty-footed.
Looking on the bright side, My Boy and I did have tea and a shared cake in The Minories Garden Cafe - something we are trying to do as much as possible before The Minories closes to make way for the more sensational, multi-million £££ Visual Arts Facility, currently under construction.
Which will be perfectly fabulous, I'm certain, but the coffee shop will be run by some bland franchise or other; all the chairs and tables will match; there won't be delicious home-made, seasonal food or newspapers or interesting music or second-hand books to buy; and it won't have a delightfully secluded, walled garden in which to recover from the stresses of relentless consumerism.
As well as tea and cake, I awarded myself a small additional consolation prize - Nigel Slater's Eating for England.
I read his Toast at one sitting a couple of Christmases ago and found it quite the most deliciously nostalgic, hilarious, bittersweet, wonderfully written book I'd read for ages. Perfect holiday fodder. I've been reading extracts from this new one in the Sunday papers and just can't wait to get stuck in, but am going to try to keep it for Tuesday's train journey. Pass the custard tarts.
While in bookshop also popped a copy of Essential Edinburgh on the counter at the last minute. Feel a bit silly about this, but it's sooooo long since I was last there, I thought a map or two might come in handy. 
I see that it also has useful information at the back on how to recognise, inter alia, a telephone box, a post box and a policeman. This will be invaluable, I'm sure. A short list of peculiarly Scottish words includes 'sarnie', meaning . . . 'sandwich'. Gosh! Surely not? And show me, pray, the small outpost of the British Isles where sarnie does not mean sandwich. Bizarre.
I see that it also has useful information at the back on how to recognise, inter alia, a telephone box, a post box and a policeman. This will be invaluable, I'm sure. A short list of peculiarly Scottish words includes 'sarnie', meaning . . . 'sandwich'. Gosh! Surely not? And show me, pray, the small outpost of the British Isles where sarnie does not mean sandwich. Bizarre. Vive les Rosbifs!
England: Robinson; Sackey, Tait, Catt, Lewsey; Wilkinson, Gomarsall; Sheridan, Regan, Vickery (capt), Shaw, Kay, Corry, Moody, Easter.
Replacements: Chuter, Stevens, Dallaglio, Worsley, Richards, Flood, Hipkiss.
Replacements: Chuter, Stevens, Dallaglio, Worsley, Richards, Flood, Hipkiss.
Friday, 12 October 2007
TBTE
Quiet, reflective, a little misty. Had been mystified about something for much of the day, and brooding. Watched geese taking off, noisily, from the mud and suddenly something dawned on me and all was clear.
Have been too busy clearing my desk before next week's trip to have any time to ponder further upon my unfinished musings, so they will have to wait. Also have 40 fluorescent orange and yellow bibs to mend for Colchester RFC Under-6s before Sunday morning. They are surprisingly stinky (bibs, not U-6s) and I wish I'd washed them before starting work, and I have run out of velcro, and there are holes in my finger (a thimble would be handy but mine has disappeared), and I quite urgently need a large glass of wine, and I need it now.
So, switching to Blog-lite mode for a while. Back next weekend with reports and pics from Scottish trip.
Wednesday, 10 October 2007
Hooray!
Following my complaint to WeShow, I'm pleased to report that all is well again. No explanation for the bizarre blip, but at least things are back to normal.
I have dozens of half-baked Musings slowly taking shape in my head. Just had a quick look, but none is quite ready to dish up yet. Still a bit squishy in the middle. I'll leave them a little longer. As soon as they're out, it'll be time to run up a little something on an environmental theme for next week's Blog Action Day.
Early Night with a Good Book now.
Postscript: Have now received very nice email about the problem from Joana Ericson of WeShow. Excellent service - thanks Joana.
I have dozens of half-baked Musings slowly taking shape in my head. Just had a quick look, but none is quite ready to dish up yet. Still a bit squishy in the middle. I'll leave them a little longer. As soon as they're out, it'll be time to run up a little something on an environmental theme for next week's Blog Action Day.
Early Night with a Good Book now.
Postscript: Have now received very nice email about the problem from Joana Ericson of WeShow. Excellent service - thanks Joana.
