Crumpets

 

Crumpets

JayCee’s post displaying the video of ‘The Elusive Scottish Haggis’ – a real treat and very credible – reminded me of my late brother-in-law.

Mick Burton was a Norfolk man through and through, with a splendid sense of humour and the ability to make people believe black was white. He was one of the most patient men I have ever known, a perfect foil for my late sister’s sometimes fiery temper. She once threw a bag of tomatoes at him, one by one. Every one of them missed and he gently smiled at her throughout, which exasperated her even more, until she saw the funny side. He made her laugh and that is a perfect gift in a marriage.

He had a unique way of deliberately mispronouncing words, putting the emphasis in the wrong place and making gobbledygook of the English language. When he spoke seriously, his words were chosen carefully, his vocabulary extensive and expressive. I don’t think I ever heard him curse or blaspheme. His Norfolk accent made him a pleasure to listen and talk to and his knowledge of music and literature was remarkable. He was also very blunt but somehow, hearing, ‘You’ve put it on a bit,’ or something similar, didn’t sting in the way it might from someone else’s mouth, for there was no malice in him.

One day, many decades ago now, he stopped to chat to an old lady in the village. It was early autumn, and he said, ‘It’ll soon be the start of the crumpet shooting season.’

She looked at him in surprise and said she had never heard of such a thing. Straight-faced, he said, ‘Well, my dear, how do you think the holes get there?’

‘Oh, I didn’t think of that,’ she said, and they parted ways with a smile. I’m sure she later thought about his words and realised how she’d been teased.

It is a measure of the man that when he and my sister met, at a NAAFI dance, they married three weeks later and lived a happy and fulfilling life together until she died, more than forty years later.

The Clairvoyant Cabbie

 

The Clairvoyant Cabbie

?

My daughter had a strange experience in a London cab some years ago. The cab stopped at some traffic lights and the cabbie looked at my daughter through the driver’s mirror and said my late sister’s name. My sister had an unusual name, not one that would naturally spring to mind or easily be guessed, so my daughter was taken aback.

 When the cabbie then added my brother-in-law’s name to the mix, my daughter was even more perplexed. He said she was not to worry and that my sister was well and happy. My daughter and my sister did not look alike – blue/green eyes and long blonde hair against dark brown eyes and short dark hair, so there could have been no visual ‘jolt’ even in the unlikely event that my sister and the cabbie had met.

Was it chance that he happened upon my sister’s name? He and my daughter had never met before – it was a casual encounter between driver and passenger and they knew nothing of each other and had not been conversing. My sister had lived near her husband’s family in rural Norfolk for many years after moving from Kent and had never lived in London.

This was brought to mind when I was listening to Radio 4. Julian Clary was a guest on Paul Merton’s programme, Room 101 and mentioned a psychic cabbie in London. Apparently, there is also a psychic cabbie in Gateshead.

 

As Shakespeare’s Hamlet expressed it:

‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’

Post-Christmas

Post-Christmas

It’s a beautiful cold clear day. The sky is blue, the sun is shining, there’s no wind and the dogs have enjoyed a walk and a swim in Crowthorne Forest. Roxy has just finished a small snack of coal – that makes a change from one of Frankie’s toy cars or a piece of Lego.  Now she, like her friends and relations, is damply snoozing.

It is unnaturally quiet here, after a very busy and enjoyable Christmas Day with Bethan and Robert in London. 

Bethan's family and Robert’s family enjoyed the day together.

Some of the sixteen . . .

 Sadly the Dorset contingent of our family was missing. Having had a very difficult twelve months they did not want to be far from home. Hopefully 2017 will be a much happier time for them.

Susannah in pensive mood

Now, though, Barry and I are sitting in splendid isolation, if it is possible to be isolated with so many faithful furry companions. On Boxing Day Susannah travelled to Antigua where she will be distracted from missing and worrying about Frankie, who is in Cornwall, visiting his paternal grandparents.  

Tomorrow we shall pack the dogs into the car and visit Gillian and her family in Dorset. Bertie will enjoy seeing his brother, Buster, and Roxy will be highly delighted to romp with her siblings again.

New Year’s Eve, or Old Year’s Night as my Norfolk brother-in-law calls it, beckons but we shall ignore its lure and remain by our own warm fireside. We shall probably watch the fireworks televised from London – they are usually spectacular. Doubtless there will be many local fireworks, which are a trial for poor Gus.

Frankie will be home again in the afternoon. Then, on New Year’s Day, he and I are driving to Heathrow to meet Susannah. (Barry will be dog-sitting.) I suspect she will spend much of the following day pushing out the zeds.

 . . . and then it will be back to business as usual . . . (sigh)

Happy New Year, one and all, and may 2017 be Healthy, Happy and Prosperous.

Weekend Mailbox #8 The Singing Postman

Allan Smethurst (1927 -  2000) was brought up in Sheringham, Norfolk and became known as 'The Singing Postman'. In the 1950s he wrote and sang songs in the Norfolk dialect. He was given a spot on a local radio show where he performed them to great amusement and acclaim. In 1966 his 'Hev Yew Gotta Loight, Boy?' won the Ivor Novello award for the best novelty song of the year and was so popular that it replaced the Beatles at the top of the East Anglia hit parade.
In 1994 the song was used in an Ovaltine advertisement.

The Norfolk accent has always fascinated me - my brother-in-law is a Norfolk man born and bred.  He and my late sister brought up their children in Kent and then moved to Norfolk, so while his children don't have the accent they do have the intonation, the lilt of the language.

