Death, burial – and untimely resurrection

Posted on October 17, 2017 by memoirsofahusk

The dead were fast becoming the underlying (sorry) theme of our trip to Uppsala.

First it was ancient DNA.

Then, as day two dawned – actually, it was long after dawn – it was the turn of Viking burials.

Replete with smoked salmon, mustard sauce and dark brown bread, we set out for the bus.

After what felt like miles of tromping – and the sight of the requisite bus heading in the opposite direction – we finally en-bussed.

As we headed out of town, to Gamla Uppsala, all seemed set fair. But.

We arrived in the outer suburbs, to what looked like a building site. And no obvious signs.

Had we reached the wrong place?

No.

There was the museum. Buzzing with children … behind a locked door.

A little boy indicated we should wait and we’d be let in.

We were. Only to be told the museum was shut.

‘But we’ve come from England to see this,’ I exaggerated.

‘You can come back tomorrow,’ she said, smiling.

I didn’t return the smile.

Stomping down a track the real goal came into view. A trail of mounds.

Burial mounds.

As I sit here typing, at 2.35 am, in the close, dark time of the night (snuffles keeping me awake), thinking of those mounds, I begin to feel the magic.

The mystery.

Thoughts of sleeping lords and ladies, of dragons and hideous trolls (the real kind), of monsters, spells and… well, you get the idea.

But at the time, I was becoming more and more grumpy.

I’ve not only seen lots of mounds. I’ve climbed lots of mounds.

Like Etowah Indian Mounds, Alabama. Awesome, #biggly mounds.

So this string of hummocks, like the knotty spinal cord of great a sleeping giant, was tempting.

Across the flat fields, the spires of Uppsala cathedral pointed skywards. The view from the mounds would be …

But the sign said to keep to the paths. So, with an ill, will we did. Unlike the locals. Or their dogs.

By now even the archaeologist was more interested in a nearby church than mounds behind fences, so off we set.

Why do rooks and ravens find churches such a magnet I wonder?

‘A funeral is in progress,’ read the sign.

For a moment we thought our run of bad luck was continuing.

But the church was empty.

Then a man began vacuuming the aisle.

The church was a delight. I’d thought, on our last trip to Uppsala, that the painted church and cathedral were unusual, but perhaps not.

Copious painting above the organ

A bit of detail

Beautiful tree-like with such delicate painting

The 15th C altarpiece

St Erik dates from the 13/14th C & the guide says, ‘the crowned troll under the saint may symbolise both paganism and pagan contenders for the crown’ Erik being both king & a saint

It was impossible to picture this full on – but I couldn’t leave out St George and the dragon

This chest is just a hollowed out hunk of trunk which the guide says is as old as the church – which dates back to the 11th/12th C

When we get to the dissecting theatre (below) I realised this is a typical type of painted decoration of wood

After much oohing and aahing over the paintings behind the organ, out we went, into the graveyard, to scrutinise an odd building we’d seen from a distance. It had fascinating wooden shingles and appeared to be resting on lumps of stone. There was no clue to its function.

If you know what this is please comment and tell me, It has a face, don’t you think?

An odd combination of the makeshift foundation here & precisely cut shingles

As we puzzled, the unmistakable sound of digging arose. Not an archaeologist at work, but a new grave in the making.

It was turning chillier, both physically and spiritually. We hurried to investigate the remainder of the church exterior, where one more treasure lay in store: a rune stone built into the wall.

Despite the robust breakfast, lunch was now sounding tempting. We took the bus back to town (and there’s a tale for another day, perhaps, of immigrants and liberals).

A vegetarian buffet, all we could eat for 99 krone, set us up nicely for the next brush with death.

The University’s Gustavianum Museum is an intriguing landmark of a building. Its distinctive cupola sets it apart from the other buildings around it – no mean feat given the massive spires of the cathedral. But it is what’s inside that’s really impressive.

The building is from 1625 but the octagonal blob on top is the dissecting theatre built in the 1660s by Olof Rudbeck the Elder, a professor. There’s a sundial on top of that

I must confess we didn’t ‘do’ the Egyptian stuff, or even the Augsburg Art Cabinet.

We did the deathly bits.

First the octagonal seventeenth-century dissection theatre. Which was spectacular – and scarily vertiginous. Climbing huge steps to the top tier of the viewing galleries was bad enough, descending would have been perilous without the iron handrails.

Beautifully painted wooden stalls around the dissecting table

Nearly got it all in!

I imagine the narrowness of the gap between the barriers and standing spaces – there were no seats – was to stop people falling over when they fainted during dissections of the criminal corpses.

Because Professor Rudbeck’s intention was to allow students and member of the public to see, smell and taste the dissection of the corpses.

Eeeuw!

Impressive.

But the highlight of the day was still to come.

The best archaeological exhibition I’ve ever seen.

Old hazy black and white pictures – of the excavation of a Viking boat burial at Valsgärde, between the 1920s and early 1950s – had been melded together to form a slow-moving video, totally capturing the essence of the excavations.

And the excavators.

Pipe-smoking men in white caps and knickerbockers. Women in dungarees.

