Finding the Holy Grail

For a long time Nigel and I had wished to visit mysterious Rosslyn Chapel near Edinburgh with its links to the Knights Templar and rumours of the Holy Grail. 

Finally Nigel, Pascoe and I had tickets. However, at the last minute,  a trip to Accident and Emergency ruled out the day. (Don't worry -  everything turned out okay.)

We thought that was our opportunity gone, but Pascoe was a hero and got tickets moved to the next day. 

We were still on course to visit Rosslyn.  Would we discover the secret of the Holy Grail?

When we arrived, the ancient exterior was impressive, the interior even more so.

Inside, the virtuoso carvings conveyed so many ideas - green men burgeoned in every corner, the virtues occupied one side of an architrave, the vices the other. Up an arch jigged the Danse Macabre.  

I spotted a guide on hand for queries.

'What is your favourite thing here?' I asked.

And she showed us a photo of one of the pinnacles outside.  It had been created hollow, and carved with a stone flower, in the centre of which was a hole, just big enough for a bee to enter.  The bees used it as a natural hive, with the advantage that it was too high from the ground ever for humans to open it up....Until a few years ago, during restoration.  Within the stone pinnacle were new honeycombs, but beneath were layers of fossilised comb, dating back hundreds of years.

Bees are referred to many times in the Bible, so even this hive has a deeper meaning - exactly what, it's hard to say, but bees sometimes represent industry and unity, sometimes God's blessing and abundance.

As we left, we were no wiser about the Holy Grail, but we definitely felt we had been let into one of Rosslyn Chapel's secrets.

How to scare a bird

 

It was a cold bright morning foretelling Autumn.  Caroline & I went for a walk by some local lakes, formerly gravel extraction pits, now converted into fishing lakes.

However, our agenda concerned not fish but birds.  Caroline had spotted skeins of geese flying over and thought they might be stopping off at the lakes, along with other Autumn migrants. 

Passing the rumbling gravel conveyor belt, we turned towards the fishing lake, but there was a sign:

‘Bird scaring devices are in use here.  This is to stop the cormorants eating the fish.’  Then, as a preventive against the tutting of nature lovers, ‘It is our duty to prevent stress to the fish.’

‘Until they get dragged through the water by a hook through their lip…’ we muttered.

So now we were disappointed, expecting to be disturbed by the explosions of a crow scarer and see no birds at all.

Almost immediately, however, a cormorant surfaced serenely; further off, a family of great crested grebe was diving. Herons stooped patiently on the bank and at intervals swam mallards, coots, swans and black-headed gulls. 

We walked the whole length of the lake undisturbed by any explosion, with plenty of time to admire the birds.

At the head of the lake was a wooden cabin containing a loo. 

In I went, but just as I shut the door, there was an explosion.  Out I shot.

Finally the scarer had gone off.

So now we knew exactly which type of bird it deterred – old birds!

A la recherche du temps perdu

With Diane driving, Caroline and I visited Carol in The Peak District.

We had last done this in 2022, but what time of year was it when we came before?
We attempted to figure it out by referencing our memories of the weather and wildlife.
What temperature was it?
Were there swallows?
Was the golden saxifrage in bloom?
We couldn't quite remember.

Then we went for a walk through the fields.
At the end of one field, a tractor turned and started heading ominously towards us. It was dragging a muck spreader which was flicking out gobbets of poo.

An overpowering rural smell assailed us.

And just like Proust's madeleine with limeflower tea, it triggered a memory.

Ah yes, I remember. It was EXACTLY this time of year when we visited before!

Goat trouble

Two summers ago, I went camping near Avebury with Perran. He still regales people with my goat experience. 

The footpath went through a field with a large flock of goats. 

'Itll be alright.'

But as we entered the field they pricked up their heads and began to canter towards us in a tight mass.

Not knowing what goats do when they catch up with you, I performed a vertical take off over a gate into the next field where I waded rapidly uphill through waist high thistles until I deemed it safe to get back on the path.

Hahaha.