I hope you enjoy this clip from YouTube - there are a few more to be found there if you're interested. I've copied the lyrics so that you may make more sense of the words - hopefully ;-)


 I had a gal, a rare nice gal, down in Wroxham way
She were whooly nice ter me back in the ole school days.
She would smile all the while, but Daddy dint know all
What she used ter say ter me behind the garden wall.
'Hev yew gotta loight, boy? hev yew gotta loight?'

Then one day, she went away, I dunt see har no more,
Till by chance, I see har down along th' Mundesley shore.
She wuz there, twice as fair, would she now be trew?
So when she see me passin' by she say 'I'm glad thass yew,
Hev yew gotta loight, boy? hev yew gotta loight?
Molly Windley, she smook like a chimley,
But she's my little nicoteen gal.


Now yew'll see har an' me never more t'part,
We would wander hand in hand tergether in the dark.
Then one night I held har tight in th' ole back yard,
But when I tried to hold har close, she say 'Now hold yew hard!
Hev yew gotta loight, boy? hev yew gotta loight?
Molly Windley, she smook like a chimley,
But she's my little nicoteen gal.

By and by we decide on th' weddin' day,
So we toddle orff ter chatch ter hear the preacher say:
'Do yew now tearke this vow ter honour all the time?'
Before I had th'chance ter stop har, she begin ter pine:
Hev yew gotta loight, boy? hev yew gotta loight?
Molly Windley, she smook like a chimley,
But she's my little nicoteen gal.


Now the doctor tell me a Daddy I will be,
So when I arsk him 'Woss th' score?' he say 'There's only three'
So, here I go, cheerioo, ter see how she do fare,
I know what she will say ter me as soon as I git there:
Hev yew gotta loight, boy?
Thank you to Gemma from 'Greyscale Territory' who initiated this meme and organises and hosts it every week. To see more deliveries to the Weekend Mailbox please click here.

Cranes

Photo copyright Mike Powles

A news item on television this morning reported the successful hatching of Eurasian or Common Crane (Grus grus) eggs at the Wildfowl and Wetlands Trust in Slimbridge, Gloucestershire. The eggs were imported from Germany to be incubated. As each chick hatches it will be fed somewhat remotely with a special device in order that it does not become imprinted on its carers. It has been suggested that the chicks will be released into the wild, in the Somerset Levels, once they are capable of living independently. The Somerset Levels were once a stronghold for them.There is a long history of cranes in Britain. They appeared on illustrated manuscripts and in 1251 were on Henry III's Christmas menu. They became extinct in UK in the 17^th century probably due to hunting and the destruction of their habitats. They were still spotted as rare migrants and winter visitors in the following centuries.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

About 30 years ago a pair of cranes arrived in Norfolk and remained for a year, sheltering in the reedbeds of the Broads. From 1981 they began to breed and there is now a growing number of resident breeding pairs in that county and in the Suffolk Fens. The winter sees an increase in numbers when about forty non-breeding birds arrive for the season.

Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

In Asia these stunning birds are considered to be ambassadors for peace and safety. They are long-lived with a lifespan from 40 to 60 years though one male was recorded as breeding successfully at 78 and dying five years later. They breed in and around pools in thick vegetation and feed on leaves and seeds and small invertebrates living in shallow water and wet ground.

My dame hath a lame tame crane.

My dame hath a crane that is lame.

Pray, gentle Jane, let my dame's tame crane

Feed and come home again.

My mother embroidered these panels more than thirty years ago.

Invasion!

Great Britain has been invaded and can expect to remain occupied for at least six weeks. It's the Europeans again! Through the centuries we have suffered from assaults from Romans, Vikings, Normans – even the Germans declared intent to overcome but were repulsed before reaching these shores.
This time it is ladybirds that have marched or rather, flown into parts of Norfolk, on the East coast, and Somerset, in the South-West. The spotted hordes have swarmed in because of a glut of aphids that has resulted from the hot, wet weather. Cars, roads and buildings have been covered in layers of the brightly-coloured creatures – I didn't know aphids could be found in those locations – maybe the ladybirds know something the rest of us don't.
It is the most extreme invasion since 1976 though we always have some ladybirds flying across the Channel to holiday in these fair isles.
The name ladybird has been in use for centuries and was originally a reference to the Virgin Mary – Our Lady – because she was often portrayed wearing a red cloak.
The collective noun for ladybirds is a 'loveliness' and folk lore holds that they can predict the weather. If one falls off your hand that means it will rain but if it flies away the weather will be fine. Be careful, though, for they can nip. The intruder Harlequin ladybird has a more unpleasant bite that can cause mild skin irritation.
If a ladybird lands on your hand you may make a wish and then blow it away.
Unlike humans, who develop 'age spots' as they grow older, ladybird's spots fade as age. They live for just about a year but in that time will consume more than 5000 aphids, justifying their reputation as the gardener's friend. If plenty of food is available the female will lay more than 2000 small yellow eggs. These are laid in the same locations as their prey so that the developing larvae have a convenient source of food. However, they don't like cooler weather and will not fly if the temperature drops below 12.7c (55f)
The unfortunate human holidaymakers who have witnessed this influx may find themselves reciting the old nursery rhyme with some intensity:
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home
Your house is on fire and your children are gone
All except one, and that's Little Anne
For she has crept under the warming pan.
Naturally, when I hunted in the garden there was not a single ladybird to be seen. I suppose they've all packed their bags and joined their friends and relations at the seaside.Common Seven Spot ladybird (Coccinella septempunctata) Image from Wikipedia