Walking with Robert the Bruce

Did you, as a child, learn in history about Robert the Bruce and the spider? It also involved burnt cakes and boxed ears... Well, I did and that is more or less all I knew of him. But while we have been out walking we have come across some of his old stamping grounds or more accurately his old battle fields.  He was a busy man!

Himself planned a walk through Glen Trool along the loch shores where apparently Robert the Bruce and some 300 men outwitted over a thousand soldiers. He is credited with altering the style of battle with a new tactic ~ guerilla warfare.

It was a fantastic walk, the scenery more reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands with dramatic cliffs and towering mountains.

Hidden away in the glens were many wild waterfalls.

Right, better stop looking at these photos - makes me want to head for the hills :( 

this going to work and being grown up and sensible can be a bit boring...!!!

Will share more pictures soon xx 

Before I go, I must say hello to Grammy Braxton - nice to 'meet' you and you are more than welcome to share our walks :) and to  Robert Daniel - I wish my cats would NOT jump in the bath as they always seem to leave little sweaty cat paw prints - why don't they just wipe their feet first!!

COUNT-DOWN-TO-2012 - 24♥

Today has almost gone and I still haven't posted the number - it is not as if there is a shortage of them, I actually have three to share.
No - it has been a combination of work, kittens, crochet, kittens, crochet and did I mention - kittens. Now at the end of the day, the girls are fast asleep in their basket and I am finally knuckling down to blogging.


So, before today finishes I now present to you in my COUNT-DOWN-TO-2012 - 24♥ 

My first offering are the proud words of a father for a son lost in a far off land in the days when America was so very distant from the land of his birth. I tried researching William, Lord Dunglass (spelt as Dunclas on the Cenotaph)and found very little on him bar a few lines on an ancestry site and these words from an American Revolution fact site..............

HOME - Captain William (Lord Dunglass) - Coldstream Guards - died of wounds - December 1781.
Wounded at Guildford, 15th March 1781. Memorial in Royal Military Chapel, Wellington Barracks, London - "In memory of William Home, Lord Dunglass, Lieutenant and Captain, Coldstream Guards. Died December, 1781, of wounds received at the Battle of Guildford, North America. Placed by Lieut.-Colonel Hon. W. Home, Grenadier Guards, 1880."


My next two offerings offering are far less grand and historically interesting but do have the magical number of 24 on them -
One a 'danger of death' electricity sign and the other from a supermarket carpark (other supermarkets are available......)

I promise not to be so tardy tomorrow, right - off to bed, but not before one last little peak at sleeping furry-babies - hummmmmmm, just want to snuggle right into that gloriously gorgeously soft and floofy fur xx =^.,.^=

Please excuse the cardboard box. They insist in sleeping on a shelf near my desk when I am at my laptop, and after falling off a couple of time whilst fast asleep, I thought a little box would stop any further 'dropping off to sleep' incidents!


Right then, definitely off to bed now - good night!

Holiday musings ..... 5

Walking - a form of meditation. 

Breath and booted foot moving in harmony. 

Cathartic and exhilarating.

On our walks during our holiday we kept meeting these wonderful footpath signs. Each one beautifully made and representing the landscape, farming and wildlife with some having an  historical or modern theme

 Some had historical references to both pagan and religious festivities 

Others showed a link with the farming past - Here a farmer with his oxen and plough....

...And in the background a hill with lynchets caused by mediaeval ploughing

Some references were modern - such as this one with the helicopter. The hill in the distance is a MOD (Ministry of Defence) zone where war games and tactical manoeuvres are practiced by the army. We sat and over a tea we spotted tanks through binoculars.

I think if we walk there again, I will take paper and crayon and make 'brass-rubbings' of them.

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Thank you for popping by and for all your lovely comments, I do enjoy getting them :)

Time to end, it's getting late and outside I can hear the rain clattering down, my poor garden will be happy, it had become very thirsty with all this glorious sunny weather. 

Enjoy the rest of your weekend. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

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Africa-day: in which my Dad is a Hero in the eyes of my boy (and ALL his mates)

Youngest asks

We are learning all about Africa mum, can you come and talk at the school?

I reply rather absentmindedly

Hmm? umm, ok.

Youngest asks again

Would Bumpa come too?

When is it for? I think I better start concentrating now

Not for a while, the teacher says it will be ok, I have already asked if you can come

Oh, um ok, think we better speak to Bumpa

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A couple of day later, and in his most angelic voice Youngest asks my Dad -

Bumpa, we are learning about Africa at school, can you come and talk about it?

To his absolute credit my Dad did the exact opposite to what he would have rather have said and said.....

