We will remember them

 

We will remember them

The latest post box topper draws attention to Remembrance Day. It is not a celebration of war and it is pleasing to note that there are purple and white poppies, as well as the more familiar scarlet flowers. The purple poppies symbolise the many animals that have been killed in so many wars. The white poppies represent remembrance for all victims of conflict and a wish for peace. White poppies are often worn by Quakers.

‘They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old,

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn,

At the going down of the sun and in the morning,

We will remember them.’

These words, the fourth stanza of Robert Laurence Binyon’s ‘Ode of Remembrance,’ are spoken at the Cenotaph in London and at countless village memorials and military bases throughout the world on Remembrance Sunday. It is a solemn, poignant moment and is followed by the deepening quietness of the two-minute silence. Whatever the size of the gathering, it is moving to observe the reverence displayed, in particular by the very old and the extremely young. 

At 11 a.m. on November 11^th, the moment at which the Armistice came into effect in 1918, having been agreed at 05.10.am, many businesses, schools, and other organisations, observe the silence.

It was first observed on November 11^th, 1919, to mark the first anniversary of the cessation of the First World War. It was initiated by King George V, who issued a proclamation appealing for a two-minute silence ‘to remember the fallen.’ The first minute was to remember those who had died in conflict, soldiers, and civilians alike, and the second was to give thought to those left behind, the maimed and the bereaved, who must continue with their altered lives.

Laurence Binyon wrote ‘For the Fallen’ in September 1914, a few weeks after war was declared when many casualties had been suffered at the Battles of Mons and Le Cateau and the First Battle of the Marne.

In 1915, aged forty-six, he volunteered as a hospital orderly in France and later, in England, cared for the returned wounded from the ten-month long Battle of Verdun.

Decorum

 

Decorum

The following is an update of a little sketch I wrote twelve years ago.

Miss Blythe was a genteel woman who spent her spinster days preparing young ladies for their debut into society. These were not the daughters of aristocracy, but rather the children of parents newly come into money and anxious to rise in society.

She showed them how to curtsey and how to maintain perfect deportment. The young ladies pouted and complained as they crossed the room that the books on their heads were too heavy, but Miss Blythe insisted that her method was the only one by which they would achieve poise and elegance, and she was proved correct.

Miss Blythe taught her charges how to dress appropriately for different occasions, and took them through the sometimes confusing array of cutlery and flatware that would greet them at grand banquets. She explained how they should respond to young gentlemen, that is, with a pleasing combination of attentiveness and coyness. She reminded them that, although it was an age in which young women were becoming more assertive, they should pay close attention to her dictums, if they wished to make the desired impression in the right circles.

The ‘right circles’ were those in which their doting mamas hoped their dutiful daughters would attract suitable and suitably rich husbands. It was, for most of them, a vain hope, for aristocracy and ‘old money’ prefer their own kind.

Nonetheless, Miss Blythe performed her duties well. Decorum was everything to her and the ladies who trusted their daughters to her expert tuition were always delighted with her results. Many a duck was transformed, if not into a swan, at least not into a goose.

Sitting demurely was something she insisted on. ’Ankles should be crossed at the ankle, hands folded in laps - there should be no fidgeting,’ she instructed. ‘If you are overheated, employ your fan, but be aware of the language of the fan.'

The young ladies smirked at each other, thinking fans were old-fashioned. They were careful not to let Miss Blythe see, for smirking was a lower-class habit to be discouraged.

At the beginning of each social season, she was pleased to see her protégées depart for their sparkling lives of privilege and comfortable marriage. She thought of her own mother’s exhortations to her as a young woman.

Miss Blythe’s origins were humble in the extreme. Her mother, a washerwoman, had wished great things for her daughter.

‘I don’t want you falling like what I did,’ she said. ‘Just you remember, my girl, keep your ‘and on your ‘a’penny. Save yerself for someone what deserves yer.’