TBTE
Dark and wet all day. The sky was a uniform charcoal grey. Then, magically, round about 6 pm a band of bright light appeared on the horizon, and some fluffy white clouds, and the scene was set for a spectacular sunset after all. Setting of the sun that we hadn't seen all day. I was too embroiled in the domestic chaos attendant upon the getting of supper, so I didn't get down there go go 'point, click'. But Elizaphanian did, and this is one of his. I freely confess, without the slightest contrition, to having stolen it without asking because (a) he did the same with one of mine the other day (!), and (b) it gives me an opportunity to reiterate my assertion that Sam's TBTM/A/E pics are wildly superior to my own (and more frequent, too), so if you want to know what it's like down on the beach on the Muddy Island, and I'm not in one of my obliging moods, that's the blog to visit (and there's lots more there than pretty beach pics, too).Tuesday, 9 October 2007
Blog Action Day for the Environment - 15 October 2007
Life forms patterns . . .
Hooray! Susan Angebranndt's 2008 letterpress-printed calendar is now available over at the Green Chair Press blog.
A year of patterns and poetry, designed by Susan and printed on a hand-fed (and foot treadled) vintage 1890s platen press. You can buy it here.
Each month features a haiku poem written for the season:life forms patterns
haphazard and beautiful—
catch them as they fly by
Wot is goin' on?
. . . with my WeShow video clips widget down there on the right? It's showing all the wrong clips. If you click on them, they play the right films, but the 'stills' shown on the widgets are from other clips (and not ones I've ever selected or even watched). Most peculiar. I have filed a complaint and await an explanation with interest.
Monday, 8 October 2007
Les esperluettes
Well, it’s amazing how quickly one can develop a reputation these days. (Although I seem to remember my mother warning me about that when I was about 14 and was trying to sneak out to a disco in clothes she deemed ‘unsuitable’ – so perhaps it isn’t that new a phenomenon!)
Happily, my new-found reputation is a fairly harmless one (so far), and it stems from the tenor of my blog postings. Walking back from the marshes on Saturday evening, I met a fellow dog-walker, with whom (as one does) I exchanged a smile and a nod and then, just as he’d passed, he suddenly said, ‘oh, I know you! You’re . . . that woman off the internet who’s obsessed with typefaces!’. Er, yes, I suppose I am . . .
On a sadder note, the illuminated rotating ampersand in this outdoor sculpture in Seattle is part of the phrase 'Love & Loss'. You can see a schematic version of it, which shows the elements - tables, pathways and a painted tree - more clearly, here.
Here’s an amusing exercise on an ampersandish theme - part of the typophile.com forum, which is well worth delving into and also brings this page of discussion and links on the subject. From which you will see that my own ‘obsession’ with typography in general and ampersands in particular is a very mild case indeed. In fact I’m beginning to feel almost normal.
And so to an ampersand poem. It's just a little thing, but it's undeniably true. I emailed the poet, Patrick Winstanley, to ask whether I could reproduce it in full here, but I haven’t heard back from him, so you’ll have to click here instead.
I wonder what filling an ampersand chocolate would have inside. Something really delicious and bittersweet, I suspect. Hmmm. Food for thought . . .
And finally, I just discovered the absolutely gorgeous word L'esperluette (O-level French vocab didn’t extend to such things – or, if it did, I’d forgotten). So much more mellifluous than ‘ampersand’, isn’t it?
I'm going to go away and practise saying it now. Which will enhance my reputation no end ('that woman off the internet who mumbles to herself in French').
Happily, my new-found reputation is a fairly harmless one (so far), and it stems from the tenor of my blog postings. Walking back from the marshes on Saturday evening, I met a fellow dog-walker, with whom (as one does) I exchanged a smile and a nod and then, just as he’d passed, he suddenly said, ‘oh, I know you! You’re . . . that woman off the internet who’s obsessed with typefaces!’. Er, yes, I suppose I am . . .
And then there are the kind people who send me links to sites of interest. Last week I received an especially welcome one from one of my Northern Correspondents, alerting me to the unlikely feast of ampersands (a subject dear to my heart) on this shopping centre’s website, from which I have nicked some of the illustrations for this posting (but all in the interests of advertising, so I’m sure that’s OK, isn’t it? – please visit Gyle Shopping Centre straight away and tell them I sent you, and then I shan’t feel so bad!).
Another link that’s come my way is the one below, which takes you to a video of the making of this amazing balloon installation by Conor Nolan and David Wall – a couple of designers working and living in Dublin.