Diligently recording the resurrection of a burial.

Picnicking.

Laughing.

An intimate glimpse of their lives and work and fun.

Turning to a large area covered in glass, lit from beneath in the dimly-lit gallery, I saw two children take off their shoes and walk on the glass.

I looked closer. Sure enough, there was a boot jack to take off your shoes and images of feet on the edge of the glass.

It was amazing!

Walking on a dig – on history revealed – what a brilliant idea

The whole ship burial was underneath us – not the real thing obviously, but the site illustrated in graphic format just as the archaeologists had found and recorded it. There were some real finds in place, such as the rivets – which threw shadows over the two-dimensional lines of the illustration.

I had the urge to run and slide down the glass but restrained myself

There were swords, a shield a helmet. Gaming marbles. A drinking horn, a dog’s collar, a horse’s harness, fire irons… so many delights – too many to share. And anyway, hard to take decent images with a compact camera and no flash (that’s my excuse!).

The only way to get up close was to walk on the glass but hardly anyone grown up did

Lovely marbles – my favourite colour, turquoise

Graphic illustration of the burial site which was in use between the 7th & 11th Cs

I found it hard to tear myself away. But we did, for the day was not yet over. More to do, more to see.

It wasn’t till later I thought, I’m not sure about this digging-up-the-dead lark.

But I’ve been doing it myself for years and years and …

Hey ho.

I’ll leave it there for now. So, adjo, till the next instalment.

When there may be chocolate.

And Moomins.

Posted in Art, jaunts & going out, Sweden, Travelling | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

An airlock, rune mastery & the meaning of life

Posted on October 11, 2017 by memoirsofahusk

The Swedish train was impressive.

We’d flown into Stockholm from Manchester – after another early taxi thanks to untimely rail strikes – with carry-on luggage only, for a (slightly) cheaper ticket.

In no time at all we were standing, somewhat awed, on the railway station platform.

As the escalator bore us deep below ground, the cosy ambience of Scandi wood and lighting gave way to Metropolis-like grimness. Steel treads underfoot. Industrial-scale lighting above. Behind it, roughly-hewn rock with a dark grey coating.

It felt as if we were descending to an underworld, where the fires had been smoking.

The station was eerily empty. The mellowness on the platform offset by the bleakness stretching into the tunnels.

The train had several two-tier carriages, a new experience for me, so on we got… and did I struggle?

My intuitive (ha) grasp of Swedish was unable to cope with an instruction to wave my hand in the right place to open the interior doors. But eventually we made it – upstairs – to our seats.

Just over twenty minutes later we pulled into Uppsala station and a short walk took us to our wonderful hotel.

The ‘moderate’ (less expensive than ‘standard’) room wouldn’t be to everyone’s taste. The bedroom and bathroom were mighty small – but we’d been warned. And it was quiet and warmly minimalist in black, white and bamboo.

But, there was no rest for the newly-arrived. And off we set for the university.

Yes, it was a holiday. But the Prof was also on a mission.

A precious plastic bag in his backpack, we toiled up the hill towards his goal. Both of us. I met his colleagues last time and we’d stressed this was both holiday and work.

And I was nosy, of course.

We passed the Cathedral and then, dotted around the university park – wow! Standing stones with clearly marked runes.

“Mule had this stone erected in memory of Svarthövde, his brother. Åsmund, Ingjald, Mule and … they had this stone erected in memory of Svarthövde at Soderby”
The inscription is carved by Rune Master Åsmund in the 11th century AD

11th century AD
“…had this stone erected for Önd’s (?) soul. He was dead in white clothes in Denmark. Öpir saw to the runes.”
White clothes may be the baptismal robes worn by a convert for the ceremony and for a week afterwards – poor old Önd may have been baptised on his deathbed.

11th century AD
“Täng and Gunnar had this stone erected in memory of Väder their brother”
The caption on the sign with this rune stone says the ‘triquetra in the middle is interpreted as a symbol of the trinity’. Hmmm…

11th century AD “Forkun and Brune had the memorial made in memory of Igulfast, their father” The inscription is cut by the rune master Öpir

We wanted to gawp and ponder at the rune masters’ works, but time was not on our side.

On we went, finally arriving outside the building where the ‘ancient DNA’ lab lives.

The lab is in this complex of buildings

Walking through stone-floored, warmly-lit corridors, our host, Matthias, pointed out the laboratory’s airlock.

‘Can I look?’ I asked, cheekily.

He opened the door to a white world. Gowns like deflated humans hung off the walls. The windows into the lab were opaque.

An air lock. I’d love to hear it work. I think I’m harking back to 2001 A Space Odyssey 😉

I asked what the lab itself was like, but Matthias hadn’t been inside.

He’s human. And we are all contaminants.

I find that quite appropriate, these days. But, set that aside. Back to the visit.

I felt as if I’d stepped, mistakenly, into an episode of a television drama. Something Scandi-noir.

I tried to be unobtrusive. Watching, listening.

Matthias and the Prof represented the males of the species, but the three vocal experts were women.

