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.’                        

Slugs and snails, the gardener’s fiends

 

Slugs and snails, the gardener’s fiends

                            White-lipped snail (Cepaea hortensis)

It is just emerging from its shell, its horns poking out

Why is it that slugs are so repulsive while snails are quite appealing? After all, they are effectively the same animal, the obvious difference being the slug’s lack of portable accommodation, although some slugs have an internalised soft shell, which is used to store minerals.

Both are gastropods in the classification of molluscs, belonging in the same family as clams, oysters, and other shellfish. They have one muscular foot by which they move, aided by the mucus secreted from glands. Not only is the slime a lubricant, it also acts as a kind of fixative, which allows them to climb up vertical surfaces and not crash to the ground. Slugs evolved from snails, in much the same counterintuitive way that snakes evolved from lizards.

Their most noticeable retractable tentacles are the ones that end in eyes, the other less evident ones being used to sense the surface they are moving across. Slugs and snails have poor eyesight, though they can tell the difference between light and dark, meaning that they can navigate towards darker, safer places. They rely on taste, smell and vibrations to find food and potential mates.

Snails live for two to three years in the wild, but may live longer in captivity.

In cold weather, snails hibernate in sheltered places, like drain covers or plant pots, sealing the entrance to their shells with mucus.

Slugs live for six to twelve months, exceptionally about eighteen months, and do not hibernate. They lay eggs in the autumn which hatch in the spring. Mature slugs burrow underground if the temperature falls below 5˚C (41˚ F) although they can withstand freezing for a short period.

In extremely hot periods, both slugs and snails aestivate, which is a kind of summer hibernation.

Gardeners attempting to foil the depredations of slugs and snails employ many deterrents, like beer traps, copper wire, cloches, or grit. Strongly aromatic plants, particularly herbs like rosemary or thyme, mint, or basil, deter the gastropods because they dislike strong smells.

 However, these animals also serve a useful purpose in clearing the ground of dead leaves and corpses and dung, returning nutrients to the soil. They are also a valuable food source for birds, reptiles and mammals like badgers and foxes.

There is one species of snail that is protected in England and Wales under the Wildlife and Countryside Act of 1981. Anyone contravening the act, even handling a dead snail, is liable to a fine of £5,000 or six months in jail. It is illegal to handle them without a licence.

Roman snails (Helix pomatia) are about the size of a chicken’s egg, almost twice as large as a garden snail, and are long-lived, attaining ten to twenty years of life. They are the escargots of French cuisine and were introduced by the Romans, as a source of food. Numbers were greatly increased by mediaeval monasteries in England cultivating them for food. They are widespread in southern England, principally in the Chilterns, the North Downs, the Cotswolds, and the borders of the Mendips, all of which are largely chalky areas, but are most uncommon in suburban gardens.

The law was enacted because by 2008 some of the populations of Roman snails had been reduced almost to extinction by people collecting them to eat, either in domestic settings or in restaurants.

Roman snail (Helix pomatia) empty shells 

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

I found this rather haunting Australian Aboriginal poem in a book of children’s poetry.

SNAILS

Sound of snails – crying

Sound drifting through the brush, sound of crying

Slime of snails, dragging themselves

Along the low-lying plain, crying;

Snails with their slime, crying.

Sound drifting through the bush: dragging themselves along, crying,

Snails, their sound blowing overhead from among the bushes.

 

 

 

 

 

Attrition

 

Attrition

Attrition is a word that always trips me up. No matter how often I hear or read it, I can never retain the meaning, so I decided to write about it in the vain hope of something of the meaning sticking.

A war of attrition is a conflict which is fought over a sustained period. It is a military strategy that attempts to secure victory by continuously grinding down the enemy. Through unremitting losses in resources and personnel, the enemy’s morale and determination are reduced to the point where defeat is inevitable.

The American Civil War and the First World War are both examples of attritional war. The army that is quicker to replace or reinforce its men and armaments normally wins the battle. The victory may involve mere yards of ground.

