Comments#2

I've been hit by a lot of spam comments since I changed the settings. I am sorry but I have switched to the dreaded word verification. I hope that it will only deter the automated ads and not my cyber friends.

North and South

That old myth that the north of England is nothing but a collection of factory chimneys, coal mines and chip shops has been resurrected in the Daily Telegraph. Charles Jennings trots out all the old stereotypes and prejudices in an article worthy of a smart 12 year-old. No wonder I hardly ever read the newspaper any more.

Just in case anyone thinks he has really been 'up North', I'd like to set the record straight. My childhood home was just a few miles outside a Lancashire mining town but this was the view from my bedroom window - not a slag heap in sight! If you want to see stunning views like this on a daily basis, go North, young man, go North!

More on Persephone

A new visitor to Random Distractions is having difficulty in leaving comments (not her fault or mine), so she sent this picture of her Persephone book collection via email. My technical skills proved inadequate when trying to put it in the comments box and anyway, it deserves a post of its own.

Margaret says:
Here are my Persephone books (along with my favourite girls’ stories by Lorna Hill which I had as a child and have since collected again!) … the Persephone books are on all corners of this revolving bookcase in the bed sitting room upstairs!


Thank you, Margaret. I hope to have such an impressive collection of Persephone titles some day and I'm sure there will be a number of ballet lovers who will be envying your Lorna Hill collection. I hope the comments problem is resolved soon.

Another mystery

Driving to see lovely friend D of 60goingon16, yesterday, I pulled into a lay-by to look at the stunning view of Exmoor and to check the directions and this is what I saw under the hedge. I have been pondering the significance of the carefully arranged thermos (minus its stopper and cup) inside the remains of a tyre ever since.
Is it some secret sign among Gentlemen of the Road? Have the Cornish piskies been holidaying in Devon? Or could it have any connection with the Winterbourne Mystery?

Tea in the Heather

This was the first of my swaps from Read It Swap It and it was just the right book to follow my reading of Lorna Sage's memoir of her childhood in North Wales. Tea in the Heather by Kate Roberts, is a brief tale of childhood in North-west Wales in Victorian times.

Other than Dylan Thomas and R S Thomas, I don't think I could name any Welsh writers, which is a terrible admission. I see another distraction looming as I start to investigate the work of Kate Roberts (1891-1985) . According to one website I visited she: 'created the modern form of the short story in Welsh, and through six decades of writing earned a place with this century's masters of the genre.' The World of Kate Roberts (Temple Univ. Press, USA), so I feel time spent on investigating further would be entirely justified and the spring cleaning can be put on hold again.

Tea in the Heather was published in Welsh (Te yn y Grug) in 1959 and translated into English by Wyn Griffiths in1968. This beautiful edition was published by Seren Books. The stunning cover painting is Carneddau by Peter Prendergast, probably the best British landscape artist of modern times. He died, tragically, in 2007 at the age of 60. You can see more of his paintings here.

Comments#2

I have had a couple of emails from people who are still having difficulty in leaving comments on Random Distractions. I am afraid I don't know how to fix this. If you want to send a comment in an email to me I will post it on your behalf. Let's hope the problems get sorted soon.

Elkie Brooks - Don't Cry Out Loud (1978)

My post on Lorna Sage's memoir, Bad Blood, has triggered a host of emails full of people's childhood memories. Maybe I'll venture into that area in another post one day, in the meantime here's a piece of music that will resonate with some of you.

More good swag

What could be nicer (other than knowing you'll soon be setting out to have lunch with someone special) than to open the door to the postman holding this intriguing pile of packages when it isn't even your birthday?

I just had to sit and admire them for a while before opening.

And here, in all their glory, the contents!

I know I said I wouldn't buy any more books until my TBR pile had diminished, I even tried giving them up for Lent, so here is my public, shaming confession - as Dorcas might say: "Books are my one weakness!"

The beautiful new books are my first from Persephone, I have resisted their enticing catalogue for a long time because I want to own them all. The lovely unopened package is Persephone's gift to me for buying three titles at once. I do know what is inside but I'm going to resist opening it until I am in need of cheering and, with all those other books to get through, I don't need a special treat just yet.

Just to balance the books (forgive the pun), I have followed the link to ReadItSwapIt, from 60goingon16, joined up and exchanged six books in as many days. The two books at the bottom of the pile are swaps I've just received. I feel very virtuous when trotting off to the post office with my swaps, knowing that I am recycling and helping to save the village post office at the same time. (I'm not all bad!) Now I'm off for that lunch.

