Excitement Shire Style.

I saw the first two swallows of the season at the bottom end of the Shire today. I watched them approach from a southerly direction and settle on somebody’s TV aerial.  I thought it reasonable to presume, given their southerly approach route, that they were finally making their first landfall after leaving South Africa a few weeks ago. I said ‘welcome and good luck’ to them as you would. Exciting things like that often happen in the Shire. Sometimes the adrenalin rush is hard to tolerate, especially if you’re blessed with an underperforming left ventricle.

The second exciting thing which happened to me was being passed in a motor car by the Lady B. She slowed, smiled, and waved, which is exactly what her mother always does so I suppose it’s an example of learned behaviour. I fully expect that one day one or the other will actually stop the car, lower the window, and proclaim:

‘Good morning, Mr Jeffrey. I presume you’ve noticed that I always slow down when I pass you on the road.’

‘I have indeed, ma’am,’ I will make hasty reply, ‘and I cannot thank you enough for your care and courtesy.’

‘Well actually,’ one or the other will continue, ‘the reason I do so is to avoid making an intolerable mess on the road. You know, all that blood and skin and broken bone and gelatinous tissue and so on. I fear it might frighten the horses, you see, and that would never do. I’m sure you understand. Goodbye.’

Being in a Deep, Dark Hole.

This post was begun on Monday 5^th May, three days after my phone line became comatose and my internet access naturally followed suit. The people at British Telecom said they were sending an engineer to trace the fault, but no result so far. I decided to write a post anyway – mostly for the sake of having something to do – and publish it if and when BT get their lethargic fingers out and resolve the matter.

During my enforced separation from the internet I discovered a file of images which I’d forgotten I had. It was a large selection of photographs from my pro days, held at that time (and probably still held as far as I know) by the publisher of a magazine which specialised in the landscapes and other places of interest in the UK. It’s a long time since I’d seen them and I was truly surprised by how good many of them were. I never realised how good an eye I had for form, visual balance, atmosphere, and the qualities of tone and texture. And then I remembered something else: I remembered how massively enthusiastic I was about my photography. Here are a couple of examples, chosen only because they remind me of the difference between nature’s endeavours and those of mankind. Nature is all about softness, sinuousness, and impermanence; the works of man are hard, run in straight lines, and built to last forever or as close as we can manage:

 

And that took me back to something I once wrote a blog post about: the tendency throughout my life to be subject to a variety of monomanias. There were mostly three of them – fishing, photography, and the writing of fiction. These were interests which consumed my waking desires at all times when I wasn’t being forced to walk the treadmill of school or salaried employment. I remembered the day when I went for a walk around the lanes where I lived, cameras and notebook at the ready to practice my new interest in the craft of photography. I was working as a revenue inspector at the time and a dispiriting revelation suddenly descended upon my consciousness and almost forced me to my knees – a sense that the time I spent in the office or out doing visits was akin to being trapped in a cold, musty crypt with only desiccated bones for company. It was at that moment that the aspiration to become a freelance pro was born.

And so the monomania became a career, and a very pleasant career it turned out to be. The enthusiasm never waned, you see, and being paid to do something you really like doing is a blessing indeed. Mrs Thatcher’s recession eventually killed it off and circumstances led me into theatre work, first as a volunteer and later in a paid position. I wouldn’t quite call the theatre work a monomania, but I was certainly enthusiastic about it and that means a lot.

And this brings me to the point of the post: the operative word is ‘enthusiasm.’ I was massively enthusiastic about all my obsessions – fishing, photography, the writing of fiction, and even the lesser matter of the theatre work. And that’s what’s missing in my life now. I have nothing to be enthusiastic about, and without enthusiasm life is a cold, grey affair. (I think that’s part of the explanation for the Lady B’s place in my life. Her presence was about the only thing which raised my consciousness to a state resembling enthusiasm, and why she has been mentioned so much on this blog. But life moves on, and so do people, and that’s just as it should be.)

So now for the complication:

There is something in my life which now provides the fuel to keep the motor running. Strange as it might sound to those who know of my attitude to the modern world and its oft-disturbing ways, it’s the internet. The internet has achieved a place in my life which I would never have thought credible in the early days. It’s where I go for information on news, sport, and the weather. It’s what I use to control my bills and general finances. Google searches provide most of the information on people and various sundry subjects. The internet provides my blog and feeds my love of Blogger stats. It’s the source of both learning and entertainment through YouTube and BBC iPlayer. And it’s been my main medium of correspondence for the past fifteen years. The internet very nearly fills what remains of my life when I’m not engaged in the chores of gardening, housework, and grocery shopping.