All dressed in dark shades, mostly black.

All good looking in that expert-TV–female-scientist kind of way.

All supremely articulate, utterly professional – and charming.

Perhaps it was a production – I just didn’t know it? 😉

Anyway, these fascinating women (and Matthias) discussed the new samples the Prof had brought and the stuff they’d been working on for the last year.

I sat and marvelled.

Extraordinary scientists, extraordinary science. Unravelling the secrets of ancient DNA.

Modern day rune master and mistresses?

But there are more than just the scientific aspects to their work.

The results of DNA studies can alter a people’s perceptions of its role in a nation state, for example.

What happens if the ones who believe they’re indigenous aren’t after all? If the ones who are derided and marginalised are the real ‘owners’ of the ‘native’ epithet?

And how is the academic world of scientific research affected by the way the system works today?

This team has a major grant from the Swedish government – and the luxury of being able to choose how to spend it.

They take pride in leaving no stone unturned, even if it takes a long, long time. In DNA (no doubt I will get this not-quite-right)  this means looking at short bits of the codes that switch on aspects of our human lives – even bits that we don’t recognise because they aren’t similar to our DNA today.

Now, if you compare ancient specimens with just the variants we have today, you certainly get results, you see variations, you see similarities. You get results quickly and papers in the big journals.

And papers mean prizes, folks. Yes, be ruthless, beat your fellows to the post and money will flow in.

But. Take a lot longer, investigate further – and you find codes of human life that are new, that haven’t been seen before. That can’t be compared or seen as variants.

So, do you choose the lab at the famous university across the pond, get your results super-fast and your paper in Science before the others? Or take your time? Discover new and exciting things – or not (the other side of the research coin)?

Well, I know which lab I’d choose. Not just for the science. They’re lovely people too – which is great news for the Prof. I’m glad he’s working with this bunch.

But, fascinating though they are (and tasty though my spicy rooibos tea is) the time comes when we must leave them to their work.

And we head back down the hill.

This time, remembering my wanderings from the last trip, I take us a different route – and we end up in the graveyard.

Where a new grave is being dug.

I draw the line at photographing gravediggers at work, so here is a picture of the tools we saw in this and other cemeteries we saw as well as in an exhibition about … death and burial

Yes, human life as we know it ends with death. Even if DNA survives.

But we’re always looking for more, aren’t we?

The runes, chinks of light shining on an older world’s attempts to explain our existence.

The lab, discovering what makes our bodies and our minds do what they do.

The graveyard, a reminder it all ends this way.

Well, there’s more death to come – with Vikings, churches, mounds and graves.

Till then,

Hejdå,

Adjö,

Farväl

 

 

Posted in Sweden, Travelling | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Trips off my tongue

Posted on October 10, 2017 by memoirsofahusk

I’ll soon be writing up the first of what may be several pieces about our recent trip to Sweden, but, in the meantime, hope you’ll enjoy these appetisers, fresh from my little pink notebook.

Word-food-pictures

1 At Hambergsfisk – a tiny, fabulous fish restaurant in Uppsala

Punctuation

Warm, ozone waves of salty scents waft.

Pearl-fleshed, toothsome lobster, a lascivious comma, curls on the plate

A tiny, white apostrophe of a jug brims with liquid-sunshine butter

Toast, a crisp triangular slash, attempts to fend off greedy fingers from the plump claw beneath –

but fails.

And this,  to a different tempo, so take a little lemon sorbet as a palate cleanser 😉

2 At Hotel Clarion Gillet, Uppsala

Breakfast heaven

Compost-brown bread, a thick, tough-crusted slab, sponge-like innards springy as perfect turf

Slick of oily mustard sauce, speckled with dill, delicate as needles from a fairy-fashioned Christmas tree

And in between, a glistening fold of juicy salmon, early-rosehip pink

With scents of Scandi forest,

birch-bark-fire burning in the distance,

smoke blown in on a soft, salt breeze

Unnecessary extra

A tall jug stands, spout dripping pink, creamy nectar

Shot glasses await its smooth fulfilment

While a bowl of glistening, berries, dark and richly sour, entices.

Into a half measure of sweet, unctuous pinkiness

sploshes

a sharp dollop of blackly-purple berries.

Two gulps – and it’s gone.

The holiday begins

luscious,

late,

laid-back.

How’s this for laid back at breakfast time?

Posted in Sweden, Travelling | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 18 Comments

On loneliness and ear-worms

Posted on October 3, 2017 by memoirsofahusk

Where do ear-worms live, do you suppose? An ear-worm farm? Fed on the wasted energy of YouTubers?

Wherever it came from, it’s been about about three weeks since a big, fat, Gilbert O’Sullivan ear worm crawled into my internal sound system. It’s been monopolising the turntable ever since.

If you don’t know Gilbert O’Sullivan (understandable), this is how his official website modestly describes him:

“… the superstar who topped the UK and US single charts in the 70s with songs of endearing tunefulness, unabashed sentiment and existentialist musings.”