Inasmuch as all battles are attritional to some degree and notwithstanding the heinous loss of life involved, it is doubtful that war will be relegated to the history books. An utopian world in which all people work together in peace is unlikely to be realised.

Wars have been fought since time immemorial, from Darius I, in 513 BC, through the Second Mongol Invasion of Hungary in 1285 and 1286, to the Swedish invasion of Russia in 1708 and the Spanish Civil War of 1938-1939, and many other conflicts. Man has proved himself incapable of curbing his compulsion to overcome, to invade and to rule. Equally, man has found it impossible to bow gracefully under the threat of invasion and has discovered, over and again, the ineffectiveness of soft words and compromise.

Shall I now remember the meaning of attrition? Is it better than annihilation?

The clocks went back!

 

The clocks went back!

It’s a very strange day. The sun is shining and the sky is a beautiful blue, but the time seems to be passing so slowly. I suppose it’s because my watch tells me one thing but my body clock tells me something different.

 I know that in a couple of hours the sun will set. We shall draw the curtains when it’s completely dark and wake tomorrow to a lighter morning. The light mornings don’t continue for long and by the shortest day in December there will be more dark than daylight.

Two

 

Two

Marnie, aged three.

There were two family birthdays on Friday. Our eldest grandchild was thirty-one and our youngest was six.

Marnie was the first child of our eldest child, Gillian. She was twenty-five when Marnie was born. Marnie inherited the blonde hair and blue eyes of my husband’s family.

Jack is the second child of our youngest daughter, Bethan. She is blonde and brown-eyed and Jack has brown hair and dark brown eyes.

Marnie and Jack are outgoing and confident, with ready smiles and a pronounced sense of humour. Marnie was a chatterer as a small child and remains a ready conversationalist, but even she is outdone by Jack’s loquaciousness.

Jack, aged three.

Each in their own ways had good days, Marnie in Dorset and Jack in London. There are two more family birthdays in November and one in December before Christmas, and another one four days after Christmas. Then it will be 2025!

 

 

 

Genius

 

Genius

‘Genius is nothing more nor less than doing well what anyone can do badly.’ Amelia E. Barr (1831-1919)

It is the quintessence of optimism, and it would be most encouraging if it could be proved true. It assumes that all a person needs to succeed is determination or perhaps it is enough for another person to believe strongly enough in you.

That was certainly the case for Thomas Edison, the inventor who held more than 1090 patents in the United States alone. Among his inventions was the phonograph, in 1877, the first device able to record and play back sound. He also developed the motion picture camera and the first long-lasting incandescent light bulb. The first light bulbs were created by Humphry Davy in 1802, Heinrich Göbel in 1854, and Joseph Swan, who later worked with Edison.

Thomas Edison was the seventh and youngest child of his family, a curious and inquisitive boy. One day, when he was seven years old, he returned from school with a note for his mother. She read it out to him: ‘Your son is a genius. This school is too small for him and doesn’t have enough good teachers for training him. Please teach him yourself.’

From that point, the young boy was taught at home by his mother. Years later, after his mother had died, he found the note in a drawer. Unfolding it, he read: ‘Your son is addled. We won’t let him come to school anymore.’

Edison was shocked and cried for a long time and then he recorded in his diary the following words: ‘Thomas Alva Edison was an addled child that, by a hero mother, became the genius of the century.’

That is a splendid story, based on fact, but inaccurate. Edison disliked his crowded one-room school and his teacher. His teacher reprimanded him for being addled, or mentally ill, and he flounced home. It is believed now that he was dyslexic, a condition not then recognised, or for many decades afterwards.

Under his mother’s tutelage, Thomas flourished.

How many other young lives have been blighted by the misunderstanding or impatience of teachers?

 

 

Dear deer

 

Dear deer

Red deer stags, Glen Torridon, Scotland

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

There are two native species of deer in the UK, the Red and the Roe, though Fallow deer are now so well-established as to be considered native. The Normans introduced them to England around the 11^th century.

