Out and about

Today we went for a walk in search of frogspawn. The sun was so warm we were out for the first time this year without the need of a coat or a fleece. We even spotted a lone bumble bee happily buzzing about.

The frogs have been very busy already. This is in a pool left behind in what used to be a small stream. Unfortunately the storm in October 1987 changed the direction of the river and now the water rushes on past instead of through the field along the path of this stream. Instead we have a huge soggy ditch with occasional pools fed partly by a small stream froom higher up our land and partly by run off from the fields. The frogs and toads seem to thrive in it though, and last year we spotted newts too.

These daffodils bloom on the bank outside what is now our tractor shed. They are the traditional native Welsh daffodil and are much smaller than the garden sort, but extremely pretty and always the first to bloom. It's always a bit of a race between these and my cultivated Tete-a-tete's, but these 'won' this year by a day or so.

I think this is called pennywort. It has large fleshy circlular leaves, like an old-fashioned penny. It grows everywhere here and I really like it, for its quiet, unpretentious green-ness.

This ash tree is really climb-able. I was half up onto the lowest branch when I remembered that I was setting a bad example to the children. Immediately beneath me was a rather too large drop (the tree is growing on the top of a high hedgebank) and at the bottom of the drop is the tractor's silage spike and a few other bits of old, rusty farm machinery. Hannah said: "Get down Mummy!" in a bossy head-prefect type voice. Down Mummy got. Mummy has a six inch long scar on her hip from a similar escapade in her youth involving a fence and part of a grey Ferguson tractor. Some people never learn!

Book Meme

This is my Book Meme and I have been tagged by Zoe, via her blog The Glory Hole.

The rules are:

1. Pick up the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).

2. Open the book to page 123.

3. Find the fifth sentence.

4. Post the next three sentences.

5. Tag five people.

Okay, here goes. The nearest book, as I am sitting at my computer, is "Writing Down the Bones, Freeing the Writer Within" by Natalie Goldberg. It is the Shambhala Pocket Classics edition and usually lives in my handbag for those emergency I-need-something-to-read! moments, but I had evicted it from said bag on Friday before going away for the weekend.

Page 123 falls at the beginning of the chapter entitled 'Big Concentration'.

"As you become single-minded in your writing, at the same time something in you should remain aware of the color of the sky or the sound of a distant mower. Just throw in even one line about the street outside your window at the time you were carving that spoon. It is good practice."

The book only measures 7.5 cms by 11.5 cms and it usually goes everywhere with me. It is what I turn to for comfort. It's a bite-sized book, formed of bite-sized chapters. I've been a fan of Natalie Goldberg since the brother of my mother's late partner (that's a convoluted link!) was recommended "Wild Mind: Living the Writer's Life" at a Skyros writing course. The brother (Paul) bought a copy for Michael, and Michael bought me a copy. In Wild Mind the writer refers to "Bones", and my sister bought me a copy for my 40th birthday. It's never far from my side and usually fulfills the title 'nearest book'. I use it for those moments when I want to write, but my brain says: "What?"

Now, to tag five others. If you read this, consider yourself tagged! (But I'll be back to check if I have five 'tagees'!)

A woolly tale...

We have a small flock of Lleyn cross ewes and a ram. A nice little closed flock. But from time to time we get the odd interloper and that is exactly what happened yesterday.

She was a tiny little thing, straight off the mountain, with tiny little Welsh Mountain sheep's ears in which there was an eartag. Catching her was simple for she was collapsed in one of our fields. Mum and I read the tag and spent a 'jolly' half hour half-carrying, half-coaxing this little thing down into the barn. Finally, muddy, with our backs screaming in pain, we got her inside and penned her with some hay and a bucket of water. The hurdles surrounding her were largely superfluous as she just lay down, pointing her nose towards the sky, as if waiting for death. She was obviously in lamb and something should be done about her, but we are talking farm economics here. She wasn't one of ours (who watched the events disinterestedly from the next field up) and we were faced with a horrible dilemma of intervening or not, either way would cost us vets fees or knackerman's fees.

Mum rang around some local farmers last night, with no luck. Then this morning she contacted Animal Health and gave them the flock number. Leave it with me, said the official. She did.

Less than half an hour later a Land Rover pulled up and out hopped Jolly Farmer and Mrs Jolly Farmer. Mum took them and gave them the ewe. JF popped it nimbly under one arm and then into the back of the Land Rover. Then they told the tale of the sheep.

It all began 18 months ago when JF rented a field from one of our neighbours. It needed new fencing, so the neighbour said of course he would fence it, and duly JF arrived and put several hundred sheep into the field. Except the neighbour had 'forgotten' 30 feet or so of the fence. Every single last one of the sheep escaped (of course!) and JF and Mrs JF have spent the last year and a half rounding them up. This one had obviously been living somewhere else in the meantime. Presumably she lambed, then she was shorn and put to the ram again. Now she obviously has twin lamb disease, so she's off for a dose of calcium and a big crossing of fingers.