*  *  *

It’s now Tuesday 6^th May and I still have no internet because the land line problem remains unresolved. The consequence of this is to feel an overwhelming sense of something massive missing from my life. When I look at my computer monitor all I see is my desktop looking impassively back at me. It reminds me of a cold fireplace on a cold winter’s morning. Where there should be glowing embers, flickering flames, and wholesome heat, there is only black metal, soot-stained fire bricks, and dead cinders. That’s what having no internet is like and it’s depressing.

*  *  *

Wednesday 7^th May. My phone line is restored and I have access to the internet again. There were a lot of matters awaiting my attention when it returned this afternoon, including two emails from BT which provides the phone line. They were both apologies for the delay, and they’d been sent to me by email (duh?)

1st of Beltane.

In the pleasant month of May

As I roved out on a fine May morning

In the merry, merry month of May

Three lines from different folk songs, all recognising the fact that May is a special month. In the Celtic calendar, May is the youthful first month of summer, and in the Shire this morning all was green and bountiful in the Mayday sunshine. Vast swathes of white flowers on the wild garlic in The Hollow, veritable regiments of fresh young bracken everywhere, rockery gardens festooned with hanging colour of every hue, and the tree canopies in wood, field, and hedgerow proudly presenting their summer finery of leaf and seed.

When I came back to my house I heard music playing. I looked over to the school playing field where the kids were performing their maypole dance, and doing so to the lively brilliance of an Irish jig. Perfect; and for a brief few minutes the conviction held that life in this often torturous place called reality has compensations.

In the afternoon the loss arrived. I decline to go into detail, but I was reminded again of the connection between the forces of creation and destruction. But even that was ameliorated by the steady shower of light rain which graced the gardens and the dusty fields for a while this evening. We needed it after weeks of warm, dry, sunny weather.

And that was the first day of Beltane in a nutshell.

A Muse for Beltane.

It was a good Beltane fire this evening. No rain to spit indecorously in the embers, and no harsh wind to rouse the flames to demonic hostility. Just the temperate, dry air and the merest hint of a breeze to give harmonious life to the flickering.

And then I noticed something satisfactorily apposite. I looked westward into the uninterrupted blue of a darkening sky and saw the new baby reclining peacefully in the firmament. I’m referring, of course, to the slim crescent of the new moon which always reminds me of a new baby these days. (Does that indicate a growing awareness of symbolism, or is it mere incipient senility? I don’t know and I see no reason to care.)

Whichever it is, it put me in mind of the ouroboros which featured in a video I watched on YouTube last night – the snake or dragon which is constantly consuming its own tail, and which is a symbolic representation of the cyclical nature of reality, the persistence of soul, and the connection between the forces of creation and destruction. This is an ouroboros:

And that took me into further musing on the two active constituents of the Hindu lower trinity – Shiva the destroyer and Vishnu the creator. I asked whether they, too, are symbols of ancient pedigree and represent ancient knowledge of which the modern human is unaware, or whether they’re simply an early form of philosophical speculation.

I didn’t know and it didn’t seem to matter. It was just rather satisfying that the musing was engendered by the burning of a Beltane fire. And this is the 13th post of the month, which is probably irrelevant.

Being an Object of Scrutiny.

I was walking along Mill Lane today when a car drew up alongside and stopped. The view through the open driver’s window revealed an elderly woman of unknown identity, and she said:

‘I see you’re not wearing a coat today. You usually wear a coat when you go for a walk, but not today. Is that because it’s warm and sunny?’

I replied in the affirmative, of course. What else could I do? (Actually, I could have asked ‘Who are you and why do you stop my way upon this blasted heath? You should be a woman and yet your beard forbids me to interpret that you are so.’ I think it unlikely, however, that she would have been familiar with the provenance of the question, and that the irony and humour contained within it would therefore have proved elusive. In other words, she might have been offended, so I’m glad I didn’t think of it at the time.)

What little remained of the conversation was too perfunctory even to be memorable, so I won’t bother trying to remember it. Eventually she drove on. I think I waved.

It was a salutary experience nonetheless because it demonstrated yet again that I’m being observed in my solitary perambulations. Maybe I’m being studied, analysed even. And that’s the problem with small English villages. They’re full of Miss Marples.

A Special Sight

Most parts of my garden have plants in them that shouldn’t be there. (By that I mean they’re what people call weeds, only I find the term disrespectful and decline to use it.)  But anyway…

One of the wild flowers I have growing in my garden is the periwinkle. It grows on the narrow strip of land next to the side wall of my house, and looks quite at home with other plants which should (purportedly) be there such as snapdragons, teasels, climbing roses, basil, and a forsythia bush.

