No!

       No sun -- no moon!
       No morn -- no noon --
No dawn -- no dusk -- no proper time of day --
       No sky -- no earthly view --
       No distance looking blue --
No road -- no street -- no 't'other side the way' --
       No end to any Row --
       No indications where the Crescents go --
       No top to any steeple --
No recognitions of familiar people --
       No courtesies for showing 'em --
       No knowing em'! --
No travelling at all -- no locomotion --
No inkling of the way -- no notion --
        'No go' -- by land or ocean --
        No mail -- no post --
No news from any foreign coast --
No Park -- no Ring -- no afternoon gentility --
        No company -- no nobility --
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
   No comfortable feel in any member --
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
   No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds --
       November!
                                                    Thomas Hood

Trafalgar Day

Last night I discovered that today is Trafalgar Day: the anniversary of the day on which Admiral Nelson lost his life, after leading the British navy to a glorious victory over the French and Spanish during the Napoleonic wars. Did you know Nelson had only twenty-seven ships, to the Franco-Spanish thirty-three? And that, whilst they lost twenty-two of those thirty-three, the English lost no ships at all?
What a great opportunity to indulge in some national pride!

I'd like to celebrate this great day in Britain's history, but it's rather short notice to get hold of any fireworks (my first idea), and I don't have any red-blue-and-white bunting (second idea). So I will just have to settle for opening a bottle of extra-special apple juice that I've been keeping for just such an occasion, and perhaps make something special for pudding. Oh, and before I eat and drink, I will read this prayer that Nelson prayed before going into battle; the battle in which he lost his life in the cause of liberty:

“MAY THE GREAT GOD, whom I worship, grant to my country and for the benefit of Europe in general, a great and glorious victory: and may no misconduct, in anyone, tarnish it: and may humanity after victory be the predominant feature in the British Fleet.
For myself Individually, I commit my life to Him who made me and may His blessing light upon my endeavours for serving my Country faithfully. To Him I resign myself and the just cause which is entrusted to me to defend. 
AMEN AMEN AMEN”

Amen indeed!

The mosaic of autumn...

What a sudden change in the weather! From the deep warmth of summer to the chill and frosts of autumn in the space of a day; it is quite a shock to the system, but I don't complain. Every season that comes around, I think is my favourite, and this is no exception.

I don't know why it is, but with all the poems there are about autumn - some extolling it, others lamenting - I have never read one that talks about its sounds. Changing leaf colours, yes; frosts and early evenings, yes; mists and "mellow fruitfulness", yes - but nothing about the great murders of crows that are now gathering, crarking away to each other as they swoop through the sky. (Isn't 'murder' a great collective noun?) No mention either of the thin but delightful music of the robins, singing to reclaim their territory in the wet early mornings, while a low pink sun rises behind them over the fields.
Funnily enough, the seagulls aren't making much noise at the moment, but their numbers have swelled considerably since the ploughing began again. As the tractors snort and grumble their way across the fields, turning over great clods of dark brown chocolatey earth, they gather in a great cloud, rising and falling, and rising again, following in the tractors wake.

Autumn is such a bits-and-pieces, patchwork of a season: part summer, part winter, it combines the mournful lament of late summer, with the expectation and anticipation of early spring. It think this quote from Stanley Horowitz describes it very well: "Winter is an etching, spring a watercolour, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all."

It Shouldn't Happen to a Willow Warbler

Better Late Than Never...

Today I awoke to grey skies and a world wet from last night's rain. At least the weather matches the changing colours of the falling leaves; I was getting a little worried by that Indian Summer we had! Not that I didn't enjoy it, of course; it was delightful to have, at last, the summer weather that had been so notably absent from July and August. What with those big blue skies without a trace of cloud, and heat that became almost unbearable if you sat out in it too long, I was actually able to wear my summer dresses - I have never in my life had a birthday like it!
It reminds me of my favourite Psalm:
"[The sun's] rising is from the end of the heavens,
  and its circuit to the end of them,
  and nothing is hidden from its heat." 19 v 6

One day during that spell of heavenly weather I was sitting in our little outside study with the door open, when to my surprise a robin flew in, perched briefly on the edge of the desk, and flew out again. Well, that was a little exciting to be sure, but it didn't last long, and I returned to my work.
The next thing I knew, another bird had flown in and landed on the window sill. It tried to fly out through the glass, and on finding it couldn't, it panicked, and flew further into the room, coming to rest on a row of books in front of a window which doesn't open. There it sat for some time, panting for breath.
As soon I saw it, I recognised it for the Chiffchaff or Willow Warbler which I had first seen in the garden a week earlier. At the time I had been unable to identify it exactly, as I couldn't see whether its legs were black (Chiffchaff) or flesh-coloured (Willow Warbler). Now, here was my opportunity, handed to me on a plate!