Yes

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Weeks later, we suddenly register that 'Show and Tell Africa-day' is imminent and although we have all loosely discussed African related ornaments and stories, clothes and food - we haven't actually done anything about it! My Mom decided to make some traditional 'Boer rusks' for the children to taste and asked me how many to make, and according to youngest there are 16 - 18 in his year. (Please retain this low number in your head for later.......)

Phew - not so many kids to deal with. 

As the day gets closer, nerves get a bit jangly - although I used to teach, its always a bit nerve tingly to start in a new class of faces and I knew I wasn't the only one getting cold feet..... but we'd promised and with a slight feeling of fatalistic dread we all carried on.

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On the day - which was yesterday, we met up at the school, we had bags and boxes and oddly shaped parcels holding our historic and sentimental treasures. I suggested that the children be in first so that as we arrived and opened our 'wares' the element of surprise would be heightened.

My Mom had made some copies of a map of Africa but midway through printing them her printer decided to conspire against her so ended up with only 10 copies and we asked at the school if we could have a few more copies made.....

I'll do you 33 copies the secretary cheerily said...............

33?    33?   THIRTY THREE???? 

(please retain not so low number in head for later....)

My Mom and I glance at each other and then at my Dad................. Had he heard? 

The look on his face confirmed all. 

Before he could run off we were marched to the classroom by the headteacher who whilst chatting mentioned that Youngest had been enthusing so so much about his Grandad's Africa stories that there would be a few more children - aah, I thought, that's why there are 33.

We were then met by the teacher who is such a lovely young enthusiastic lady whom Youngest adores. She said how Youngest was so pleased and proud his family were coming that she and the other teachers had added a few more children in and they were all excited to see. I suddenly thought I'd better ask how many children ....exactly... how many children....

Oh, she happily said, about 60 or 65 I'm not exactly sure...............

60!?!?! (please recall at your leisure and at our discomfort how many children were originally involved.......) 

I didn't dare look at my Dad now!

But, once we started it was fine - my Dad and Mom were brilliant, and the children loved it. Especially when historic weapons came out, a wonderful old ram rod rifle, assegai and ceremonial axes. We passed around fired clay beer pots and stone carvings. We showed porcupine quills and beads and played traditional wedding music. My Mom had made a traditional costume and one of the little girls happily wore it and danced to the music. We spoke on snakes and spiders and all things squeamish, we told of hills and mountains, of rivers so wide that it was difficult to see the other side, we spoke on lions and crocodiles,  we shared the heat and dust of Africa with the class of English children that day. 

And Youngest was a happy chappy in the back row and he later told me,  the kids in the school thought....

that his Mom, his Grandad and his Gran were AWESOME  

so I think we did ok :)

PS - there were 68 children in the end........and two teachers................and the headteacher..............and two teaching assistants.

08.03.10 - and so to work

I turn and lock the back door having said bye to the dog as she lies sulking in her basket. Her eyes avoiding me, her face turned away. It is like this every time I go to work and leave her behind. I step out into the sunshine casting my eyes over my 'patch' as I leave, absorbing it so I have it's memory safely inside of me. Walking down the gable end of the terrace and turning right onto the road, I hesitate, check for traffic then step out onto the road to cross it. There, in front of me is a friend in her garden, we wave cheerily and pass suitably English weather orientated greetings to each other. She in her cords tucked into her long brown socks and boots and fleecy hat tied up in a fetching manner and me in my black 'bovver' boots and long skirts I inappropriately wear to work.

I pass the library, where workmen have loitered in hi-viz jackets for the last three or four weeks. They look up and are disappointed, I am neither a dolly-bird  nor wearing anything worth whistling at.

Passed the Post Office with its Mother's Day display of pink balloons and pink teddies, which according to a rather hastily handwritten sign are all for sale.

Passed the old corner police station that had once briefly held a local radio station which before that had been the old bank and is now empty.

Passed the community centre with a clutch of young mums in short skirts and tight tops who are balancing their tots and babes on plump hips as they chat and laugh their way into the hall for the weekly get-together. I remember those days, same hall, same day, different mums.

I glance across the road towards the Cenotaph, there is a tired bouquet lingering sadly at it's base. I suspect one left over from last week's funeral. Cars drive by, some of the occupants I know well and wave to, some I know in passing and nod a hello and others are strangers who drive through without even looking.

Across the bridge, where years ago I clambered down and rescued a stray kitten as it clung to a semi submerged branch. Passed the old chapel, now a smartly converted house who's owners keep hens in the graveyard.  A strangely incongruous  sight of hens basking in sunlight with their backs being warmed by leaning tombstones remembering long forgotten dead.