I actually rather liked his first hit, ‘Nothing rhymed’:

“Nothing good, nothing bad, nothing ventured
Nothing gained, nothing still-born or lost
Nothing further than proof, nothing wilder than youth
Nothing older than time, nothing sweeter than wine…”

but the worm that’s been wriggling round my aural canals wasn’t that one. It was a desperately sad song, ‘Alone again, naturally’.

I’d been thinking about being alone, about loneliness. It began with an article about a blue whale.

The blue whale in question has been heard, but never been seen or found. It may not even be a blue whale.

But its ‘song’ bears more of a resemblance to that of other blues (appropriate) than any other whales.

The song of the enigmatic creature, though, has a different sound frequency from others of its kind. Which brought it to the attention of William Watkins, of Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, Massachusetts, in 1989.

I ‘listened’ to a genuine recording online. It was the sound of silence. To hear it, apparently, you have to use a good sound system and quality earphones. I used neither.

Exasperated scientists and hopeful, lonely dreamers have embraced different versions of this whale’s tale.

The dreamers find solace, or companionship, in what they see as a sad, loveless, loner, prowling the wide Pacific. Its song, so the myth goes, isn’t heard by other whales. It has no mate.

You can imagine the scientists groaning. Other whales, they say, can hear it, even if to them it’s just a weirdo with a bigger, deeper sounding tuba. And no-one knows if it’s mated or not.

It’s hard to write about the whale without endowing it with human qualities and emotions. But here’s what I’ve gleaned: it’s known to exist (or to have existed). It has not (so far) been found.

It’s unusual among its kind.

It’s a male.

And it swims the Pacific Ocean all alone. (Well, sort of – I mean, the ocean isn’t empty, is it?)

A learned article about the whale appeared in 2004,  since when people have been writing its imagined tale, filming its imagined sadness, empathising with its imagined pain.

But, just because the whale is in water doesn’t mean he’s alone. Or lonely. And if the singing feels good, does it matter if no-whale responds?

For much of this year I’ve been alone. Occasionally I’ve been lonely. But mostly just alone.

There’s a big, big difference.

I know how lonely feels.

When we lived in a busy street, full of people I knew, I was lonelier than I can ever remember being.

Now, I live in a quiet house at the end of a cul de sac surrounded by trees. I know only our immediate neighbours to the right and the ones beyond them. Unless I go out I don’t even see strangers – in cars or vans – turning around or parking.

Yet, mostly, I don’t feel lonely.

I’m sure there’s a long reason why, but the short reason is that I want to be alone, I want to have room for my head to fill with ideas – or to empty of ideas when they’re fledged and ready to fly.

I want the freedom.

But that’s not to say I don’t need or like people’s company. I do.

A writer-friend, trying to help me with motivation, asked if I was part of a community. At the time I couldn’t answer her. But since then I’ve realised that you – yes, you, dear reader – are a big part of my ‘community’. You who read – and even, sometimes (ahem), comment.

And one day we may meet. Only last week I shared my special place and went for a walk with a locally-based blogger I’d never before met in ‘real’ life.

From time to time, I get together with others living the same kind of free, yet questing life I seem to lead. Freelancers or homeworkers, we label ourselves.

It’s a regular event, a ‘Jelly’ (stupid name) where we’re supposed to ‘co-work’. And last week we met in a new location. My co-‘workers’ and I did nothing except talk, laugh, drink tea and coffee – and look at stuff.

Something about the new venue made it happen.

We were together and not alone, but if we’d been working, we’d have been alone and yet together.

We are born alone, die alone, breathe alone… we are inevitably separate entities. But being alone per se is not a bad thing.

Loneliness, though, is becoming the scourge of westernised nations, in this age of surround-sound noise and fury.

Eyes fixated on screens, earphones silencing the outer world.

Electric gates keeping high-fenced gardens safe from prying eyes.

Official CCTV’s electronic gaze scanning us, to keep the public safe.

Though the watching lens can also be sinister, a furtive, very private eye.

Humans begin to avoid others, for safety, out of fear, just because …

Drive the child to school, don’t let it ride on a bus. Who knows what she or he might catch.

Shop in the smart shops, don’t mix with the hoi poloi.

I’d better end this here, because this leads straight to a real rant about wilful isolation – and I’m exceeding my word limit.

I’ll leave you with some wriggling, chubby worms from the You Tube ear-worm farm.

On the theme of loneliness. So often about unrequited love.

Isn’t it always, one way or another?

Here you go. Hankies at the ready for Gilbert and Gerry.

 

Posted in Thinking, or ranting, or both | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 32 Comments

“The horn, the horn, the lusty horn”

Posted on September 15, 2017 by memoirsofahusk

There was rain and wind and troubled sleep.

There were tired eyes and weary limbs.

But it was worth it. For the thrill of a new and strange experience.

An experience unique in all the world.

Unique to … Staffordshire.

Yes, Staffordshire.

You may not have heard of it if you live outside Britain.

It’s one of those counties that veils itself in an aura.

‘Nothing worth seeing’ it whispers.  The call of its lush landscapes and secret treasures drowned out by lorries on teeming roads bearing heavy industrial wares.