Misadventures of a Willow Warbler

Rather annoyingly the bird had flown behind me, but by twisting round in my chair I managed to get into a position where I could see it. As it sat there, panting quietly, I could see its flesh coloured legs clearly, and so knew it was a Willow Warbler. We sat there quite still for about ten minutes, and then I thought I had better start helping it to get outside again; the study was hot, and I didn't want the the Willow Warbler to get over heated. I got up and moved towards it slowly, hoping to 'shepherd' it in the right direction; and, after a few mishaps (such as falling down behind the row of books several times), it got itself to the door, and flew out into the sunshine. I thought I had seen the last of it...

That afternoon, my mother heard a thump on her window: a bird had flown straight into the glass. Out we went to investigate, hoping against hope that it hadn't broken its neck. There, sitting on the gravel beneath the window, and gently panting away, was my friend the Willow Warbler.

Exmoor

Exmoor - the heather-covered country of Lorna Doone, wild ponies, and Porlock hill...

In my opinion, Exmoor has it all - forest covered hills, rolling green fields, beech woods, moors,  heather, wild ponies, roaming sheep (not to mention the occasional highland cattle), cliffs, beaches, and stunning seascapes. Who could ask for more?

I have never enjoyed swimming in swimming pools (and have besides, a fear of being out of my depth), but one of the joys of my life is paddling - sometimes amounting to wading, if there's been a lot of rain - in the icy streams of Exmoor. Everything about it, from the bone-cracking cold, to the balancing act of finding a secure footing on the stony bottom, to the purity of the water itself, lends it an interest and mild excitement simply lacking in the sterile atmosphere of a man-made pool.
As to the bone-cracking iciness - I don't know why it is, but the streams down there do seem to be particularly cold. I went paddling in the streams in Yorkshire a couple of years ago, at the same time of year, and they were positively warm; well, perhaps not actually warm, but certainly mild compared to the invigorating coldness of those on Exmoor...

I asked my parents which town they would rather live in if they had the opportunity: Lynton - at the top of the cliff, or Lynmouth - at the bottom. My father chose Lynton, as he said he would always prefer to be high up than low down. My mother, on the other hand, said she'd rather live in Lynmouth, in order to be as near the sea as possible.

Cliff-top view over Lynmouth bay.

After taking a walk along a cliff path looking out over Lynmouth bay, with the heather-covered slope tumbling straight down beside me into the water, and the late-afternoon sun reflecting off the silvery sea, I decided with my father. Living down in a valley all the time would make me claustrophobic; let me glory in the heights, and gaze down on nature's splendour from above!

So Tall

When my cousin was staying over last Christmas, I sang her some of my favourite Bluegrass songs. After she'd sat through about five of them she said to me, Can't you sing me some cheerful songs? To which I responded that This is Bluegrass - there are no cheerful songs; except for a few about whisky...
So I sang her some songs about whisky.

This conversation got me thinking about the depressing content of country/folk ballads in general, and ones about infidelity (and there are a lot) in particular, and one thing that came to my attention is that in all the songs, no matter which party is guilty of being unfaithful, the outcome is certain: whether she be murdered, or die of a broken heart, it is the woman who always ends up dead. This seemed to me to be rather imbalanced; so, admittedly at the expense of my own sex, I attempted to right the wrong, and to this end I wrote So Tall.

...You can listen to a recording of it in Little Grey Rabbit's Music, in the column on the right...

Nature's Bounty

"Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful,

or believe to be beautiful."

William Morris

This week I have been foraging in the hedgerows. First I collected damsons; I actually set out to find blackberries, and did indeed pick a fair number, but the damson tree I passed on the way was a delightful bonus. It was growing very close to the lane - no inconvenient ditches to straddle, as happened later on with the crab apples - and its branches were fairly drooping with the big purpley-black fruits. They looked so beautiful, and I reached up and gathered great handfuls of them. After sitting around for a day or two looking attractive, they were made into damson 'cheese' by my father. It's not really cheese (obviously), but a very thick, rather solid sort-of spread, and it goes well on oatcakes.

The next day I went for a walk past a big horse chestnut tree, and spread out beneath it on the ground were lots and lots of rich, brown, glossy conkers. They may not have any edible uses, but I couldn't resist! They are so round and shiny and satisfying that every year I am tempted to pick far more than I have any space for. My father says I am a conkaholic...

Actually, I have recently discovered that conkers do have a use, though not an edible one: they keep spiders away. Apparently this is caused by the conkers giving out some sort of chemical that spiders pick up on, and they hate it. So if you put conkers on a windowsill, or on the floor in a corner, it will rid a room of any current spidery inhabitants (and discourage any new arrivals). There now! Useful and beautiful: William Morris would approve...