This year I was to camp again with Perran. Belatedly I realised I had booked in one of the few places in the country where there are wild goats - near Cheddar Gorge. 

'Great!'

Obviously he was hoping to get another story out of this, and I was hoping he didn't. This time I would be brave.

As we walked around Cheddar Gorge, my eyes were peeled for goats. However there was a lot of goat poo but no goats. Until we got almost back to the car, and then finally I saw them, three goats grazing.

'Look,' I said to Perran, 'There are goats and I'm perfectly calm.'

'Yes, Mum, that's so. But they are on the opposite side of the gorge.'

A tale of two tits

 My bedroom is not overlooked, so after my shower, I was in a state of undress, wandering about, selecting the day's clothing in a leisurely manner when behind me I heard a noise at the window.

'Tap, tap, tap.'

I froze. 

Who could be there?

The window cleaner had not been for some time, but surely he would know better than to tap on the window.

'Tap, tap, tap.'

Whoever it was, they were still there.

Clutching my clothing to me, I turned slowly.

At first, I could see nobody.

'Tap, tap, tap'

There at the top corner of the window was a fluffy young blue tit.

Bemused by its own reflection, it tapped again.  

Then it was joined by a couple of its siblings, all tapping at the window.

Perhaps I should shut my blinds when I'm getting dressed, but if I had, I'd never have spotted the darling little birds.

So I'll continue to leave them open.

Although I may set a phone alarm for the day when the window cleaner is due.

Behaving like a Primadonna

 

I went to the Primadonna Festival of books and writing last year and was blown away by it.

It’s not huge and it’s not designed to make a profit, and for that reason, there’s a lot of good will and community around it.

So I went again this year and encouraged a couple of friends.  They couldn’t be doing with camping in a field, despite the best festival toilets ever (supplied by ‘mobile thrones’).  So they air-b-n-b-ed, while I camped out under the stars.

There were some excellent events where writers shared their experience, but I probably gained equal enjoyment from sharing a cuppa with my friends, catching up with folk I met last year and from conversations with amiable strangers.

My favourite moment was at the comedy night.  The compere was trying to get a rise out of the front row.

She asked a young Goth in the front row, ‘And what do you do for a living?’

‘I work for a specialist cleaning firm.’

‘Specialist, eh?  What’s your specialism then?’

Pause.  ‘We clean up where there’s been a death.’

The compere hastily moved on but I am still left wondering whether that young person really did work for such a firm or whether it was simply their way of dealing with comedy comperes.

I have come home enthused and inspired about my writing.  The only drawback of so much community is that one of my friends contracted COVID, so I’m waiting to see on that one….

A lurking danger

 

Last week, near Falmouth, I sat sketching at Maenporth Beach Cafe while Nigel, Pascoe, Perran and Carenza went for a swim.

I was touched when Pascoe came back to keep me company.

Except, that wasn’t it.

‘I’ve trodden on something and my foot’s really hurting.’

Pascoe is notorious for his high pain threshold, so this was somewhat perturbing.

However, there was no glass, only a slight dark patch beneath the skin of one of his toes.

It was a puzzle.  Pascoe, however, is a biologist:

‘Jelly fish? Sea urchin? …weever fish?’

I went up to the café counter. ‘Do you by any chance have weever fish at this beach?’

‘Yes we do.  I’ll fetch you some hot water at once.’

Weever fish lurk just under the sand with their spines sticking out.  The pain is extreme.  The treatment is to dip the foot in water as hot as one can bear to denature the toxin.

By this time, Pascoe had shivers running up his spine.

The lady in charge was kindness itself and after about twenty minutes of very hot water, the pain was subsiding.

After the urgency passed, Pascoe was a little quiet.

'Okay, Pascoe?'

'Yes.  Just wondering how the weever fish is doing.'

So that's what my friends think of me...

At a.m recent gathering of our friends, we (unwisely) put up pics and asked for captions.

Here are some of our favourites.

 'There's two born every minute.'

 Does it have an ensuite?

 Public Enemy number one is captured finally.

 I hear the Vegan breakfast is to die for.