Over the next bridge, with it's feral ducks. It's not far off spring, there will be ducklings soon.  I nod a greeting to another mum pushing a pram, I know she won't be joining the others at the community hall - not her scene, she keeps herself to herself. The bus rumbles by as I head towards the bus stop at the bottom of the school lane. Old dears heave themselves in and youngsters fall noisily out and the bus sets off again in a cloud of pungent fumes.

I wait as a car turns into the garage on my left. When we first lived here,  Himself used to use this one, but when a trainee mechanic in his enthusiasm set fire to his beloved car, Himself never returned.  Passed the new houses, that only five years ago stood a derelict mill. A health and safety nightmare of asbestos and unstable walls where the village children played imaginary games and teenagers smoked illicitly.

Along the main road, the occasional car trundling by. A lycra clad cyclist slices through the still cold air, calf muscles bulging and cheeks puffing.

Passed the house where only last week someone who'd lived in the village as long as anyone could remember,  was packed off to a home for the bewildered by a well meaning distant relative. It won't be long before this quiet terraced house with it's outhouse and 1950's wall paper and furniture will be put up for sale and stripped of all it's history ready to start a new history with a new owner.

In the distance, between the sound of my boots on the pavement and the birds singing encouragement to the sun, I can hear the local primary school - it's break-time and the children are giving voice to their temporary freedom.

Nearly at work,  I glance up, it is the most brilliant blue, not a cloud in the sky. What a shame to be inside.....

I turn up into the car park and on reaching the staff entrance, I punch in the security code and pause for a second.

Breathe. 

Time for work.

04.02.10

Today's heart is.....

This felt woven heart, brought by my Mom to knit n knatter last night,  was one I had made when I was 11 or 12 for my Gran. It still has the childish uneven stitches done by a reluctant scholar.

I did it in the final year of junior school in Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) in what was called 'Home Economics' class. A thinly veiled attempt to train girls to be good housewives. While the boys went off to do wood work, cross country and play cricket, we learned to crochet (didn't pick up a hook again until last year), how to sew (only started sewing seriously-ish in last 6 months) and how to cook (only really got the cooking bug when I met Himself and I had found that by feeding him he kept coming back!!... and I really did want to keep him.)

School and I didn't get on well, I never really excelled at anything and school never really cared.
As a child, many adults used to say to me 'school days - the best days of your life....'

I know now what I felt then - they were lying.

My best days are now.

11.12.09

Today, my Mom and I raised a cup of tea and silently wished Happy Birthday to her Mom

My Gran.

When, as an angry 20 year old, I arrived in the UK,

she took me in.

We fought.

We laughed.

We went walking around her town in the evenings, counting cats basking in the last of the sunshine.

She, being the upstanding lady that she was, wore skirts and tights and never tore them when we climbed over gates into fields.

She took me to castles.

Took me the museums.

We visited London.

We saw the Queen's flag at half mast and laughed at the thought of her going to have a cup of tea

I watched the Changing of the Guard.

We visited the Tower of London.

We argued,

I slammed doors,

She tried to dominate me.

She was of a generation when you had to respect your elders without question,

I wanted to be treated as an equal.

All through out our stormy Gran/granddaughter relationship,

we remained friends.

I became less angry, she became more lenient.

She loved my sons, dearly - and they called her O'Gran and loved her dearly back.

.

.

.

.

.

At her funeral, in January,

I was asked to say a few words.

My Mom had given me something she wanted me to read, and me being me, had left it at home.

So, I stood up and just told of a tale, of us, Gran and me, going for a walk, counting cats and climbing gates.

Happy Birthday Gran.

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Frost on geranium leaves

Bristling with frosty hairs

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I've been busy.

21.11.09

We are cat-sitting again this weekend and our most direct route is up the tram lines.
They have some form of heritage status and as such are protected.

Sadly many dog walkers see the tram lines for another more perfunctory reason - to relieve their dogs.......

The first trams came into our village on June 24th 1904 and the local children came out of school early to be allowed a free ride, an extract from the school's register read  'Buns and coffee will be given on their return'.

On June 3rd 1928 - only 24 years later, the last tram ran into the village.

The lines remained idle until the rails were lifted around 1942 for the war effort. Ironically, most of the iron lifted in Britain was dumped into the sea as it was found to be unusable. A small stretch of rails remains and the old tram terminus is now used for the local bus service turning circle.

Our village has a lot of hidden history, but many people sadly just pass it by without even seeing never mind knowing anything about it.

Winter flowering cherry - an unexpected find on our walk.

At the end of season, when most flowers have faded, this one appears and the sense of promise is overwhelming.