A girlhood in post-war provincial Britain

I have Stephen, on his Art's Blog, to thank for guiding me to Bad Blood by Lorna Sage. Although I was familiar with her reviews in the Times Literary Supplement, I hadn't read any of her books; now I own three.

I'm no speedy reader but this book has taken even longer than usual to finish because almost every page plunged me into my own particular memories of a girlhood in post-war Britain. Lorna was born in 1943 in North Wales and I was born at the end of 1945 just a few miles away in Lancashire. Our day trips were to the same resorts, Southport, New Brighton, Rhyl or walking on the Roman walls in Chester. I was captivated by the thought that we might have been there at the same time but even if we had, that two year age difference would have made any kind of contact improbable.

Lorna Sage's account of life in the late 1940s to the end of the 1950s is painfully accurate: the privations of the years of 'austerity'; the stresses and strains of families settling back to 'normal' life after wartime separations; the ignorance and prudery of the provinces, where Victorian double standards lingered for at least one generation longer than in the cities. She tells her story vividly and with sometimes brutal candour but her humour and the underlying sense of her courage and determination prevent it from being a tale of self-pity. Stephen is right in saying this book does not belong on the shelf labelled 'Damaged Childhoods'.

And yet .... it is not just a nostalgic trip to the days when we were sent out to play in fair weather and foul, coming home only to eat and sleep; to amateur dramatics in the church hall and special lessons in 'ballroom etiquette for fifth-form débutantes'. Lorna grew up in a most dysfunctional family and I read this book as a testament to her triumph over extremely difficult circumstances.

Bad Blood is a book worthy of serious study; if I were a student looking for a subject for my dissertation, I would take Lorna Sage's use of the terms real, reality, unreal and 'irreality' in this book and in her literary criticism and see where it led. I have only glimpsed at her work yet but I see a recurring theme, not always easy to comprehend but an interesting challenge.

I would like to study her use of language in the different stages of the memoir. The chapters devoted to her family are full of negative language and imagery: embarrassment, anger, hostility, resentment, contempt, disapproval. There is no feeling that the young Lorna ever felt loved, approved of or supported by anyone at home or at school or that she had any real friendships. Her family sounds monstrous but she doesn't accuse them, simply explains them. It is left to the reader to see how dreadful it must have been for such a sensitive and intelligent child to be in the charge of these people who offered neither affection nor security. She uses a description of family outings as an analogy of the family structure: "Clive and I, in the back seat or sandwiched between our parents in the lorry, were made to know our place. We were the passengers, they were in charge. Except that it was all tied together with string."

It is only in the last few chapters, when she has found her place (albeit unusual) in her marriage and at university that the tone of her writing becomes gentler and kinder towards herself and other people. I wanted to know more, to feel reassured that her academic and professional success led to her recognising her own value. I hope that writing this memoir helped her dispel the myth of 'bad blood'. As Clive James wrote: This is not a book for children, but neither was her childhood. I am sorry that she didn't live to write the next volume.

Farewell to Donaldsons

The magnificent building, Donaldson's, has been the centre for the education of deaf children in Scotland since the 1850s.
The history of education for deaf children in Britain begins in Edinburgh. The first school, the Braidwood Academy, was established in Edinburgh in 1760 but moved to England in 1810. Several of the teachers remained to teach in the Edinburgh Institution for the Deaf and Dumb which, in turn merged with Donaldson's Hospital in 1937. Over the years, the name changed from Hospital to School and finally College but it will always be remembered as Donaldson's.

In 1830, James Donaldson, an Edinburgh printer and bookseller, left a legacy for the foundation of Donaldson's Hospital. It has always been an enlightened establishment, having equal numbers of deaf and normally-hearing pupils until 1938 and using sign-language at a time when the rest of Europe had adopted a totally oral education system (to the detriment of the Deaf, but that is a story for another day).

I did my studies in the Education of the Deaf at Oxford, but was greatly influenced by the ethos of Donaldson's and I spent many years campaigning for English educational establishments to adopt Scottish methods and attitudes. I recall a BBC documentary on Donaldson's School, shown some time in the 1970s, which illustrated the 'Donaldson attitude'. The interviewer was speaking to a teacher while her pupils were getting on with their work. As she was speaking , the teacher was simultaneously signing her responses and the interviewer asked her why she was doing that when the children were not included in the conversation. Her explanation was that a class of hearing children could overhear or deliberately listen in to a conversation if they chose to and she wanted Deaf children to have the same opportunity. A small incident but one which had a profound influence on my classroom practice and on everything I've written and spoken about in my professional life since.