‘Yes, Ma,’ said Ethel and worked hard to discover the correct way of doing things the way the toffs, as her mother called them, did them.

She did well, Ethel Blythe, and though she may never have made the leap across the classes as her mother had hoped, she led a comfortable though husbandless life, nevertheless. As she exhorted her young ladies to sit decorously, her mother’s word often sprang to her lips to be bitten back before expression.

‘A girl’s legs are her best friends,’ her mother always said, ‘And best friends should never be parted.

‘Just once, ‘she sighed, ‘I wonder what it would have been like.’

World Jellyfish Day

 

World Jellyfish Day  

                                          Moon jellyfish  (Aurelia aurita) 

This jellyfish can be kept as a pet!

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Sunday was World Jellyfish Day. Jellyfish have existed for more than five hundred million years, making them more ancient than dinosaurs. There are many varieties, ranging in size from a few millimetres to more than two metres in diameter. Jellyfish are found in all the oceans of the world, and are more useful than commonly supposed.

For example, young fish can shelter under their tentacles and can feed on small organisms that can be found on the jellyfish. Jellyfish are preyed on by larger jellyfish, crabs, fish, seabirds, and turtles.

They also filter out plankton and other organisms, and carry phosphorous and nitrogen through the water.   

Japanese Sea Nettle (Chrysaora pacifica)

This animal has a strong sting, dangerous to humans

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

These marine animals have no heart, brain or skeleton but have a nervous system that enables awareness of their environment. They cannot see but sense changes in light, and some can glow in the dark. Their bodies are composed of a gelatinous bell, from which hang tentacles, which vary in length and number, according to species. Though jellyfish are usually thought of as being transparent and colourless, some display bright colours.

Some, like the little box jellyfish (Cubozoa) carry deadly venom in their tentacles, enough, it is said, to kill sixty humans. Just one sting can cause excruciating pain, and annual fatalities are estimated to be between twenty and forty in the Philippines alone. The Australian box jellyfish is judged to be the most toxic of the species.

Australian box jellyfish (Chironex fleckeri)

Nicknamed the Sea Wasp, this extremely venomous jellyfish is described as 'the most lethal jellyfish in the world', responsible for at least 64 deaths in Australia since 1884.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

 Box jellyfish are so called because of their unique cuboid shape and there are at least fifty species in this classification. They can move much faster than other jellyfish because of their structure. They are active hunters, unlike other jellyfish, which may just drift.

Climate change has led to warmer waters, causing jellyfish to form great swarms, known as blooms or smacks, which can damage fishing gear, or clog cooling systems.

Most jelly fish live for twelve to eighteen months, but the immortal jellyfish (Turritopsis dohrnii) can revert to an earlier stage of its life, so that it has a stronger chance of survival.

Jellyfish are a delicacy in some Asian countries and are perceived to be a ‘perfect food,’ as they are rich in protein.

Pigeon in the Pyracantha

 

Pigeon in the Pyracantha

We have a Reolink camera that looks out over our front drive. If we’re waiting for visitors or a delivery, we can see immediately if they’ve arrived.

Yesterday, I noticed some people outside. There were two men and women and a boy, and they were obviously looking for something, in that, ‘I’m looking for something, but I really don’t want to trespass’ way.

When Barry went to find out what was going on, they told him that their little Jack Russell rescue from Romania had run onto our drive. She must have slipped her collar. We couldn’t find her anywhere – she wasn’t hiding under the cars, and couldn’t have squeezed under our rather substantial garden gate, so must have gone through the hedge into next-door’s garden. They left their contact details in case we found her. I hope the little dog found her way home – she hadn’t been living there for very long. We would like to ring to find out, but if she hasn’t returned home, it would upset them, so we just cross our fingers and hope.

The Reolink camera is situated just above a large pyracantha bush, which flowers magnificently in spring, attracting bees and hoverflies and other pollinators.