Other non-native deer, like Muntjac deer from China and Chinese Water deer, and Sika deer from Japan, are seen in increasing numbers. All the male deer grow antlers, apart from the Chinese Water deer, which instead have large canine teeth, called tusks. Sometimes, these deer are called ‘vampire deer.’

Red deer are the largest species. The iconic baying stag is strongly associated with Scotland, though it is also found in numbers in other parts of England and Wales.

A stag starts growing his antlers in the spring. They grow rapidly, at the rate of 2½ cm (1”) a day and are fully developed by September, in time for the mating season, or rut. They are covered in velvet, which supplies the growing bone with oxygen and nutrients, until just before the rut. Then the velvet is rubbed off, against tree bark in the summer, and the bone dies. The antlers are shed in early spring and are grown again from early summer.

The size and extent of antlers may indicate a stag’s age, but teeth are a more accurate pointer. Stags with twelve points are called Royals, but the points must be equally distributed. A beast with five on one side and seven on the other will not be classified as a Royal. 

'The Monarch of the Glen' by Sir Edwin Henry Landseer (1802-1873)
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Stags with fourteen points used to be informally known as Imperials and those with sixteen as Monarchs. However, Sir Edwin Henry Landseer’s famous painting, ‘The Monarch of the Glen,’ clearly shows a stag with twelve points.

The much smaller roe deer also grow antlers, but they never exceed three points. They were the original inspiration for the book ‘Bambi.’ I wrote about roe deer a number of years ago.

County flags – Berkshire

 

County flags – Berkshire

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The Berkshire flag was registered with the Flag Institute in March 2017. It is the flag of the historic county. It shows a stag standing under an oak tree, both of which are traditional symbols of Berkshire and date back to at least 1627.

In that year, Michael Drayton (1563-1631), who was a contemporary of William Shakespeare, wrote a poem, ‘The Bataille of Agincourt.’ Agincourt was fought in 1415, and Drayton described the men of Berkshire marching in that battle under the symbol of ‘a Stag, under an Oake that stood.’

The stag shown is a red deer bearing twelve-point antlers, which marks it as a ‘Royal’, thus evoking the shire’s title as the Royal County of Berkshire, and also alluding to the deer herds to be found.  The oak tree bears reference to its wonderful forests.

 Berkshire has had historic ties to royalty since the Norman Conquest. William the Conqueror began building Windsor Castle in 1070 and it was completed in 1086. The county was always known informally as Royal Berkshire but was designated ‘Royal County’ in 1958. It is the only royal county in the United Kingdom.

Berkshire County Council was abolished in 1998. The county remains as a ceremonial county, no longer administered as a single entity, but divided into six unitary authorities.

 

Goolie chit

 

Goolie chit

 Korean War (1950-1953) blood chit for UN pilots in English, Korean, Chinese and Japanese

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

‘Have I told you about my goolie chit?’ was Barry’s cheery remark to me the other day.

Chit is British slang for a note and goolie originates from the Hindustani word ‘goli’ which means marble or bullet. It was adopted by the British as a slang term for testicle.

A goolie chit, formerly, or even formally, known as a blood chit, was a document issued to service personnel. Goolie chits were first used by RAF air crew in 1917, and thereafter extensively throughout the rest of the First World War and in later conflicts. It was used as a means of protecting the bearer’s most prized and personal items.

 Addressed in several languages to civilians in a battle zone, a goolie chit identified the bearer as an Allied fighter, there to protect the local populace and overthrow enemies. It promised a monetary reward for the safe return of crashed airmen.

RAF goolie chit issued during the Gulf War, 1991
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Its history goes back further. Although it was not then called a blood chit, George Washington created the first one in 1793 for Jean-Pierre Blanchard. Blanchard was a French man who was visiting Philadelphia to exhibit his hot air balloon. As he could speak no English and had no way of directing where he would land, Washington gave him a letter guaranteeing his safety wherever he touched down.