Today's edition of See Hear on BBC 2 featured the move of Donaldsons College from the wonderful William Playfair building in Edinburgh to this modern campus in Linlithgow.
The old building, which Queen Victoria considered to be grander than any of her palaces, is going to be 'redeveloped', doubtless into luxury apartments. I'm sure the new facilities at Linlithgow will be excellent but more important will be the transfer of the real spirit of Donaldson's from the old buildings to the new. I wish all the staff and students well in their new home.

You can see this episode of See Hear on BBC iPlayer for the next seven days and it will be shown again in the overnight Sign Zone on BBC 1 on Tues 26/Wed 27 February.

February in the Culm Valley

Today we met up with our friend, Keith. Every year we celebrate his birthday with lunch at a nice country pub, followed by a long walk. This year we decided on the Culm Valley and we were not disappointed. After a superb lunch by the roaring fire in the Merry Harriers at Clayhidon, we set out for a walk along the lanes. Then we realised that we were not far from Killerton, the National Trust house at Broadclyst, a place that none uf us had visited before. We arrived to find the house closed but the grounds and gardens were open and the crisp, clear day was perfect for wandering around.

The neat paths and lawns soon gave way to more interesting early spring delights like these celandine pushing through the fallen leaves.....
.....and these lovely wood anemones (identified by Crinny!) at the base of a tree.
We almost missed these primroses and crocuses in the long grass....
but the gardeners have made a real feature of these crocuses and dwarf daffodils.
We walked round to the chapel but, like the house, it was locked and also like the house, it was a very disappointing piece of architecture but we were delighted to spot this carpet of tiny cyclamen nearby.

The MM decided to take a picture of Keith and me but he's not very good with cameras!
Better luck next time.Killerton may not be a very pretty or even grand looking house but I believe it holds an excellent costume collection. We will certainly be returning later in the year for another wander around the gardens.

Missing link

Thanks to Juliet for pointing out that the link on my sidebar to Stephen's Arts Blog didn't work. I have now fixed it and recommend a visit to that and his other blogs on computing, politics, domestic issues and music.

Comments

I have changed the settings so that anyone can leave a comment on Random Distractions. The new Open ID doesn't appear to work with TypePad and many of my favourite visitors use that. It does mean, though, that comments will now be moderated. I'm sorry for any inconvenience and hope it won't put anyone off. I LOVE COMMENTS, even when I don't agree with them.

Lark Rise to Candleford#4

I think it was Juliet, over on the Muddy Island, who described LR to C according to Bill Gallagher as Sunday Slump material. It isn't a faithful adaptation of the Flora Thompson books, it isn't a realistic portrayal of rural life in nineteenth century England, it isn't a satisfying drama but it does fill that slot after tea on Sunday when all one wants is a bit of undemanding television. It is as whimsical as Finian's Rainbow and tonight we had the equivalent of Petula Clark singing 'How are things in Glocca Morra?' when Twister and Queenie sang 'Silver threads among the gold'.

Eben E. Rexford, 1848-1916

Darling, I am growing old, Silver threads among the gold Shine upon my brow today; Life is fading fast away; But, my darling, you will be, will be, Always young and fair to me, Yes, my darling, you will be, Always young and fair to me. Chorus: When your hair is silver white, And your cheeks no longer bright, With the roses of the May; I will kiss your lips and say- Oh! my darling, mine alone, alone, You have never older grown, Yes, my darling, mine alone, You have never older grown. Chorus:

Love can never more grow old, Locks may lose their brown and gold, Cheeks may fade and hollow grow, But the hearts that love will know Never, never, winter's frost and chill: Summer warmth is in them still- Never winter's frost and chill, Summer warmth is in them still. Chorus: Love is always young and fair,- What to us is silver hair, Faded cheeks or steps grown slow, To the heart that beats below? Since I kissed you, mine alone, alone, You have never older grown- Since I kissed you, mine alone, You have never older grown. Chorus:

Chorus:
Darling, I am growing old,
Silver threads among the gold,
Shine upon my brow today;
Life is fading fast away.

I look forward to slumping on the sofa on Sundays but I'm not sure that I can sustain the strain of all this syrup, sepia and saccharine.

Winterbourne Mystery#2

As a child, some of my favourite poems were those with an air of mystery such as The Listeners by Walter de la Mare, Yeats's The Song of Wandering Aengus and William Allingham's The Fairies. I am still hoping that someone will produce a poem or story of this kind to attach to the picture of the boots, in the meantime, here is one of my old favourites which springs to mind when I consider that strange find by the stream at the edge of the woods:

The Way through the woods

THEY shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.

You lovers of Kipling will have recognised it, of course.