                                Photograph taken through glass

The flowers in turn produce scarlet berries, which are much loved by birds. This morning, a large wood pigeon flew onto the bush and balanced in an ungainly fashion, tipping forwards and sideways. It remained on the shrub for about twenty minutes, and though I haven’t looked, I imagine there are very few berries left. There are two more pyracantha bushes, one with orange berries, and one with yellow, and a further two in the back garden, so there should be enough to go round.

I took some photographs, but the bird wouldn’t show its head, and one view of tail feathers is pretty much like any other, so I haven’t uploaded any of them.

Instead, here is an outcrop of a photograph taken through glass a few years ago on the pyracantha in the back garden. The bird in the foreground is a juvenile. It hasn’t yet developed its white neck patches, and the colour is generally paler than an adult’s. The bird behind is an adult, and although it’s somewhat out of focus, the white patches on either side of the neck are just discernible.

        This is a mature wood pigeon, photograph taken a few years ago.

Cat in a box

 

Cat in a box

Cats cannot resist boxes. They sit on them, in them, under them. They jump onto them, leap off them, sharpen their claws on them.

The box may look too small for them, but they will squeeze themselves in, regardless.

The other day it was Herschel’s turn to explore a fairly sizeable box.

He jumped in, peeped over the top, sniffed about, looked around and then leapt out again.

This is what he said.

                                                    Peep-bo!

I can hear something. Who’s there? I’m warning you, keep out of my box. Yes, I mean you, Jellicoe.

What’s that over there? Shall I go and have a look? Can I be bothered?

Getting bored now. There’s not much going on in here. Think I’ll find something else to do.

 

A pinch and a punch . . .

 

A pinch and a punch . . .

 . . . for the first of the month, and no returns of any kind.

A kick and a slap for answering back, and no returns of any kind.

A pinch and a kick for being so quick, and no returns of any kind.

A punch in the eye for being so sly, and no returns of any kind.

‘and no returns of any kind’ is redundant because someone will always try to outdo you, even if you add 'White rabbits.'

Do children still repeat these sayings or are they too sophisticated for such nonsense? I must enquire among the younger members of the family. If they do follow the tradition, I hope they remember that all the pinching, punching and other physical assaults must be conducted before noon, just as April Fool’s tricks must not be continued after midday.

Where did the saying originate? There are three possibilities. One is that it derives from an old fertility charm to invoke pregnancy. This theory raises a number of questions. Does the woman pinch the man, to wake him up to his duty or does the man punch the woman, claiming his conjugal rights?

No, I don’t like that scenario.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

In mediaeval times, people believed in witches and were afraid of them. They believed that salt weakened them, so would take a pinch of salt to throw on a suspected witch and then punch her to make her go away. I wonder how many poor souls were treated in this way, living in fear and abject misery because of the way they looked or behaved.

The third theory I have come across attributes the deed to George Washington (1732-1799) though not in quite the way it is conducted today. It is said that during his presidency, (1789 to 1797) he would meet with Native American tribes on the first day of each month, and supply them with fruit punch with an added pinch of salt. Why he would do that is not explained, and the theory is unverifiable.

 I think the second explanation of superstitious people abusing ‘witches,’ seems the most likely.

I hope no-one forgot to say ‘White Rabbits’ first thing!

The Clock Strikes Two

 

The Clock Strikes Two

The following is a story I wrote a few years ago. It is based very loosely on an experience I had, sailing round the east coast. Apologies to any of my followers who have read it before.

The sails billowed in a fair breeze as they rounded the headland. It was a perfect late October day. The sun shone in a cloudless sky, the sea reflecting it in a thousand sparkling pinpoints.

Will, an experienced sailor, knew the coastline well, but had never moored in the secluded bay they were approaching. He suggested dropping anchor and rowing ashore to the pub he had spotted through his binoculars. Sarah, new to sailing, and wanting to feel firm ground beneath her feet again, agreed readily.