During the Gulf War, RAF crew were issued with chits accompanied by gold sovereigns, as an incentive to civilians who discovered them to return them to their embassy or headquarters. SAS soldiers were also issued with goolie chits and told that the sovereigns must be returned unless they could justify their use.

In 1968, Barry joined the Great Abbai Expedition, led by John Blashford-Snell. (Barry prepared for his role by testing ground to air communication with an aircraft circling over our house at night.) The purpose of the expedition was to traverse and chart the entire length of the Blue Nile. This had never been achieved and vast swathes of the area had not yet been mapped.

There were fierce bands of warring tribesmen, or shiftas, in the bush, some as many as a few thousand strong, who had never seen white men and in some cases were disinclined to be friendly. They earned their living as bandits, stealing from people, and would have liked to acquire the arms and particularly the radios the men carried.

Castration of enemies was a traditional practice in Ethiopia, so the expedition members were careful to try and avoid the aggressive shiftas, though they did have a number of fire fights with them. By contrast, the friendly villages were incredibly welcoming and hospitable and shared their meagre rations. In return, the medics in the team did what they could to treat illness and injury. An aspirin was seen as a miracle cure!

The goolie chit the men carried declared them to be ‘Honoured guests of Emperor Haile Selassie.’ It was written in English and Amharic. The tribes could not read but were overjoyed to hear that the Emperor, the ‘Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah,’ was still alive. He was greatly revered by his people, but they had been told he was dead, and a foreign impostor imposed in his place. The fact that the men had met and spoken to Haile Selassie in his palace gave the expedition members added status.

It’s not really surprising that Barry’s thoughts have been concentrated on his nether regions recently. In the course of five weeks, he has had a colonography, a colonoscopy, a prostatectomy and an assortment of scans, ultrasounds, x-rays, and endless blood tests. He is on the home strait now and recovering well . . . touch wood.

Kapok

 

Kapok (Ceiba pentandra)

            Kapok tree showing the extensive roots or buttresses that support its extreme height.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

It’s been quite a while since I needed to stuff a toy, so have no need of kapok. I had never wondered where the material came from until I noticed an illustration somewhere- who knows where? – of a kapok tree. At first, I thought it might be something along the lines of a spaghetti bush, but April 1^st has long since passed, so I looked into it.

One of the common names of the kapok tree is the Silk-cotton tree. It is a tropical tree, originating in South America, and later spreading to West Africa and the rainforests of the Malay Peninsula. It can grow to immense heights, with some reported at 252 feet (73 m) tall, though cultivated specimens in south and south-east Asia grow only to 90 feet (27m).

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

It towers above the rainforest canopy, providing a habitat for birds and mammals. Its unpleasantly scented flowers open at night and give nectar and pollen for honey bees and bats, though they are pollinated primarily by bats.

The kapok tree drops its leaves in the dry season, after which the seed pods burst to release the pale coloured fibres containing the seeds. The wind then disperses the seeds.

It is known as a sacred tree. Mayan folklore held that the tree stood at the very centre of the earth as the symbol of the universe. The roots reached down into the underworld, the trunk represented the region where people lived, and the branches signified heaven. They believed the souls of the dead would reach heaven by climbing the branches.

The folklore of the people of Trinidad and Tobago claims that Bazil, the Demon of Death, is incarcerated in a vast kapok tree called the Castle of the Devil. He was fooled by a carpenter into entering the tree, in which he had carved a column of seven rooms, though details of the trickery are scant.

Kapok pods
Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

Kapok

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The tree and its products are used in many ways. The fine fibres are no good for spinning but are light and water-resistant and have been used to fill mattresses and upholstery, and for insulation. However, it is highly flammable. Before the advent of synthetic materials, kapok was used in flotation devices.

The trunks are straight and strong, giving excellent timber for dugout canoes, while the leaves, bark and resin have all been used in treating ailments such as dysentery, asthma, and kidney disease. Oil pressed from the seeds has been used in the manufacture of soap, fertiliser, and biofuel.

It even provides shelter for homeless people in the hollows made by the extensive roots or buttresses that support the tree.