Watch the video (takes a little while to load, so be patient – it’s worth it).
I have some old wooden letterpress ampersands standing around the place – I love the feel of them as well as their appearance, but I’m also rather taken by the decorative possibilities of these plastic ampersands.
On a sadder note, the illuminated rotating ampersand in this outdoor sculpture in Seattle is part of the phrase 'Love & Loss'. You can see a schematic version of it, which shows the elements - tables, pathways and a painted tree - more clearly, here.
Here’s an amusing exercise on an ampersandish theme - part of the typophile.com forum, which is well worth delving into and also brings this page of discussion and links on the subject. From which you will see that my own ‘obsession’ with typography in general and ampersands in particular is a very mild case indeed. In fact I’m beginning to feel almost normal.
And so to an ampersand poem. It's just a little thing, but it's undeniably true. I emailed the poet, Patrick Winstanley, to ask whether I could reproduce it in full here, but I haven’t heard back from him, so you’ll have to click here instead.
I wonder what filling an ampersand chocolate would have inside. Something really delicious and bittersweet, I suspect. Hmmm. Food for thought . . .
And finally, I just discovered the absolutely gorgeous word L'esperluette (O-level French vocab didn’t extend to such things – or, if it did, I’d forgotten). So much more mellifluous than ‘ampersand’, isn’t it?
I'm going to go away and practise saying it now. Which will enhance my reputation no end ('that woman off the internet who mumbles to herself in French'). Drop everything
It's Drop Everything Time. My copy of Alexander McCall Smith's The Careful Use of Compliments has just arrived from Amazon.
So apologies to the half-finished books on my reading pile, but it's time to shove over for a couple of days, while I indulge myself. I was intending to save this for the train journey to Scotland next week, but that simply won't be possible now. It's here, so I'm going to read it.
Sunday, 7 October 2007
Need to read
This is just a quickie to say 'Hello and Welcome to Blogging' to Suzanne and her Need to Read blog. She only started posting this weekend, so do please pop over and say 'hi!' and get Suzanne's hit-counter off to a good start!
Saturday, 6 October 2007
Scary . . .
England: Robinson; Sackey, Tait, Catt, Lewsey; Wilkinson, Gomarsall; Sheridan, Regan, Vickery (capt), Shaw, Kay, Corry, Moody, Easter.
Replacements: Chuter, Stevens, Dallaglio, Worsley, Richards, Barkley, Hipkiss.
I'm almost too scared to watch . . .
Friday, 5 October 2007
Music and the moon
In fact, that automatically playing music of mine was beginning to drive me completely mad!
I've changed it back to 'click to play', so it's your choice. This month's selection is all J S Bach (not a huge selection of Bach available on Songspot, but I hope you like this little lot).
Oh, and I have the moon on my blog! Down there at the end of the right-hand column. Good, huh?
I've changed it back to 'click to play', so it's your choice. This month's selection is all J S Bach (not a huge selection of Bach available on Songspot, but I hope you like this little lot).
Oh, and I have the moon on my blog! Down there at the end of the right-hand column. Good, huh?
What I had for breakfast
I notice that Anne Holloway picked up on Graham Norton’s scandalous and insupportable suggestion on Just a Minute that bloggers are socially deficient people who fail to observe the first principles of personal hygiene. Well, as I’ve observed before on this, erm . . . BLOG, of which I find myself merrily at the helm, I used to be similarly persuaded that people who blogged were ‘self-aggrandising, self-publicising, self-obsessed people who imagine that the world wants to know what they ate for breakfast’.
Now, thank goodness, I have seen the light. I KNOW that people want to know what I ate for breakfast. People as far away as Australia, even.
So here’s what I ate for breakfast today:
Now, thank goodness, I have seen the light. I KNOW that people want to know what I ate for breakfast. People as far away as Australia, even.
So here’s what I ate for breakfast today:
Yep, blackberry and apple crumble!
I somewhat over-catered on the B&A crumble front at the beginning of the week. There is no room in the freezer and this one needed using up, so by popular request I served it for breakfast instead of more usual fare. Though I say it myself, and at the risk of being considered self-congratulatory, I will just add that it was utterly delicious, with a spoonful of Greek yogurt blobbed on top.