They secured the anchor and clambered down into the dinghy rocking on the waves. The wind had dropped, and Will rowed in perfect rhythm as Sarah watched. Not conventionally handsome, Will was a pleasant-looking man in an open, boyish way. He would be glad when he was older that people mistook him for younger than his years.

As they neared the shore, Sarah tried to shrug off her growing feeling of unease. Will noticed. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.

Sarah shook her head. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I’m probably tired. I’ll feel better when we’ve eaten.’

Will jumped out of the boat at the water’s edge and hauled it up onto the beach alongside some fishing smacks. He held out his hand to steady Sarah as she stepped onto the pebbles. The sun was not shining as brightly here, and the wind was chill. Sarah shivered and Will put his arm around her and pulled her to his side. Somewhere, a church bell struck the hour.

‘Someone needs to put that clock right,’ said Will. ‘It’s gone two o’clock.’

The pub was in the middle of a row of cottages. Fishing nets hung over their stone walls. A church spire rose behind, its blue clock face barely discernible. Sarah looked back at their yacht, bobbing on the blue sea, where the sun still blazed down. She longed to be back on deck, away from this place. Will hugged her as they entered the pub.

The interior was dimly lit and smelt of decades of spilt beer and sour bodies. A log fire smouldered sulkily in the hearth. The few customers nursed their glasses and glanced up, unsmiling, at the young couple, then looked away.

The innkeeper told them the pub didn’t serve meals, so they bought some crisps and went to sit in a corner with their drinks. They spoke quietly to each other, conscious that no-one else was talking.

Sarah shivered. ‘I feel as if we’re being watched.’

‘I’m sure we’re not, but it’s not very welcoming here, I agree.’

They finished their drinks and left, anxious to return to the familiarity of their small craft. Sarah looked back at the pub.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘There are no lights in any of the windows and there’s no smoke coming from the chimney.’

Will laughed. ‘The fire wasn’t burning brightly enough to produce smoke,’ he said, but his words lacked conviction.

Once back aboard, he suggested lifting the anchor and sailing to another bay, one he knew well, so they could shorten the next day’s sail. Sarah was relieved, and set to, hauling on the sheets to raise the sails.

As the sails took the wind and the boat began to move, the church clock struck two again.

The rest of the voyage was unremarkable and soon it was time to moor the boat and go home. Meeting friends in a restaurant a few days later, Sarah mentioned the strange atmosphere of the bay and the unfriendliness of the locals in the pub. One of their friends, a local man, looked quizzical, and asked for further details. Will drew a map on a napkin.

Their friend blew out his cheeks. ‘You say you anchored in the bay and went into the pub?’

Will nodded.

‘You’re sure it was that bay?’

Will nodded again.

‘I’m sorry, you must be mistaken.’

 Will opened his mouth to protest, but the man continued.

‘One night, about a hundred years ago, there was a terrible storm, and the land just fell away into the sea. It had been eroding for many years. The villagers had been warned it was unsafe, but refused to leave. They made their living from the sea. Where else could they go? What else could they do?’

 Sarah shuddered. ‘How dreadful What happened to them?’

‘They all drowned. Like most seafaring folk at that time, they couldn’t swim. In any case, they were asleep when it happened, so they had no chance of escaping.’

‘What time did it happen?’ asked Will.

‘Two o’clock in the morning. It was pitch black, no moon. They didn’t stand a chance.’

‘Was there a church in the village?’ Sarah asked.

‘Yes, and that fell into the sea, too.’

‘But we saw it all – the church, the cottages, the fishing boats, the pub,’ said Sarah, ‘We even heard the clock strike two – the wrong time, twice.’ 

‘You were lucky,’ said their friend, his grave expression underscoring his words. ‘If you'd heard the clock strike three times, you wouldn't have lived to tell the tale. There are stories galore of people and boats going missing in that area.’

Will looked sceptical.

‘Oh, not all year round,’ their friend said, ‘Just on October 31^st, the date it happened.’