JF has, in the meantime, got rid of his sheep, apart from half a dozen or so, plus this one. She's had quite an adventure, poor little thing. I checked her teeth and she's broken mouthed, so I think, even if she does survive the twin lamb, this is the end of her adventure. As James Herriot once so famously said: "If only they could talk."

Tresaith and Mwnt

It was such a lovely sunny day yesterday that we decided to pack a picnic and head for the coast. The north beckoned, so we pointed the car towards Tresaith, a tiny beach two miles north of Aberporth. It's a tiny little village with a pub and lots of holiday homes cheek by jowl on the sloping land leading down to the cove. It has a pub and a shop, although the latter was still shut for the winter season. When we arrived the tide was well in and the sand was full of cantering ponies which entertained us while we scoffed our cheese and ham sandwiches. By the time the last of the grapes had been fought over the ponies had gone home and we had the beach to ourselves.




At the far end of the beach is a raft of rocks, just prefect for climbing, which gave a lovely vantage point from which to see the waterfall.


The second beach we visited was Mwnt, which is National Trust owned. The National Trust's website describes it as follows:

"This beautiful beach is a perfect sandy cove, bounded on the north by the dramatic headland of Foel y Mwnt is a geological SSSI and part of the Ceredigion Heritage Coast. Steeped in wildlife, it’s a great place to spot seals and bottle-nosed, common and Risso dolphins playing among the waves. "

There are a hundred million steps down to the beach (Hannah counted them) and we did them three times. When we reached the reached the bottom after the first descent Rosie announced that she needed to go to the toilet. So we trotted back up. The toilets, of course, were locked, so we sneaked around the back where we found a yellowed patch of grass which obviously served as the winter facilities. Then we went back down the hundred million steps again to the beach.
This waterfall runs alongside the steps, crashing down over the rocks to the beach below.

It is a beautiful, tranquil beach, with some impressive waves. A lone surfer was just packing up as we got there. The cliffs are very tall either side, so it was quite dark and comfortable, as if the beach is held in a big, rocky hug.

Everywhere there was foam. I assume that it is from the oil tankers washing out their tanks before or after visiting the refineries at Milford Haven. They are not supposed to do this, but they do and it makes the beaches sudsy for weeks afterwards. It got our wellies really clean though!


Rosie collected a wave or two in her boots and the girls were getting tired, so we headed back up the hundred million steps to the car park. There is a walk up a steep hill to the point of the headland, but Hannah and Rosie mutinied at this point. But they did agree to walk over to the pretty white-painted church.

According to The National Trust website: "The bay was a battle site in 1155, when an invasion of Flemings was repelled by the Welsh, and the church of the Holy Cross nearby was built in the thirteenth or fourteenth century on the site of an old Celtic saint’s cell, on the pilgrimage route to Bardsey."

The church, basking in the late afternoon January sun, was picture postcard perfect. A beautiful, tanquil spot, ideal for an old Celtic saint. The bay and its little headland oozed history and heritage from every blade of grass.

It was a lovely day. They were two beautiful beaches that we had not visited before and I can recommend both, for different reasons.

Tresaith would be a lively vibrant place to visit in the summer for ice creams and sandcastle building, although it had a lot to offer on a sunny winter's day too, with rocks to clamber, pools to explore and waves to dodge. Parking might be difficult in the summer though, even in January we were lucky to find a space so close to the beach.

Mwnt was a much more spiritual place, very calm and peaceful; somewhere to walk and contemplate. Not a place to take a pushchair and small children, or those who might find the 'hundred million steps' a bit too much of a challenge. Both were particularly lovely on a sunny winter's day as the sun dipped behind the cliffs bathing everywhere in slanting golden beams.

Let them eat cake? Oh, go on then...

I know not to go to Tesco on a Saturday, but somehow the din of the great unwashed as they mill around in between rows of tat, bagged nappies and unseasonable fruit, like the pain of childbirth, gets forgotten.

So this morning I found myself amid the throngs. We had a good reason to be there, of course, otherwise we wouldn’t have been there. We’d have been somewhere else instead, somewhere more wholesome, somewhere without the clanging of tills as Tesco picks our pockets. What we needed was a birthday cake. The sort of sugar confection that blackens teeth and loosens fillings – and that’s before the packet is even opened. It is the only cake that will do for next Saturday’s 6th birthday party, although the cake for Hannah's real birthday the following Wednesday (like the Queen, she has two this year) has to be home made, she tells me.

We fought our way to the cake section, hitherto a place we have never before darkened, surprisingly, though, the soon to be six-year-old with the wobbly lower incisor knew exactly where to find it. We passed a bank of boxes of Pomegranates, clearly labelled ‘Mangoes’. We skirted hoards of oldies, clutching at single decker trolleys like zimmers. Why were they there on a Saturday when clearly so afflicted as not to work they could have gone to Tesco on a Wednesday say? They leaned painfully on their empty trolleys, moving at a funereal pace, pausing only to meet 'The Wife' at the end of each aisle, in the middle, blocking the way. 'The Wife' had her own zimmer-trolley too, empty save for a huge cream cake and foil pouches of Whiskas. We ploughed grimly on.