It is the national emblem of Guatemala, Puerto Rico, and Equatorial Guinea.

Jay

 

Jay (Garrulus glandarius)

Jays are beautiful, colourful members of the crow family. Though they are widespread in UK woodlands, apart from Northern Scotland, they are quite shy and rarely visit gardens. We have been fortunate through the years to see them, usually in October, when they are foraging for food, particularly acorns. They cache their finds to provide food in leaner times, but do not always return for them, and that is how oak saplings can be found in unexpected places.

The rapid spread of oaks after the last Ice Age is attributed to this caching habit. Before oak trees were planted commercially, jays were the main means of distribution. A single bird might spread more than a thousand acorns annually.

The last Ice Age, known as the Last Glacial Period, began about 100,000 years ago.

In addition to acorns, jays eat insects, seeds and occasionally small mammals, nestlings, and eggs. They have unmusical voices but are clever mimics, copying the songs of other birds and common noises in the environment, like dripping taps, or people whistling.

Sir John Betjeman

 

Sir John Betjeman

 Statue of John Betjeman at St Pancras Station, London.

Image courtesy Wikimedia Commons

The Poet Laureate is appointed by the monarch of the United Kingdom, following advice from the current Prime Minister. It is expected, though not demanded, that the Poet Laureate will produce verse for important national occasions. For example, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, wrote ‘Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington’ in 1852, and ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ in 1854.

Royal events, like weddings or funerals, are often the subject of the poems. Poets will frequently be inspired or be commissioned to write about other things, like the Russian invasion of Ukraine in 2022, or the deaths of the last two (British) First World War soldiers in 2009.

John Betjeman (1906-1984) was an English poet and writer and was the Poet Laureate for the final twelve years of his life. His poem ‘Slough,’ was published in 1937 and bemoaned what Betjeman saw as the industrialisation of Britain and the profiteering thereby.

Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn’t fit for humans now,
There isn’t grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!

Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.

Mess up the mess they call a town –
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.

 And get that man with double chin
Who’ll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women’s tears:

And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.

But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;  
It’s not their fault that they are mad,
They’ve tasted Hell.

It’s not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It’s not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead

And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren’t look up and see the stars
But belch instead.

In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.

Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.

Slough is a town in Berkshire and has had an undeservedly bad reputation. In the years following the end of the First World War, army motor vehicles returned from Flanders were repaired and stored and eventually an industrial estate was established. Industrialisation continued apace, attracting workers from abroad, as well as from various parts of the UK. It suffered many air raids in 1940, but after the end of World War Two, thousands of people moving out of war-torn London were accommodated in large, new housing estates.

Betjeman later regretted his harsh poem about Slough. At the time he wrote it, he probably had little idea that bombs would indeed fall on Slough.

He was a founding member of ‘The Victorian Society’ and ‘Friends of Friendless Churches.’ He loved Victorian architecture and was a leading figure in the campaign to save St Pancras railway station. A statue of him by the sculptor Martin Jennings was unveiled there in 2007.

It’s that time of year . . .

 

It’s that time of year . . .

. . . when spiders spin their silken webs and catch the morning dew.

With a slight fog on Friday morning, the webs were particularly noticeable on the trees in our back garden.

Destruction!

 

Destruction!

                                Pansy and Clown (blue and chocolate)

Warning! If you are averse to animals, do not read on.

Polly spoke about her Labrador breeding friends and the destruction the puppies wrought, and it reminded me of our brief foray into breeding Burmese cats.

It had never been our intention to breed cats. We had had an accidental breeding of Jack Russells, which was fun for the children, and also why we ended up with four of them – JRs, I mean, though we did have four children, too.

My sister and brother-in-law had a beautiful brown Burmese, called Tip, because he had a white tip to his tail. A few years after I left home – the baby of the family - they gave my parents a little queen who had come to the end of her breeding programme (!) Liza gave them a great deal of pleasure and much appreciated the freedom and love they gave her.