Do you like the bowls? A bit fab, aren’t they. They were made 22 years ago, in Scotland, somewhere around here by a little-known potter whose output was small but perfectly formed and would - if anyone knew about it - be highly sought-after, I’m sure. You will find her website here.
Self-publicising? Moi?
Do you like the bowls? A bit fab, aren’t they. They were made 22 years ago, in Scotland, somewhere around here by a little-known potter whose output was small but perfectly formed and would - if anyone knew about it - be highly sought-after, I’m sure. You will find her website here.
Self-publicising? Moi?
Thursday, 4 October 2007
The last goose
Just because it's National Poetry Day . . . here's another Goose Poem. Promise this will be the last . . . at least for a while.
Wild geese fly overhead
In the wild Autumn weather.
Souls of the newly-dead
Crying and flying together.
Home from the last great fight,
The souls of the Irish farin'
With a wild heart in the night,
A grey eye turned to Erin.
High and high in the sky,
From the red fields of slaughter
Ever they fly and cry
For the brown bog, the grey water.
Wild geese in the wild even,
Steady and strong their flight,
Their beds are made in Heaven,
All of the down white.
They have forgone that bliss
Till they have seen once more
The little land of peace,
Green and bright as of yore.
High o'er the sheep and cattle,
The bogs and the mountains lone,
The souls new-home from the battle
Cry their love and are flown.
From The Holy War 1916
THE WILD GEESE
Katharine Tynan (1861-1931)
Katharine Tynan (1861-1931)
Wild geese fly overhead
In the wild Autumn weather.
Souls of the newly-dead
Crying and flying together.
Home from the last great fight,
The souls of the Irish farin'
With a wild heart in the night,
A grey eye turned to Erin.
High and high in the sky,
From the red fields of slaughter
Ever they fly and cry
For the brown bog, the grey water.
Wild geese in the wild even,
Steady and strong their flight,
Their beds are made in Heaven,
All of the down white.
They have forgone that bliss
Till they have seen once more
The little land of peace,
Green and bright as of yore.
High o'er the sheep and cattle,
The bogs and the mountains lone,
The souls new-home from the battle
Cry their love and are flown.
From The Holy War 1916
Music
I've changed my Songspot widget so that music starts playing automatically now.
Do you find this really irritating? Do you head straight for the 'off' button? Does it make you think 'ahhhhh, how lovely . . .' or 'arrgghh, how ghastly and annoying'? Will it make you stop visiting Musings altogether? Or will you come more often and bring a nice cup of a tea and a biscuit along with you?
Please leave a comment or email me to let me know what you think. My aim at all times is to keep everyone happy and smiling!
Do you find this really irritating? Do you head straight for the 'off' button? Does it make you think 'ahhhhh, how lovely . . .' or 'arrgghh, how ghastly and annoying'? Will it make you stop visiting Musings altogether? Or will you come more often and bring a nice cup of a tea and a biscuit along with you?
Please leave a comment or email me to let me know what you think. My aim at all times is to keep everyone happy and smiling!
Wednesday, 3 October 2007
More wild geese
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver (b. 1935)
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
by Mary Oliver (b. 1935)
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
The Wild Geese
by Violet Jacob (1863 - 1946)
'Oh, tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin' norlan
As ye cam' blawin' frae the land that's niver frae my mind?
My feet they trayvel England, but I'm deein' for the north—'
'My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o' Forth.'
'Aye, Wind, I ken them well eneuch, and fine they fa' and rise,
And fain I'd feel the creepin' mist on yonder shore that lies,
But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way ?'
'My man, I rocked the rovin' gulls that sail abune the Tay.'
'But saw ye naethin', leein' Wind, afore ye cam' to Fife?
There's muckle lyin' yont the Tay that's mair to me nor life.'
'My man, I swept the Angus braes ye haena trod for years—'
'O Wind, forgie a hameless loon that canna see for tears!—'
'And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o' beatin' wings wi' their heids towards the sea,
And aye their cryin' voices trailed ahint them on the air—'
'O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!'
Monday, 1 October 2007
Chasing wild geese
It's that time of year when geese are in the the skies, and in my thoughts. And not just mine, it seems - geese are suddenly turning up in blogs all over the place!