Treasures like ancient reindeer antlers.

The six pairs of antlers that usually hang in St Nicholas’ Church, in the village of Abbots Bromley, on the edge of the Forest of Needford.

The hexagonal Buttercross,, probably 17thC; the old Goat’s Head Inn possibly late 16thC; rising in the background the tower – replaced in 1688 – of St Nicholas’ church (and that annoying white car in the middle isn’t ours btw). Dates according to Pevsner

Once a year they’re taken down and carried around the local area in an exhausting, 12 hour romp called the Horn Dance.

It wends around modern housing developments and visits old farms. Tramps along ancient, tree-lined routes to a grand old house. Stops at the many pubs the area boasts.

But what, you might ask, is the provenance of the title’s quotation?

Well, Staffordshire adjoins Warwickshire.  And Warwickshire’s most famous son is the bard himself, Will Shakespeare.

And as I delved*, I came upon this verse from As You Like It, written in 1599-1600:

“What shall he have that killed the deer?

His leather skin and horns to wear.

Then sing him home; the rest shall bear this burden.

Take thou no scorn to wear the horn;

It was a crest ere thou wast born.

Thy father’s father wore it,

And thy father bore it.

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn

Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.”

A key figure in Abbots Bromley’s Horn Dance is a ‘hobby-horse’. Not the head-on-a -stick kind that children of yore rode in the nursery, but a mock steed with a clacking jaw and frisking tail.

There are hobby-horse and skin-wearing traditions in various parts of Britain, but this is the only one in the whole nation, nay (groan) the whole world, that combines hobby-horse with reindeer antlers.

Anyway. The bardic connection, then, could be based on personal knowledge.

But a more intriguing mystery lingers around the antlers.

We know the dance is probably at least 500 years old. The earliest recorded mention is from 1532 and it was described fully, in the Natural History of Staffordshire written by naturalist and antiquary Robert Plot, in 1686.

In the 1970s, radio-carbon dating of one of the antlers produced a date of 1065 (plus or minus 80 years).

This pair of antlers (with carrying handle and wooden head) was radio-carbon dated by Birmingham university in the 1970s to 1065 +/- 80 yrs

So we know they date from the eleventh century and they’ve been in use since at least the sixteenth century.  But enigma still shrouds the horns’ origins.

There were no wild reindeer in the British Isles by the eleventh century. And while  ‘scientific tests’  have reputedly revealed that the horns came from domesticated – castrated – herds,  there were no domesticated herds at the time.

Which suggests that the horns came from elsewhere, probably Scandinavia. But who knows when, or why, or for what purpose?

Well, much as I love a mystery, it’s time to bring on the dancing.

It’s not an event for lie-abeds. Like me. We had 10 miles to travel and decided to miss the church service at seven. But even so.  Jet-lagged, I slept badly knowing we had to be up and out by 7.30 am.

Somehow, despite the ample breakfast and fascinations of our b&b we arrived in the nick of time.

Parked our horseless-carriage by the white and black-timbered Goat’s Head pub. Emerged to the strains of music and laughter.

And there they came, from the church. The hobby-horse, Harley-the bow-carrier (the only one whose name I asked) and six men carrying antlers. Three sets painted black, three white.

The hobby horse in the foreground – head and tail visible if you look closely.It weighs over 21 lb

Harley with the bow and ‘arrow’ that he ‘shoots’ at the horse as they dance opposite each other in what is believed by some to be a metaphor for the fight between good and evil

The troupe included wandering musicians, a jester with pig’s bladder on a stick and Maid Marian – a man in drag.

The musicians – the only female performer in the troupe is the little girl with the triangle

Here’s a little snippet of the music:

The jester’s pig’s bladder. Supposedly a fertility symbol, tradition has it that if a woman is hit by the bladder one year she’ll be pregnant by the next

The Jester and Maid Marian watching the dance

The horse… minus performer!

At each stage along the way they performed the same dance involving a line, a circle and parallel lines interacting in a type of ‘hey’ or ‘hay’ dance. (Here’s a link about hey dancing if you’re interested.)

Men and one woman with collecting tins accompanied the dancers, hoping for more than pennies, I’d guess. But pennies were traditionally solicited, for the poor of the parish. One reason why it was originally held in winter, when resources were scarce, around Christmas time.

The current dance date is set to a somewhat complicated formula: the first Monday after the first Sunday after the 4th of September. It used to be St Bartholomew’s feastday, before all the confusing religious shenanigans and calendar changes of this country’s past.

It’s a community-rooted event and despite the age of the tradition the troupe visited new housing developments as well as old venues.

After several dances (and cloudbursts) around the village, the performers had a chance to ‘down horns’ for a welcome break with hot drinks.

And we had our chance to pick up the antlers- which are heavy! The heaviest weighs over 24 pounds – quite something to carry.

One member of the troupe has been dancing with the horns for over 50 years – I was awed by his stamina.

A rather tired prof (jetlag plus early start) hoisting the 2nd heaviest antlers (they range from 25.4 lb to 16.5 lb) carried by the man beside him who has been performing the Horn Dance for over 50 years

Scary face

Police community support officers accompanied us as we tromped uphill, out of the village towards the first rural stop at a farm.