Well, yesterday – when it was sunny – I arrived at the top of my garden and something leaped into my vision like a nugget of gold on a pebble beach. There was an orange tip butterfly (the first of the season) sitting on a periwinkle flower and feeding on the nectar in the middle.  This is a periwinkle:

And this is an orange tip butterfly. (Sorry I can’t overlay one onto the other, but I don’t have the equipment or the expertise to do fancy stuff like that. Please employ your imagination):

I found the relative shapes, patterns, and colours so startling that everything else – the wall, the plants, the tall hedge, the shrubs, the lawn – became merely three-dimensional, but the butterfly on the periwinkle belonged to the fourth.

It’s because I’m neurodivergent, you see. I’ve known I’m neurodivegent ever since somebody on YouTube told me I am, but I haven’t been so diagnosed as yet because I don’t know anybody who would consider it an issue.

On Danegeld, Bad Ditties, Ducks, and Days.

Yesterday I read that President Xi of China has warned the countries of the world not to give in to American bullying in Trump’s trade wars. It reminded me of that episode in history when bands of Danish Vikings would rampage across a territory, terrorise the population, and then demand money in return for some peace and quiet (for a while at least.) The payment was known as the Danegeld, and Kipling wrote a poem about it which includes the line:

If once you have paid him the Danegeld, you never get rid of the Dane.

If Trump wins this one, he’ll know he’s got the world on a string, won’t he? We’ll all be puppets to be played with at will. Not a good idea, so let’s hope he loses.

(This week’s cover cartoon on Private Eye, by the way, shows a brat-like Trump bleating: ‘It’s Easter. Where’s my egg?’ And the reply comes back: ‘On your face, mate.’)

*  *  *

I made mention of Ellie, the new barista at Costa Coffee, didn’t I? I did. It occurred to me that the name Ellie should be suitable for the creation of a ditty, something I haven’t done for a very long time. I tried to think of suitable rhymes and decided that ‘smelly’ and ‘belly’ were entirely inappropriate. In fact, I didn’t do very well at all and could only come up with a second rate Limerick which doesn’t really pass muster. I’m going to publish it anyway, though, because even a cupfull of your own urine is better than nothing when you’re stuck in an arid desert awaiting rescue and there’s no water for miles.

There was a young woman called Ellie

Who saw something strange on the telly

A cook with no taste

Preparing a paste

With cow dung and raspberry jelly

*  *  *

For a span of several evenings last week I saw a pair of ducks flying over my garden at twilight. I thought it a rather comfortable image, but on the fourth or fifth night only one duck flew over and I thought it a little sad. The following evening there were no ducks at all, so I reasoned that they might have argued over the best place to spend the night and one of them had won. The female probably. Females usually win that sort of argument. So then I felt better.

*  *  *

I often wonder why I’m still trying to keep this blog going. It isn’t what it was, I know that. It lacks the flow, the humour, and the little bits of cleverness it used to have. It’s all in the mind, of course, beleaguered and belittled as it is by a consciousness become very demanding. I’m trying to stay afloat in a sea of existential speculation replete with capricious tides and opposing cross currents. Most of what I have around me is malfunctioning and so is my body, so there’s an ever present end-of-days feeling in the air and in my dreams. But the blog is still here and sometimes plays the role of pressure valve, so letting it go would probably be a bad idea.

Did I ever mention that words have a similar effect on me that certain foods have on other people? The wan day went glooming down in wet and weariness is my baked Alaska, and Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable Dominion over all my slice of chocolate gateau. I expect I probably did.

On Pitfalls and Pleasant Things.

Let’s have something we haven’t had for quite a long time, eh? A My-Day-In-Ashbourne post. (Sounds grander than it is, but I suppose it will do in the absence of anything better.) Here goes then:

The generally quiet little market town called Ashbourne has a troubled air about it at the moment, courtesy of the county council choosing to spend millions of pounds it doesn’t really have making a difference that doesn’t really need making. They’re digging up all the pavements (sidewalks) and replacing them with smart, off-white flagstones which obviously won’t stay off-white for very long. They’re also re-laying and making changes to the two town centre streets which carry all the summer tourist traffic heading for the Peak District as well as the year-round quarry wagons going in the same direction. Consequently, the quiet and normally unobtrusive little town is littered with yellow signs redirecting vehicular traffic, and red barriers doing the same to pedestrians.

It’s occurred to me a few times that if only we had steam vents blowing off and the odd broken fire hydrant treating us to an impromptu fountain, it would be easy to imagine being in Manhattan. Apart from the honking of horns, that is, or rather the lack of them. I think it’s probably self-evident that British – and other European – drivers are less given to impatience, angry outbursts, and the making of excessive noise in protest, than those who frequent New York City. But I might be wrong.