As I child I lived near a network of gravel quarries which were turned over the years into lakes and are now terrifically popular with anglers and windsurfers. Back then, before they were 'developed', the pits simply filled up with water and attracted all kinds of wildlife, notably large flocks of Canada geese , which used to make the most tremendous noise at dawn and dusk and keep small children (like me) rather miserably awake when we were trying to get to sleep and dream about The Woodentops or Tales of the Riverbank .
However, today's story of coincidental geese-related matters properly begins with My Boy (10), who, having been encouraged by his English teacher (and his mother, it goes without saying) to explore the world of books beyond Biggles and Commando Magazines, cleverly contrived to broaden his literary horizons whilst remaining firmly within the general theme of War. So we had Ian Serraillier's The Silver Sword and Martin Booth's War Dog and then I suggested Paul Gallicoe's The Snow Goose - on the grounds that not only is it set in the Essex marshes [tick] and is full of seabirds [tick] but it involves the British evacuation from Dunkirk [A** tick, tick, tick].
So off he went, enthusiastically, with one of the several editions still lurking in the family bookshelves (my first-ever copy I gave to someone whom I loved and lost) and yesterday he finished it, and was sad that it had come to an end, and wants to read it all over again (except that it's Readathon or Bookathon or somesuch at school, in which the emphasis is on quantity, not quality (or repetition) but since it is generally considered to be A Good Thing, we'll let it off).
I've loved The Snow Goose for many years – since I was not much older than My Boy, and long, long before I migrated to Essex (from London) and made these bleak eastern marshlands my home. I still read it regularly – it perfectly captures the ancient wintry loneliness of this curlew-haunted coastline and it tells of an unlikely and hopeless love and is very, well . . . ‘haunting’ is the only word, really. Especially so if you have ever trudged for many miles along the sea walls hereabouts, with their endless mud and wind-bleached sedges and rushes and sea-lavender and have watched the Brent geese flying in formation against the vast grey skies. I've never seen a snow goose, though.
And so to the blogs and the sudden flurry of goosey activity remarked upon above: On Dougal's Mersea Wildlife blog there's a note that the first of the Brent geese have arrived here on the Muddy Island - all eight of them. Dovegreyreader has recently considered The Snow Goose , and in particular the new edition with lovely illustrations by Angela Barrett.
Over on RandomDistractions, meanwhile, we have a post about geese arriving back in Devon and some interesting thoughts about the lessons that we can learn from the behaviour of these birds: geese as a model for corporate team building (not as bizarre as it might sound). This piece by Maureen inspired me to muse upon the fact that the early Celtic church in Western Scotland chose the goose as a symbol of the holy spirit - wild, free and very noisy - rather than the quiet and gentle dove adopted elsewhere.
On the Isle of Iona, the Iona Community, founded in 1938, explores Celtic spirituality alongside contemporary approaches to social justice, peace, and spirituality and has adopted the Celtic goose as its logo. The history of the Community, Chasing the Wild Goose, is published by its Wild Goose publications. Iona is one of the most special places on earth - certainly in the British Isles. St Columba called the island, ‘Iona of my heart’. George MacLeod, founder of the Community, described it as ‘a thin place’, where earth and heaven are not far apart'.
While searching for an image of the stylised 'Iona Goose' design, I happened upon another blog, Eternal Echoes, and a recent post which delves much more deeply into the fascinating Goose-as-Holy-Spirit connection.
Which brings me not very neatly to my next goosey musing. As a teenager in the 1970s (yep, 'fraid so), I saved up and bought the LP of Camel's 'concept' album The Snow Goose and thought myself no end of a hip, cool chick as I carried it proudly home. While my female classmates were bopping to the glam rock bands of the day, I was lost in a sound-world which didn't really capture what the novel meant to me, but it was nevertheless very interesting and gave me a useful entree into the conversation of the serious, grown-up boys with electric guitars in the sixth form, after whom I lusted (in a purely intellectual way, of course) at the time.
I downloaded a few tracks from iTunes earlier this year, to see how it sounded to my middle-aged ears (my vinyl version has long-since disappeared into a boot-sale somewhere or possibly still lives in the depths of my parents' garage). The answer was . . . 'very dated, but not without its charms'. You can listen to brief clips of all the tracks on Amazon, where you will also see that the digitally re-mastered CD version has amassed quite a healthy collection of five-star reviews from Listeners of a Certain Age.
And finally . . . . A book that has been on my 'to read' pile for literally years - which is disgraceful and I now feel inspired to rectify this as soon as possible - The Snow Geese by William Fiennes.