As the skies opened (again) we had another enforced rest, sheltering beneath large trees.

On reaching the farm, we were surprised – and delighted – to be offered beer, mulled wine and cakes. Also an old tradition – very welcome after 2 hours’ walking.

I had a coconut macaroon (the horn-like ones at the back!)

A dog in a waterproof jacket sang along as the dancing recommenced:

And there, I’m afraid, we chickened out.

A fruitless diversion back to the village for cash (to buy a t-shirt) meant we’d already walked twice the distance everyone else had covered.

We were cold, wet and tired. If exhilarated.

So as the dancers (in vans) and followers (on foot) set out for the stop beyond the reservoir – arguably the most spectacular venue (a stately home, but with plebs’ viewing confined to the ha-ha) – we left.

We lasted 2.5 hours in the end and had mulled wine and cake at Yeatsall

Back in the village, scrounging together our last £4, we fortified ourselves with tea (£1 a cup) and courgette cake (£1 a slab).

All made and served by volunteers in Church House, a fine timbered building with the date 1619 in its door lintel.

Church House Bagot Street Abbots Bromley

And I felt a little emotional.

We’d just experienced history. But also history in the making.

The families that carry on the tradition. The folks who, like the ones at Hall’s Farm Yeatsall, serve strangers cake and ale.

The musicians who play through wind and rain. The men who don strange clothes and dance for miles and miles, carrying heavy antlers.

The gentlefolk who served us tea and made us cake.

I almost felt proud to be English.

No, be honest. I did.

* The Seasons A Celebration of the English Year by Nick Groome (Atlantic); The Stations of the Sun by Ronald Hutton (OUP); Staffordshire by Nikolaus Pevsner (Penguin 1974) (ironically considering what I said about the enigmatic county, this was the last of Pevsner’s renowned county volumes to be completed and published)

Posted in Art, jaunts & going out, Britain now & then | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 12 Comments

Gui-tars and Garter Stitch

Posted on September 12, 2017 by memoirsofahusk

British friends and rellies thought we were mad.

I thought we were mad.

Hurricane one had already hit, devastating Houston. Hurricane two was limbering up in the wings, gulping steroids.

Somehow we’d booked our flight to Texas for the lull between the two. Slipped through to Austin after its allocation of rain – seven inches – had already fallen.

So the sun was shining when we arrived, extra weary, at four in the afternoon.

Extra, because of the taxi. Which arrived to whisk us off to the airport at five in the morning.

Five in the morning the day before we were due to fly.

As I padded out into the front garden, with just-woken-up-to-the-phone-ringing eyes, barefoot, in my pyjamas, panic set in.

Please don’t tell me we should be leaving now?

Please don’t tell me I have to pack, shower and be on the road in five minutes?

I hoped I was right. That the taxi was wrong.

I was.

Next day, five am (and another taxi driver) found us ready and waiting.

We sped down a motorway already hectic with lorries to our first flight, from Manchester. An airport which may leak (it does) but is at least designed for ordinary mortals.

The first time I saw one of these at Manchester airport I almost believed it was a collection point for the charity Wateraid, but was rapidly disillusioned. That was years ago – and still it rains in at the same places. Rain, btw, is something Manchester is famous for 😉

At Heathrow, as the hours pass, walking the lock-in shopping mall that is Terminal Five drains me of hope for civilisation. The stratospherically upmarket shops. Screen-fixated folk of all nationalities trailing dangerously erratic wheeled luggage.

Fortnum and Mason, though ranked with the stratospheric emporia, does at least sell biscuits. Albeit at ridiculous prices for baked butter and sugar.

Florentines dredged with real gold ended up in my carry-on, being something the mother-in-law probably doesn’t get too often in Texas.

And though she was the main destination for our trip, when we arrived at four in the afternoon, it was destination Mexico.

Or rather, Mexican restaurant.

For a frozen Margarita.

Texas is the only place I drink frozen Margaritas. Yeah. That’s right. Because I’m worth it.

Just joking.

Next day the opulent biscuits – in our company – headed for the nursing home. Where I was arrested (not in that way) by a sign outside the door:

In Texas, now, you’ve no need to conceal your weapon.  Carry your sub-machine gun with pride. Take it to class at the university if you want. Just not to the sports field, OK?

Back at Dripping Springs, some things remained sane. Or nicely insane.

Like Elvis.

A rescued house cat, Elvis is rarely allowed out – for his own good – here he enjoys a rare moment lounging on the deck, wondering if he has the energy to chase a humming bird… (He hasn’t)

Still driven to distraction by the prof’s sandals. Still inclined to insinuate himself where he’s most visible – if not useful.

‘Who me? In the way?’ Elvis inserts himself between the prof’s older brother and his daily online chores

On the porch a trio of exotic birds – wooden ones from Zambia – swung in the breeze, ignored by  Texas Hill Country wildlife.