*  *  *

(The line break is so you don’t get bored because you think there’s something completely different about to take the stage. There is actually.) This:

Costa Coffee has a new Ellie. She has all the physical credentials to be eminently noticeable, and I was somewhat intrigued by her nose. I couldn’t decide whether it was Jewish or merely aquiline, but decided it didn’t matter. She’s also energetic – constantly shifting from one foot to the other and occasionally breaking into a little dance to complement the background music. Ashbourne Costa has become somewhat downbeat and characterless since the last crew left after the Covid lockdown, so I have hopes that the new Ellie will re-invigorate the old place.

And do you know what she said to me? ‘I think I remember you.’ That’s what she said. Me? Memorable? The only time I remember anybody saying that was seven years ago in a different coffee shop (that was Lucy, the ex-dental nurse.) That’s how rare it is. It transpired that Ellie used to work in the pet shop where I bought seed and peanuts for the feeding of wild birds, although that doesn’t explain why she should have noticed me and remembered my face all these years later. (Then again, both Gollum and Quasimodo had pretty memorable faces, so maybe…) I chose not to smile at her lest she thought me creepy. I’m not, you know, not at all. It’s just that some people are wont to get the wrong impression when faced with the odd creature that masquerades as me.

But it got even better. The Bernese Mountain dog sitting with its humans at the next table, and the chocolate Cockapoo I encountered in the street following my departure, both insisted that my company and approbation were every bit the equal of a juicy bone and became my very best friends for a few minutes. And life made sense after all.

A Notable Week of Sorts.

The past week has been a bad one, hence no posts. Matters are a little improved at the moment, but not by much.

*  *  *

I’ve listened to several people talking about the nature of the sigma male on YouTube and they all described me pretty well. Imagine being a sigma male, an INFJ, and an HSP all in one person (if you can.) Not much hope for a contented dotage, is there?

*  *  *

Nevertheless, I still managed to be mildly intrigued by the news that Signorina Meloni of Italy has gone cap in hand to visit Mr Trump of somewhere over the big water, hoping to persuade him to be kind to us poor Europeans. The news report suggested that she might have some success because, being one of the most right wing of Europe’s leaders, she has more in common ideologically with Mr T than most other European leaders. If she does, I suspect it will owe more to the fact that she is blonde, petite, good looking, and thirty years younger than him.

*  *  *

I also caught a video on YouTube made by a well spoken and intelligent American man (a creature rather commoner, no doubt, than we poor Europeans are wont to acknowledge in the circumstances currently prevailing.) He spoke about the possibility that, contrary to popular belief, consciousness is not a product of the brain but the creator of my brain, your brain, and every other fragment of material in the whole of the universe. This idea is not new to me, but the way he explained it impressed me to the point of almost believing him. I didn’t, of course, because I don’t do belief, but I did feel a satisfying sense of vindication.

*  *  *

Should I talk about the three knocks which woke me up at 3am a few nights ago, and the shuffling sounds I subsequently heard in my bedroom? Don’t think so. That sort of thing is best left to fly past on the wind.

On Trump and the T Word.

I read earlier that a woman has been charged with criminal damage after splashing some red paint on the walls of the clubhouse on one of Donald Trumps Scottish golf courses. Donald called it ‘an act of terrorism’ and said he hoped that she would be very harshly treated.

Well, come on. Turnberry isn’t exactly a national monument, is it? And the building hardly stands out as a notable piece of architecture. Vandalising property is, indeed, criminal under British law, but it’s a pretty minor sort of criminal. It doesn’t come close to wanting to steal Greenland from the Danes, or evict the Palestinians from Gaza so he can turn their ancestral homeland into another Mediterranean playground for the rich.

And have you noticed that Trump reacts to every bit of protest aimed at him or his entourage by calling it ‘terrorism’? He’s obsessed with the word and clearly hasn’t a clue what it means. A simple definition of terrorism would be: ‘purposefully hurting the innocent with the aim of reducing their resolve or morale.’ Writing ‘go home Trump’ - or whatever it was - in red paint on the wall of an unprepossessing building is hardly hurting the innocent. And I wonder whether Trump realises that American policy has been responsible for some of the greatest acts of true terrorism the world has ever known. How many innocent people were cruelly killed or hurt by the bombing of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Dresden in 1945? There was a war on, yes, but none of them were combatants. That’s terrorism. Defacing a building or trashing a Tesla car isn’t (except to Mr Dunderhead.)