 It is okay Sir this van is electric.

 Irish stew in the name of the law.

  Letsby Avenue

'And this is why the Bronze Age was so disappointing.'

'The most embarrassing moment of my life? Well what do I choose?'

 Only one participant again, but at least everyone agrees with me.

 Break out rooms could be tricky.

 Who is that idiot grinning at me... oh.

 

 I told you not to eat meat.

 Hi everybody! (Aside) Are you sure you're not an Eco toilet?

 Nigel has a light bulb moment.

 One of these is very bright the other less so.

  

I've had a good sit down and a good long thing and I still don't know what that pale thing is.

 The revived Doctor Who finally runs out of budget.

Well this is a trifle awkward.

 Where exactly did you bury the car keys?

The first test is a success - the glue is strong enough to hold a dove.  Next step - a cat.

 You can't walk or move suddenly or they get into a flap - humans are like that I'm afraid.

 Help I've got a Nigel stuck on my foot.

 It's okay no one sees the back.

 One more comment and I will change this to a number one.

Hair all done.  Teeth next.

None of the captions for this were very funny, but I like the pic so thought I’d include it anyway!

Election Greens

 

For Nigel and I, the looming threat of climate change dominated our voting. 

We loved the Green Party’s policies, aimed at tackling just that, with major social reforms besides, aimed at restoring a fairer society.

We also love our current Lib.Dem. MP, Daisy Cooper, who also has a really strong record on green issues..  And she had a far better chance of getting in than the Green Party candidate.

‘She’ll walk it,’ said Nigel, ‘Let’s vote to show our support of the Greens.’

However, since the horror of the Brexit vote, it’s clear that it’s not safe to put in a protest vote which might actually foil the outcome you want.

In the end, Nigel voted Green and I (being risk averse) voted for Daisy.

And she walked it.

So I coulda shown support for the Greens after all.

Across the country, millions of folks were performing similar calculations.

Or we could just change the system to proportional representation and vote with our heads and hearts, rather than tactically…

Restore Nature Now!

 

The amazing march to Parliament Square on Saturday was spearheaded by Chris Packham and included all the best-known wildlife & environmental organisations including the National Trust, RSPB, Wildlife Trusts, Greenpeace, Friends of the Earth, Green Party and Extinction Rebellion, not to mention countless others. The police (who tend to estimate on the low side) estimated 80,000 to 100,000 marchers.  Carrying witty, colourful placards and props and dressed in carnival costumes, they threaded joyously through the streets of the capital.  At this time of Election, it was to remind our politicians that so many of us are hugely concerned about loss of wildlife and the massive global threat of climate change.

To paraphrase Margaret Atwood, it's not just going to be Climate Change - It's going to be Everything Change.

As voters, we might be fretting about the pound in our pocket and the price of food.  If we don't tackle Climate Change/Global Heating, these matters will worsen dramatically, whatever short-term policies the government elected presents.

Nigel was at the march, but I wasn't - my elderly parents needed support that day.  And that's my point - although 100k people turned out, behind each one of them were dozens more who would have liked to be there if they hadn't been working or unwell, or supporting another person.

So what can we still do, if we were unable to get to the march but know how much wildlife and climate matter? 

Go to your local hustings and ask an environment-related question about energy policy, or transport or house-building on the greenbelt.  Buttonhole doorstep canvassers with these questions and ring up radio phone-ins with them.  

Nothing matters more.

The pic below is a comment on the fact that the BBC did not bother to report this massive and spectacular march at which everybody was so well-behaved.

South Downs Way - Learning the Landscape

 I feel like I know a place better if I try to paint it, so when we go on holiday, I carry a small box of Winsor and Newton watercolour paints and a post-card sized sketch pad.  I'm definitely better at trees and sea and clouds than at buildings, but that's okay because that's what we usually seek out when we go on holiday.  On the South Downs Way, I liked the way that prehistory manifested itself in the landscape and you can spot Bronze Age round barrows (AKA tumuli) in some of my pictures.  I also liked the way the chalk path drew a line on the landscape.  It turned out though, that walking for many miles along a ridge, the main star was the sky, surrounding us with its changing moods.