A gift from us several years ago these Zambian birds were rejoicing in the great sunny outdoors while their indoor space was being decorated

Everything is bigger in Texas… This Common Garden Spider was eating a grasshopper 😦

Buzzards soared. Cicadas poured forth waves of orchestrated noise.

Within 24 hours family had accumulated like finches around a seed feeder.

Which was lovely. But to someone who spends all day, every day, alone, with her head in another world, a trifle daunting.

We had (we thought) a whole week, so I dug in mentally. Which is perhaps why I found myself clutching a large, inflatable dragonfly as we traipsed round the local supermarket.

In the days before his tail drooped I felt like my energy was sustained by his presence.

Nursing home visits for the prof followed, daily.

Sunday, a talented niece-in-law wowed in ‘Chicago’.

There were humming birds and fireflies. Wine and beer and tacos.

A restaurant in Johnson CIty (a jaunt we had) in a Nissen-hut style building (I’ve forgotten what Americans call them, it’s different) and the old jail

Dinner dinner dinner dinner, dinner dinner dinner dinner, Batman?

The Pedernales River flowing through Texas hill country – ahhhh (relaxed feeling very soon to end as we learned of our mistake….)

Then came the bombshell.

Thel and I were talking (drinking wine) when the brothers came home looking stressed.

We’d mistaken the day of our flight.

It left next day.

We dined on take away pizza, drank two nights’ allocation of wine.

Next morning I packed and the prof crammed in two lasts visits to his mom.

We arrived at Austin’s airport feeling mentally breathless.

It’s always had a relaxed yet also city-slicker feel. Stetsons for sale alongside Mexican Frieda Kahlo shopping bags.

It’s changed.

Signs of Terminal Five infection are visible, but still the ‘Keep Austin Weird’ spirit lingers.

A live band was playing. And it was good.

Asleep at the Wheel was the name of a band originally, now the name of a Road House – and here’s another live band playing at the airport  (faces squished technologically btw to preserve privacy)

 Austin Java coffee house – you can see that the gui-tar is quite a theme of the city that hosts the South by South West music festival

Great facility – refill those plastic bottles and save the planet 🙂

Embarked, in the middle of three seats as usual, I waited anxiously for the window-seat-voyager to arrive.

On the way out he’d been the lumpen kind, elbow and thigh splaying into my ‘personal space’ throughout the flight.

It was a relief to see a skinny older man smile and wave.

‘I can tell I’m gonna like sharing with you guys’ said the Professor of Economics. He was a good companion. And slept well.

I’ll skip the disgusting breakfast for landfall at Heathrow, where a joyous experience awaited.

I walked past twice, in the hour our flight was delayed, before giving the knitting a go.

Yes, knitting.

Squares of garter stitch to make blankets, for charity.

I didn’t quite finish my masterpiece in red. But still received a reward – a travel-cushion knitted by members of the Townswomen’s Guild.

And by that time I’d learned the young woman next to me was Moldovan.

That her friends told her to keep her hobbies – painting, embroidery, knitting, crochet – for when she was old. Because they kept her indoors too much.

I learned that purple t-shirted Val had bad arthritis. Was hoping it wouldn’t reach her fingers.

That the young man in front of me was using a different technique Val wanted to learn, in case her worst arthritic fears materialised.

My Moldovan friend is the one on the right with the blonde hair in a bun, Val is in the purple t-shirt.The young man with the potentially useful technique is seated between them

I learned BA now has a direct flight to Inverness, origin of the knitting initiative.

That our blankets would go to homeless people around the UK.

All of us who stopped, knitted and nattered – young men, women of all ages – were enriched by this eruption of community spirit, taunting the glassy, designer-labelled, shop-filled behemoth that is Terminal 5.

As I left I remarked how much I’d enjoyed it. A woman looked up. ‘Me too,’ she smiled.

I’d been thinking of writing a piece called ‘oceans apart’.

But then it felt more like ‘oceans irrelevant’.

How nice is that?

The gift of the travel cushion made me unreasonably happy and still does. I look at it and it makes me smile 🙂

Posted in Art, jaunts & going out, Britain now & then, Texas | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

The line: is it drawn? The curse: is it cast?

Posted on August 31, 2017 by memoirsofahusk

Well?

Will you get out of the way?

Or lend a hand?

Forgive me. I’m taking liberties with the words of Nobel-Literature-Prize-winning poet, songster and disappointing-live-performer, Bob Dylan.

Yes, disappointing. I was disappointed. Except for his rendition of ‘Something’ by way of a tribute to George Harrison. The concert was in Liverpool and he performed that rather nicely. (Ta very much, Bob.)

Anyway.

I was lying awake at three in the morning when the song came into my head.

I was thinking about change.  Major change. Societal change.

And I wondered. The times, are they ‘a-changin’ as Dylan predicted? And as – arguably – happened in the sixties?

It’s not the kind of thought to send you back to sleep. Especially when the ear-worm of song takes up residence in your head.

I’d had a surprising day, thanks to my sister and her mobile phone. I’d texted her, suggesting we might visit but she didn’t check her phone. And I didn’t want to bother her so didn’t ring. Which turned out to be a good thing.