As I child I lived near a network of gravel quarries which were turned over the years into lakes and are now terrifically popular with anglers and windsurfers. Back then, before they were 'developed', the pits simply filled up with water and attracted all kinds of wildlife, notably large flocks of Canada geese , which used to make the most tremendous noise at dawn and dusk and keep small children (like me) rather miserably awake when we were trying to get to sleep and dream about The Woodentops or Tales of the Riverbank .
However, today's story of coincidental geese-related matters properly begins with My Boy (10), who, having been encouraged by his English teacher (and his mother, it goes without saying) to explore the world of books beyond Biggles and Commando Magazines, cleverly contrived to broaden his literary horizons whilst remaining firmly within the general theme of War. So we had Ian Serraillier's The Silver Sword and Martin Booth's War Dog and then I suggested Paul Gallicoe's The Snow Goose - on the grounds that not only is it set in the Essex marshes [tick] and is full of seabirds [tick] but it involves the British evacuation from Dunkirk [A** tick, tick, tick].
So off he went, enthusiastically, with one of the several editions still lurking in the family bookshelves (my first-ever copy I gave to someone whom I loved and lost) and yesterday he finished it, and was sad that it had come to an end, and wants to read it all over again (except that it's Readathon or Bookathon or somesuch at school, in which the emphasis is on quantity, not quality (or repetition) but since it is generally considered to be A Good Thing, we'll let it off).I've loved The Snow Goose for many years – since I was not much older than My Boy, and long, long before I migrated to Essex (from London) and made these bleak eastern marshlands my home. I still read it regularly – it perfectly captures the ancient wintry loneliness of this curlew-haunted coastline and it tells of an unlikely and hopeless love and is very, well . . . ‘haunting’ is the only word, really. Especially so if you have ever trudged for many miles along the sea walls hereabouts, with their endless mud and wind-bleached sedges and rushes and sea-lavender and have watched the Brent geese flying in formation against the vast grey skies. I've never seen a snow goose, though.
And so to the blogs and the sudden flurry of goosey activity remarked upon above: On Dougal's Mersea Wildlife blog there's a note that the first of the Brent geese have arrived here on the Muddy Island - all eight of them. Dovegreyreader has recently considered The Snow Goose , and in particular the new edition with lovely illustrations by Angela Barrett.
Over on RandomDistractions, meanwhile, we have a post about geese arriving back in Devon and some interesting thoughts about the lessons that we can learn from the behaviour of these birds: geese as a model for corporate team building (not as bizarre as it might sound). This piece by Maureen inspired me to muse upon the fact that the early Celtic church in Western Scotland chose the goose as a symbol of the holy spirit - wild, free and very noisy - rather than the quiet and gentle dove adopted elsewhere. On the Isle of Iona, the Iona Community, founded in 1938, explores Celtic spirituality alongside contemporary approaches to social justice, peace, and spirituality and has adopted the Celtic goose as its logo. The history of the Community, Chasing the Wild Goose, is published by its Wild Goose publications. Iona is one of the most special places on earth - certainly in the British Isles. St Columba called the island, ‘Iona of my heart’. George MacLeod, founder of the Community, described it as ‘a thin place’, where earth and heaven are not far apart'.
While searching for an image of the stylised 'Iona Goose' design, I happened upon another blog, Eternal Echoes, and a recent post which delves much more deeply into the fascinating Goose-as-Holy-Spirit connection.
Which brings me not very neatly to my next goosey musing. As a teenager in the 1970s (yep, 'fraid so), I saved up and bought the LP of Camel's 'concept' album The Snow Goose and thought myself no end of a hip, cool chick as I carried it proudly home. While my female classmates were bopping to the glam rock bands of the day, I was lost in a sound-world which didn't really capture what the novel meant to me, but it was nevertheless very interesting and gave me a useful entree into the conversation of the serious, grown-up boys with electric guitars in the sixth form, after whom I lusted (in a purely intellectual way, of course) at the time.