When we decided to acquire a cat, we remembered how affectionate and curious Burmese cats were, and found a local breeder, who had a pretty little brown queen, a few months old. They encouraged us to breed from her, and we thought it would be interesting for the children. That encouragement is not generally given these days, but this was many years ago.

The kittens were enchanting. From Alicat we had brown, chocolate, blue and lilac offspring. Each child and its friends had different favourites, so, naturally, we ended up with quite a few cats.

Pansy Blue as a kitten

People often claim to ‘know’ that cats and dogs are instinctive enemies and cannot live together, and take pleasure in promulgating the myth. We have found them to be allies and friends. The cats groom the dogs’ heads and faces and the dogs step between arguing cats to defuse the situation, as they would with warring dogs.

              Cariadd, (Dalmatian) with six Burmese, one brown, one blue, three chocolates and a lilac. They would climb on her for comfort if they started arguing.

We were extraordinarily lucky with the Jack Russells, known chasers – and killers – of fur. When we brought Alicat home, I sat down, and Daisy JR jumped up on my lap! We never had a problem with them, but I would not risk it again. It just didn’t occur to us to worry.

Puppies are fun, adventurous, and messy, but they don’t climb. Kittens clamber up everything in sight, including people. The view from the top of someone’s head, or the curtains, is exciting and different. If there are no people or furniture available to ascend, the wallpaper will do.

Inevitably, the time came, at three months of age, to bid the kittens farewell to their new homes. Interviewing prospective owners was never a job we relished, but we wanted to ensure our little creatures went to loving homes. Equally, I felt we had to be honest about what they were taking on. Burmese kittens do not lie around looking beautiful, although they can. They are adventurous and curious and can get themselves into unusual hiding places.

We once lost a litter temporarily. We had put them in our en suite shower room, where we were sure they would be safe and could not escape. When I went in to check on them and feed them, I couldn’t see them anywhere. Our shower room is not vast and the window was securely closed. Panic set in momentarily but something caused me to look more closely at the bidet and sure enough, the kittens were tucked safely under the pedestal. They soon emerged for their food, and we found a different room for them to grow up in.

As well as giving prospective owners directions to our house, a task at which I am still very poor, I would test their resolve by telling them what to expect. If they were experienced cat people, they would quickly understand. One man put it succinctly – ‘So, we look for the house with the wallpaper hanging off in shreds.’ I agreed that was the case and he came to collect his kitten anyway.

While kittens may not eat the carpet or the plaster on the walls, or chew the door frame, your shoes, or anything else that takes their fancy, as puppies will, they have sharp claws, like needles. They will tear at your soft furnishings, turn the stair carpet into a series of scratching posts, scale the heights of the kitchen cupboards, and pierce your heart with their unbelievably silky fur and huge, lustrous eyes. A warm purring cat on your lap or next to you as you lie on your bed is worth more than a king’s ransom.

If dog/s join the cat/s, you are more blessed than you could imagine.

We haven’t bred puppies, or kittens for many years. It is exhausting, being responsible for so many tiny beings. Guinea pigs, mice and gerbils are much easier, but once our children grew out of the farming phase, we ceased breeding altogether. Oh, that is, until our youngest child was born. She came during the cat breeding phase. We must have got muddled, somewhere! 

Herbert with Bethan

Herschel observes . . .

 

Herschel observes . . .

Herschel observes boats on the Kiel Canal

Herschel is the Hebrew name for deer. It is also a German name deriving from Heinrich, which means ‘home ruler.’

We gave Herschel his name because we live not far from Slough, where Sir William Herschel, an Anglo-German astronomer, died in 1822. He was the first person to discover a new planet while using a telescope. He wanted to call it Georgium Sidus, meaning George’s Star, or the Georgian Planet, to honour the reigning King George III.

However, the German astronomer Johann Elert Bode, proposed that it should be named after one of the classical deities, in the traditional manner. He suggested Uranus and this was ultimately accepted, almost seventy years later.