Because although we set out anyway, we were only a few miles from home when we realised we didn’t fancy a 100-odd-mile round trip in order to walk on some hills.

Even the wizardy, magical hills I’ve blogged about before around Alderley Edge.

The prof had recently returned from Zambia unwell and was only just recovering. Unable to drive for a week, our first expedition, the day before, had taken us over the Pennines to Yorkshire and the Hepworth Gallery. For an exhibition of art celebrating India, by painter Howard Hodgkin.

We looking forward to beautiful colours and forms. But it didn’t work for either of us and we rapidly left the crowded rooms to more sympathetic gazers.

I didn’t mind.

The paintings might have disappointed (they did) but there was still the work of my heroine, Barbara Hepworth, to make the trip worthwhile.

I love the displays of words and bits and pieces in the drawers at the Hepworth

Dag Hammarskjöld was the Secretary General of the United Nations from 1953 to 1961, this is a book of his words. I find him especially interesting in that he was killed in a plane crash – possibly not accidental – in Zambia and as his memorial Barbara’s biggest piece was commissioned to stand outside the UN in New York. I wrote about it here  http://wp.me/p2vL4D-hW

It was a tiring trip, though, for a recovering traveller.

Which is why we abandoned the quest for enchanted hills. Eschewed the prospect of deep caves harbouring ancient mysteries.

And, instead, headed for…

… you’ll never guess.

No, really…

… you won’t.

OK.

Here we go …

…Ikea.

No! Wait! Don’t go!

I’m not stopping with shopping.

Though there was a little more. Because on the way home we stopped to buy food for dinner.

As our car slid between the snug white lines, the sound of live music wafted over her pearly white body.

We stepped out and with gleaming eyes glanced at each other over her roof.

A Brass Band! On a sunny Sunday. In Ormskirk.

My generous husband waved me off and went hunting for free range chicken.

(Prepared, in a box in a chiller cabinet, I mean. Not free range and needing to be killed and plucked. He may be just-back from Zambia, but he hasn’t forgotten that supermarkets do these things for you round here.)

And what a sight met my tired, Ikea-fuddled eyes.

A proper bandstand.

In a park.

Next to the supermarket.

An ice cream van plied a steady trade.

Some folk sat on folding chairs. Some lolled, ‘déjeuner sur l’herbe‘ like, on the grass (the women all fully clothed, mind).

Adult faces wore serene smiles.

Feet tapped and children danced.

The bandstand wore pretty summer flowers.

The band, Trinity Girls, was terrific.

I can’t say I would have chosen Air on a G String arranged with Whiter Shade of Pale myself, but it kind of worked.

The repertoire bubbled through the Carpenters, the Gingerbread song (uh-huh), something from Joseph and His Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat, a march (of course) and a rousing Paso Doble which signalled the interval.

The music, which felt tuned to a human frequency, accompanied an almost bucolic scene.

Daisies and green grass.

Pick-and-mix coloured fairground rides.

A man with Down’s syndrome grabbed my arm, enjoying the friendly faces, the music and – while cared-for still – the freedom of the open air.

It was Olde England- but it also wasn’t Olde.

The band was all female, for a start.

And several adults enjoying the free entertainment would, in Olde days have been closeted in some institution.

It was old but also new. Superficially changed, but with the underlying warp and weft remaining the same. Or so it felt.

One or two pieces gave me goosebumps, like this one as the gentle strains grew into an emotional crescendo.

Reluctantly – but hungry – we left. Ikea’s meatballs hadn’t appealed.

We had a short walk. Prepared some food. Popped a bottle of Cava – and ate and drank and talked.

Opened a bottle of red (I know) and ate and talked some more.

Of Donald Trump – of course.

Of education and this brave new age of unreason.

Of freedom of speech and of a new un-freedom to speak.

Of the daily addition of new letters to the minefields of things we ought to know.

Of gender traps for the unwary among the confusions of LGBTQIA and CIS.

Of publications that don’t pay writers but are the new news.

And of the sixties ‘liberal revolution’ and its legacy.

Which is why I wondered. Is the order rapidly changing? Again?

Should the old folks move out of the way if they don’t want to lend a hand?

Well, I reckon the curse has been cast.

And with Trump, the line is daily being redrawn.

Truth is hiding in the corner, kicked and beaten. Not yet dead.

But there are no longer any certainties.

No right, no wrong.

No genuine, no reality.

Just – alternatives.

Alt.

The new – the now – the everything.  (I think that was me channelling Barry White.)

Well, in this Ball of Confusion (Temptations), at least the songs that were remain the same.

‘They’ can’t change what was. Just what is and what will be.

Or, can they?

Of course they can. We’ve always had Alt history.

It just depends what side you’re on. Or rather, what you choose to believe.

In a democracy we have choices. And we have voices.

Our votes, our pens, our emails, our phone calls, these are the voice with which we can – and must – hold to account those ‘we’ have elected.

Get out of the way – or lend a hand?

Posted in Art, jaunts & going out, Britain now & then, Lancashire & the golf coast, Thinking, or ranting, or both | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 27 Comments