South Downs Way - the earth laughs in flowers

'The Earth laughs in flowers,' Ralph Waldo Emerson

Sometimes we wonder how we might communicate with aliens should they visit our lonely planet.

Maybe a more interesting question is whether there are already 'aliens' here with whom we have failed to establish contact 

I have been enjoying the flowers of the South Downs Way. 

Meadow saxifrage, lime green crosswort, eyebright, common spotted orchid and silverweed are all in bloom on the downs. To me they are an exquisite tapestry of yellow, blue and pink. 

But seen from another viewpoint, flowers are the genitals of plants, lewdly displayed in order to achieve fertilisation.

Bees and butterflies get excited, just as the flowering plants intend, but for them, the glowing shapes of flowers mean food, not sex. They are enthusiastic but unwitting partners in plants' reproduction.

As for me, as this deadly serious battle for reproduction and nourishment takes place right under my nose, I cry 'Oh, how pretty!'

But I am missing so many layers of communication.

South Downs Way - A long-held secret

The South Downs Way was not only about walking - there were some great opportunities to catch some culture - Raymond Briggs at Ditchling Museum of Art and Craft and Dorothy Hepworth at the Charleston Galleries in Lewes.

Dorothy Hepworth was particularly amazing. She was an extraordinary artist but a reserved person. Whereas her life partner Patricia Preece was a less impressive painter but a great schmoozer of people. They agreed to put Patricia's name on Dorothy 's paintings so that together they made up one successful artist. 

At one point Patricia even married Stanley Spencer on behalf of both of them. To no-one's surprise, the marriage didn't last. 

Each time, Dorothy finished a painting, Patricia took a photo of her holding it. Clearly she intended the truth to out one day. 

In fact, as old ladies, it was Patricia who died first. Through long loyalty, Dorothy continued to sign her paintings 'Patricia Preece'. 

To see the truth revealed and their story explored in this exhibition was very special like being let in on a long-held national secret.

South Downs Way - Swift response

In several of the villages where we stopped we have heard a particular shrill bird call.

'Swifts!'

But although I'm pretty good at birds, I found I was mistaken. 

When I looked up, there were no scimitar winged swifts wheeling.

Yet if we returned via the same street later, I heard their calls again.

Finally I twigged. 

Each time, high on a house wall was a nest box.

Inside there must be a 'swift caller',  designed to attract these joyous summer visitors.

This happened to us five times during our nine day walk, but over the whole time I saw maybe only twenty swifts in all.

With these swift nest boxes, caring people are offering the birds hospitality, but is it too late?

Climate change and conditions in their wintering  places in Africa are also affecting the swift population.

The very beautiful village of Amberley was one where swifts were visible, wheeling and squealing, and also one where houses had swift nest boxes. There was a tall castle whose weathered walls rose behind the church, offering many convenient crevices.  I couldn't understand why the houses had swift boxes when the castle presented such a perfect nest site. 

Then I saw the reason.  Scaffolding.

The considerate inhabitants of Amberley were offering the swifts temporary accommodation while their historic residence was renovated.

Lets hope the swifts return there for many years to come.

South Downs Way - Missing it

Sometimes the walkers and runners we pass are plugged into headphones or earbuds. One guy wasn't even bothering with those - he had music blaring straight out of his rucksack.

I want to tell them, 'You're missing it!' 

Every time we pass a thicket or a rustling hedge, there is birdsong. The mob of summer-visiting warblers has arrived to breed and our native birds are also singing their tiny hearts out over mates and territories. This incredible symphony lasts only a few months of the year.

Different birds favour different areas - on day three we were hearing tree pipits, who have the most beautiful song, the following day, whitethroats, with their busy, scratchy tunes.

And always, there are wrens, robins, yellowhammers, chiff-chaffs, blackbirds and thrushes.

But there is one constant accompaniment on the South Downs Way of which we never tire - the buoyant warbling of the skylark.