I downloaded a few tracks from iTunes earlier this year, to see how it sounded to my middle-aged ears (my vinyl version has long-since disappeared into a boot-sale somewhere or possibly still lives in the depths of my parents' garage). The answer was . . . 'very dated, but not without its charms'. You can listen to brief clips of all the tracks on Amazon, where you will also see that the digitally re-mastered CD version has amassed quite a healthy collection of five-star reviews from Listeners of a Certain Age. And finally . . . . A book that has been on my 'to read' pile for literally years - which is disgraceful and I now feel inspired to rectify this as soon as possible - The Snow Geese by William Fiennes.
'With this beautiful, haunting debut Fiennes joins that small, very special band of writer-explorers - Emerson and Thoreau, Annie Dilard and Bruce Chatwin - who give us another pair of eyes: he has renewed the variety and wonder of the world' - Marina Warner. 'Fiennes is a very fine writer and this book is pure delight' - Peter Carey.
I knew it was essential reading when I bought it. I'm resolved to discover that I was right.
I knew it was essential reading when I bought it. I'm resolved to discover that I was right.
Autumnal melancholia and Deadly Waters
That Elizaphanian has been at it again (ie taking far, far better Mersea photos than I do) - for example, this one and this one.
Just been listening to Fernando Sor's lovely Estudio 5 in B Minor, quite beautifully played, and am feeling melancholic and autumnal. I love this time of year but it reminds me of things that are gone. Doesn't help at all that October has begun in such a dreary, dismal fashion.
It's also very dull and damp on Hayling Island today, from whence arrived an email from Pauline Rowson this afternoon, letting me know that she and her just-published Marine Mystery novel, Deadly Waters, are featured here. What Pauline didn't mention was that, as an essential component of her publicity campaign she'd been absolutely forced to pose on the beach with a entire Watch of Hunky Firefighters! (Bad luck, Pauline, some people get all the worst jobs and I can't imagine anyone will envy you, least of all me!) You can read extracts from her novels and see Pauline talking about Deadly Waters here.
Just been listening to Fernando Sor's lovely Estudio 5 in B Minor, quite beautifully played, and am feeling melancholic and autumnal. I love this time of year but it reminds me of things that are gone. Doesn't help at all that October has begun in such a dreary, dismal fashion.
It's also very dull and damp on Hayling Island today, from whence arrived an email from Pauline Rowson this afternoon, letting me know that she and her just-published Marine Mystery novel, Deadly Waters, are featured here. What Pauline didn't mention was that, as an essential component of her publicity campaign she'd been absolutely forced to pose on the beach with a entire Watch of Hunky Firefighters! (Bad luck, Pauline, some people get all the worst jobs and I can't imagine anyone will envy you, least of all me!) You can read extracts from her novels and see Pauline talking about Deadly Waters here.
Pinch, punch, first of the month (and no returns)
To mark the passing of another 30 days, I have changed my 'Video Clips of the Month' (down there at the bottom of the right-hand column). Hope that some of them strike a chord with someone, somewhere, &c, as all of them did with me.
I should have been picking over today's haul of blackberries but I completely forgot. I think I am suffering from shock.
Earlier this evening, a dead squirrel fell out of a tree and landed with a splat on the pavement twelve inches in front of me. Had I been a single pace further on, it would have landed on my head.
It all happened so quickly, but I am sure it was dead before it fell. I'd have thought squirrels would sort of, well, 'squirrel' themselves away somewhere quietly when they felt a spot of death coming on. But this one must simply have keeled over on its branch and down it plopped.
It's not the fact that it was so sadly deceased (ahhh, the poor wee thing), nor the fact that it made rather a nasty mess on the conker-strewn tarmac which makes me shudder still - it's the fact that it nearly landed on my head!
Ugh!
Luckily, that was way back then in September and now it's October. Phew!
I should have been picking over today's haul of blackberries but I completely forgot. I think I am suffering from shock.
Earlier this evening, a dead squirrel fell out of a tree and landed with a splat on the pavement twelve inches in front of me. Had I been a single pace further on, it would have landed on my head.
It all happened so quickly, but I am sure it was dead before it fell. I'd have thought squirrels would sort of, well, 'squirrel' themselves away somewhere quietly when they felt a spot of death coming on. But this one must simply have keeled over on its branch and down it plopped.
It's not the fact that it was so sadly deceased (ahhh, the poor wee thing), nor the fact that it made rather a nasty mess on the conker-strewn tarmac which makes me shudder still - it's the fact that it nearly landed on my head!
Ugh!
Luckily, that was way back then in September and now it's October. Phew!
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