The Winterbourne Mystery

The hotel we stayed in at the weekend has lovely grounds and is surrounded by beautiful country lanes. I went walking with friend Crinny and our cameras and took lots of photos of flora and fauna for my collection. Running alongside the lane was a stream and on the bank we saw this perfectly good pair of walking boots. We felt certain that there must be an interesting story to go with them. I would love to hear what you think that story might be.

Thou deboshed phish, thou

I had a very narrow escape today, thanks to my Norton Internet Security. I had an email purporting to be from PayPal, asking me to update my details. As a precaution, I opened the PayPal website in another window and the colour scheme, logo, layout and font all looked exactly the same; the email even had a warning about false emails asking for personal details! I really thought it was genuine and was about to enter my password when Norton intervened and told me not to do that.

I checked Paypal's own advice on security and found there were several giveaway signs to look for: the genuine article always addresses you by name, while the phishers don't have that information and use general terms, in this case 'paypal member'; there were also very slight differences in their internet address which I only discovered on close inspection.

I followed PayPal's security instructions and forwarded the dodgy email to them, they confirmed that it was a phishing email. I felt shaken at first, as though I had disturbed an intruder in the house, then I was very angry. After all, I use PayPal so that I can feel secure in buying online, who do these phishy people think they are? If they don't already look like Caliban, I hope they wake up tomorrow transformed into this 'deboshed fish'.

Bristol Blue

Our newly-weds presented us with this beautiful piece of Bristol Blue Glass on Saturday. We have been collecting blue glass for a few years, some of it rescued from jumble sales and rubbish skips, mostly machine made items but a few handmade pieces and some from that other famous place in Bristol, which decants its produce into those famous blue bottles.

This lovely gift will take pride of place in the collection. I think, though, that it really deserves a shelf of its own. I feel a reorganisation of the house coming on!

The winner is ....

Congratulations, Elaine! Molly is delighted to announce that you have won the Cranford DVD. Send me your postal address in an email and we'll get that off to you.

Thanks to everyone who entered. If you think you might have had a better chance if Freddy had made the draw, the truth is that I couldn't find him. Then an anonymous 'friend' sent me an email saying "Freddy as you've never seen him before" and this photograph:Obviously, drawing names out of a bonnet was the last thing on his mind. I'm just off to put the dead lock on the front door before he gets home.

The Wedding Party

Our weekend party was, thankfully, less tragically eventful than Isabel Colegate's Shooting Party but the setting might well have been the same. The Grange is a nineteenth century manor house, set in 18 acres of beautiful grounds and as we approached, along the sweeping drive lined with ancient trees, I felt we might be travelling back in time to a grander age.


The most impressive tree I saw was this Himalayan fir, right outside the hotel and home to many rooks. I was fortunate to have my knowledgeable friend, Crinny, to identify this and many other species as we wandered in the brilliant sunshine.

The Grange is one of the Ramada Jarvis group of hotels; we have stayed in several and they have each been special, with excellent service and facilities and this one was the perfect alternative to the Caribbean! From the red carpet for the bride and groom to make their grand entrance, the superb cuisine and the spacious, comfortable rooms, every aspect of the celebration was arranged splendidly.

The weather was obligingly perfect and the time passed all too quickly. It was good for our two families to meet in such a relaxed environment and to have more time to get to know one another than at a more traditional wedding reception. I discovered that Anna's mother looks in here from time to time, so if you are reading this, Ann, I hope you got home safely and without too many detours and that you have worked out how to enter the Cranford draw.

We had a wonderful time catching up with family and friends, seeing how the Boy's old school and university friends have fared and generally having fun. There will be a few more stories coming out of the weekend in the next few days but, as posting photos of the happy couple is forbidden, I'll show a picture of another couple I saw in the hotel grounds. They looked very happy, too.

The wedding bonnet

I'm back from the wonderful weekend of celebration. I didn't actually wear a hat for this occasion but here is the one I wore for my daughter's wedding in 2006. Tomorrow evening it will contain the names of all those who have entered the draw for the Cranford DVD.

It isn't too late to enter - just leave a comment (' hello' will do) on the previous post and you will be in with a chance.

Anyone for Cranford?

My pre-ordered DVD of Cranford arrived from the BBC shop this morning. Somehow my pre-order became a confirmed order so they sent (and charged for) two copies. I can't be bothered to sort it out, so if any of you Cranford devotees haven't ordered your own copy yet, it's up for grabs.

If you would like a chance to own this extra copy, leave a comment on this post and I will draw a name from my posh wedding bonnet on Monday. I am afraid that our DVD format may not be compatible with players in the US. Silent visitors, casual callers and regular friends are all welcome to join in. Good luck!

Now I'm off to deliver that cake. Back soon.

All boxed up and ready to go

In October 2007 it looked like this.

In November it looked like this.