Many and wonderful are the podcasts and pop tunes folks might be listening to through their ear buds, but none could possibly be as heart-lifting as the song of the skylark. 

South Downs Way, Day 9 Alfriston to Eastbourne - A concrete finishing line

At Alfriston, the South Downs Way divided in two.  There was an inland route more suitable for cyclists and a seaside path, preferred by walkers.  The seaside route would give us spectacular views over the white cliffs of the Seven Sisters and Beachy Head, but would involve going steeply up and then steeply down for each of the Seven Sisters - a challenge for our creaky old knees.

My only regret about taking the seaside route (apart from the 2000 feet of ascent and the 2000 feet of descent) was that we would miss the Long Man of Wilmington, a chalk figure cut in the hillside a long time ago.  I identified with The Long Man because, like me, he carried two walking poles.

It was a testing walk, but after eight days of hiking, we were ready for it.

What we weren't ready for was the very visible finish line at Eastbourne.  All at once, the chalk and grass which had been beneath our feet for the last nine days turned to asphalt and concrete.  It was another mile and a half along the sea front before we got to our hotel, which was just as well, as it gave our soles/souls a chance to adjust to the fact that, well over a hundred miles since we left Winchester,  our long-distance hike was over.

And on the train next day, from Eastbourne to London, we had a great view of the Long Man of Wilmington, complete with walking poles.  

We saluted him.

South Downs Way, Day 8 continued, Room for Improvement

Our choice of accommodation was limited by the places that our baggage hauliers were prepared to call at. We paid roughly similar prices for all of them but met with a huge variety of facilities, space and even cleanliness.

One in an ancient half-timbered pub had very little sound-proofing. We could hear every word of the TV program our neighbours had chosen. 

They considerately switched off at ten at night, but the folks in the bar below continued until late. We both screwed in ear plugs and attempted sleep.

Once or twice in the night I was woken by a loud creak or bang that seemed to come from within the room itself. 

In the morning I said to Nigel, 

'It's possible this room is haunted, but the pub is so noisy in general that it's impossible to know. That banging could have been a cry for help from a very frustrated poltergeist.'

Very true,' 

'And did I hear our neighbours boiling their kettle just now?'

' Yes,' said Nigel. 'He's having coffee and she said she'd like tea.'

South Downs Way, Day 8 - Lewes to Alfreston - Charleston - Worth going off-path for

If there was one bit of culture worth tramping down off the South Downs Way for, then it was Charleston Farmhouse, occupied by Vanessa Bell and Duncan Grant and frequently visited by other members of the Bloomsbury set. 

It was obtained during World War 1 so that Grant could claim to be labouring on the land and thereby avoid being drafted to the army.

The walls were hung with great art, both that of the artists, and others which they had collected. 

However, what I particularly enjoyed were the two fireplaces designed by Roger Fry. They were not beautiful like the dining table, hand painted by Vanessa Bell, nor cool like the rug designed by Duncan Grant.

Although Fry was the foremost art critic of his day, his two fireplaces were ugly makeshift constructions which used slabs of firebrick to extend the hearth further into each room.

The reason I like them is because, like nothing else, they conjure up a picture of the privileged upper middle class writers and artists from London scratching their heads as to how on earth to keep warm in this primitive farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.

Douth Downs Way, Day 7 Ditchling to Lewes - The bright lights of Lewes

Ever since we began our adventure a week ago, I have had my eye on this Thursday. A short walk, then an afternoon pottering about the shops and cafes of Lewes.

The morning's walking turned out to be only around seven miles. 

'Perhaps we can make it longer,'

'Absolutely not!'

An afternoon without milestones to hit was a wonderful prospect.  But when it came, it was hard to adjust to the change of pace.

Even as we began to wander the streets, I was still waiting for Nigel's Fitbit to announce 'Eight miles!' I kept feeling I had forgotten something. It was my walking poles - abandoned at the hotel.

Worst of all, our feet, instead of rejoicing at the leisurely pace, began to ache. 

We had to cut short our visit to Charleston Galleries and hobble back to the hotel.

So much for the bright lights of Lewes!