Sir John Herschel, William’s son, was born in Slough in 1792, and was a polymath. His interests encompassed mathematics, chemistry, astronomy, photography, and botany. He invented the blueprint and researched colour blindness, and named seven moons of Saturn and four moons of Uranus.

One of John’s sons, Sir William James Herschel, also born in Slough, was the first man to realise the importance of fingerprints in identification. Throughout his lifetime, he recorded his own fingerprints, to prove their unique and unchanging nature.

 

 

Have you got your ‘phone?

 

Have you got your ‘phone?

This looks like a rebuke!

I am getting better at remembering to take my ‘phone with me when I go out. I don’t always take it when I’m going out with Barry, as his is always with him, almost needing to be surgically removed from him. That is also the case with our children and all the grandchildren old enough to have ‘phones.

I know it’s sensible to have a means of contacting someone in case of emergency and it is just possible, though unlikely, that Barry’s ‘phone will not be fully charged.

So, I try to remember, not least because I get irritated by the question, ‘Have you got your ’phone?’ To me, it feels like being asked if I’ve got a clean hankie (does anyone use those these days?)

Differences

 

Differences

 

Arthur sleeps!

    There are many differences between working Labradors and Cocker Spaniels.

The most obvious difference is size. Labradors are bigger, between 25 and 38 kg. I’ve just discovered that working Labradors are known in the States as American or field-bred Labradors. British working Labradors are field-bred dogs from the UK and Ireland.

Working Cocker spaniels weigh 11 to 16 kg and are between 36 to 43 cm at the withers, which I have to remind myself is the highest point of the shoulder blades. Compare that to a Labrador standing 54 to 62 cm. at the same point.

Labradors are relaxed, steady dogs, though they do have their wild moments. Generally, well-exercised and well-fed dogs will settle down at your feet and snore sleep the hours away. Cockers are busy, fizzy little dogs. They are anxious to please and will greet their owners with enthusiasm and at least one toy in their mouths. Labradors are equally delighted to see their people and are keen to nose them and give them a good sniffing to discover where they’ve been and with whom.

When they’re outside, a cocker’s nose is never far from the ground if it’s not scenting the air. Labradors like to read the environment as well, but they’re not so keen to seek prey. That’s not their job. They are required to pick up, though they will sometimes spring birds or rabbits.

Both breeds love water and are drawn to it as to a magnet.

The biggest difference is in their approach to food. All Labradors – at least, all the many ones we’ve had, love food, and most of them live to eat, whereas cockers eat to live, from our limited experience of them.

When Arthur comes to play, we have to persuade him to eat, even when it’s obvious he’s hungry. Like a restless child, he is easily distracted from eating, whereas the Labradors plough straight through the food until there’s not a hint of a scent of anything left, and then look around with a half-starved expression, hoping to convince any passing human in the house that they really have not been fed for days.

Both breeds are great friends, like all dogs.

Jake

Dogs are wonderful companions, no matter what their provenance, and some of the best are rescue dogs looking for their forever homes. One of the loveliest dogs I ever knew was Jake, an absolute peach of a dog.

Of unknown breeding, he was delighted to be accepted and loved by my daughter and son-in-law. He was an amazingly loyal and loving dog to them and their children. When they acquired a Labrador puppy, and we went to see them, he would jump into the back of our car, hoping to come home with us. He liked the puppy but sometimes wanted a rest from her. All puppies are exhausting for a while and Jake enjoyed a quiet life. As the puppy grew up and calmed down, Jake became very fond of her.

There is always an unknown quality in rescue dogs. Unless they are very young puppies in a rescue centre, there is no knowing what has befallen them in their lives. It’s too easy to be led by the heart, rather than reason.

 Rescue societies do a grand job of assessing them and advising to the best of their ability whether a dog will settle with young children, or cats, or more than one or two people. The best rescue centres will interview prospective owners and will not release a dog unless and until they are satisfied that the dog is going to a good home and will not be returned in a few weeks when the novelty has worn off.

We don’t deserve dogs, really.