We reached the cake aisle, more or less intact, save for grumpy husband’s good temper, which, conveniently he had abandoned at home as soon as I had muttered the words ‘Tesco’, ‘cake’ and ‘Saturday’. He hung onto our trolley and thought longingly of his afternoon shift at work. We surveyed the ranks of cakes, Smarties cakes, Spongebob Squarepants cakes, In the Night Garden cakes, Boobies cakes...

“I’ll have that one,” Hannah ordered, Andy Pipkin-style, as I gritted my teeth, switched off the ‘parental control’ button and said: “Yes, dear, of course,” in my best Butlins Red Coated kind-not-shouty mummy voice. The cake is pure sugar, with saturated fat and artificial colours thrown in for good measure. It has a vivid pink My Little Pony on the top. It’s perfect.

Heady with the success of the cake, we forged on, pausing only to mop Rosie’s tears after she had been flattened by an obese salad shelf-stacker brandishing a box of Little Gems. We selected jelly, ice-cream, hula hoops, Pom Bear crisps and blackcurrant squash. We bought a banner which, hopefully, says HAPPY BIRTHDAY; it certainly says ‘HA’, but I can’t vouch for the rest. We bought streamers and I crossed my fingers that I can find the six candles left after Rosie’s fourth birthday in December. Then we left.

Now, of course, all I have to do is buy the fresh things the day before the party (and here I am guided by my ‘bible’ Annabel Karmel’s ‘Complete Party Planner’), pop a few presents into party bags, make a few rounds of sandwiches, wrap, wrap and wrap the Pass the Parcel parcel and gird my loins for an influx of little girls next Saturday. Valium, anyone…?

I have marmaladed!

I have made marmalade. It's something I haven't tried before, but, inspired by Withy Brook's marmalade blog I thought I would have a bash. I have made jam, chutney and jellies before, so I'm not a complete beginner.

The recipe I used was Sarah Raven's from her Garden Cookbook which is quite a simple recipe, a 'marmalade for idiots' if you like. All you do is boil the fruit whole, cut it in half when it's soft, scoop out the steaming hot mushy pulp and the pips into a pan, boil that, strain and add the resulting liquid back into the pan with the original liquid, chopped peel, sugar and lemon juice. Then boil it to setting point.

I can only make jams or jellies with the aid of Mum's jam thermometer, so I raided her kitchen and eventually tracked it down after ransacking her cupboards and drawers. It all seemed ridiculously simple and I ended up with a lovely aromatic pot of amber liquid.

I guessed it would fill 12 one pound jars which it (astonishingly) did, like very well behaved marmalade. Although I left it for half an hour before putting it in the jars, the peel has tended to float up towards the top of the jar, so perhaps I should have been a little more patient. That, though, is the sort of thing you learn with experience. I'll know next time not to be so hasty.

So it looks and tastes like marmalade should. Not bad for a first go. It was absolutely worth all the trouble for the smell of the simmering oranges alone and I now have some lovely jars of marmalade stashed in the cupboard.

Great heights and better things

This is the picture which hangs above my computer, to the right hand side of the screen. It is slightly grubby and watermarked, but it is one of the first things I would save from a house fire (after my children, husband and the dog).

I know that birds and flowers have various meanings in Chinese symbology, but I haven't yet fully researched this picture.

It was given to me by my mother and her late partner Michael, who loved scouring sales and auctions for interesting artifacts. Michael died 11 years ago, just two weeks before Princess Diana. He definitely had an eye for the unusual and could see the beauty of something, despite its grubbiness.

The picture is embroidered on silk. A bird of prey, what sort I don't know, sitting on a branch of wisteria, next to what could be a rose. Pasted on the back is a label which says W. Heffer and Sons Ltd, The Heffer Gallery, 18 & (something obliterated), Sydney Street, Cambridge, which is presumably where it originally was purchased from, although Michael found it in at a farm sale in Pembrokeshire.

Michael used to pick up boxes of all kinds of rubbish at sales, but within there would be something lovely, like this painting, or the Chinese ceramic stool Mum has, or her umbrella stand full of interesting and various walking sticks. At one point he went through a phase of buying chairs and tables. He gave me this lovely lidded bowl with a goose spoon on one of my birthdays.

All the time he was visiting farm sales and antiques auctions Michael knew he was terminally ill. It was almost as if he was looking for lovely things to leave behind which we could look at and enjoy that would remind us of him.

The best part of the picture though, for all it is attractive to look at, and one day I might even find out how to have such a precious thing cleaned, is the Chinese inscription at the top left hand corner.

It says: "This shows that I have the potential for soaring to great heights and better things."

Which, I think, is rather fabulous.