Following several months of careful feeding with cognac, the addition of a chocolate layer and some friendly help it is now ready for the great party.

Peter and David, I hope you've booked your flights.

Big day for Americans

I have been tempted to ask my American online friends and acquaintances to explain the complexities of their electoral system. I read their blogs in the hope of learning about such things as caucuses and Super Tuesday but I suppose they just take it all for granted and don't feel the need to explain. I'd like to ask them how, in the land of Democracy, small groups of women meeting for coffee in a midwest town can decide who is to run for president - I expect I've misunderstood. Another thing I've probably got wrong is thinking that only multi-millionaires can become president; that seems to be as much a given fact as that only Scots can become prime minister here.

As far as I can see from our news coverage, the whole presidential selection procedure is more about image than policy. Barack Obama, apart from being the first black potential president, appears to represent change but in a rather unspecified way. I've heard him described as the most eloquent public speaker since Jefferson, so perhaps he'll get in on words alone.

I had to rack my brains to remember the name of the Republican candidates, never mind recalling anything about what they represent. That's probably down to our press coverage, too. It would seem that John McCain is likely to be a clear winner and his appeal is that he is admirable as a Vietnam war hero and deserves sympathy because he survived torture.

That leaves Hillary. She is the first woman candidate, she is apparently a good lawyer and has a lot of experience. Unfortunately she has to live down certain family connections so she uses tears to win the sympathy vote. But McCain is after that vote with better credentials. What's a girl to do?

I thought everything would be clear by the end of today but I've just read that the process for selecting the Democratic candidate could rumble on. What comes after Super Tuesday? Wonderful Wednesday or Fantastic Friday? I'm not interested in party politics, since I can't vote, but I would like to have a better understanding of the procedure for choosing a president. Do the candidates who have battled each other for nomination become campaign buddies for their party once the decision is made? Does everyone get to vote for the president as well as for their local representative?

I'm embarrassed to admit my ignorance on these matters but I've asked around and no-one I know can answer these questions either. I would appreciate a simple explanation of the basics.

Knitspeak

Back in October I took up my knitting needles after an interval of twelve years. Actually, they weren't my knitting needles at all because I gave those away when I thought I wouldn't be needing them again. Then came the news of my daughter's pregnancy and I had this overwhelming desire to be a 'proper granny' and knit something .

So much has changed in the intervening years: I used to buy my wool from one of two craft shops in the village but both closed a few years ago. I went into the nearest town and discovered there are no specialist shops left there, either. There is a limited range of knitting supplies in the only department store in the town but, having tracked that down, I realised that all the knitting needle sizes have changed and I couldn't work out what 2.75mm was 'in old money'. I settled for one of those kits for beginners, containing pattern, needles and yarn and I made this little set.


Then I became a bit more adventurous and knitted some scarves. Feeling more confident, I thought I might tackle a pretty matinee jacket for the grandbaby but I discovered that I had forgotten the jargon: yrn p2totbl and sl1k2tog psso and the rest. I had to unpick and start over again seven times before getting this far.

At last, though, I have finished! I sewed on the buttons a few minutes ago and I have decided that the matching mittens, blanket etc won't be needed. I shall be to be a modern granny instead and knit chunky sweaters in strong colours.

4 ply and size 2.75mm will be replaced with merino aran and 5mm. I can't wait to get started.

Upstairs, Downstairs

I usually keep my reading matter strictly divided: fiction is bedtime reading and therefore piled high on my bedside table and the surrounding floor, while non-fiction is kept downstairs, where I can reasonably be expected to be more mentally alert. I never have two works of fiction on the go at the same time or my sleepy brain might confuse the characters and plots but I'm breaking all my own rules at present and confusion is an inadequate term to use for the outcome.

Upstairs, I am re-reading Tears of the Giraffe, the second in The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency series.

While downstairs, I have started on The World According to Bertie.
Two works of fiction at the same time and one of them downstairs!

As both books are from the pen of Alexander McCall Smith, you might wonder why I am finding this so difficult. His books are gentle and humorous and not at all challenging reading. The problem is, as I pointed out in a previous post, that I have to read these books in the appropriate accent; Bertie requires genteel Edinburgh(_ian? or _ese?) while Mma Ramotswe is most assuredly from Southern Africa. A momentary lapse of concentration and the results are painful either on the internal ear or larynx.

There is also the sensitive issue of class. I hesitate to say this but those who frequent Edinburgh's Cafe St Honore might well resent being below stairs while the proprietor of Tlokweng Road Speedy Motors resides above them. What a dilemma!

My last venture into genteel Edinburgh society was to attend a family wedding in Dundas Castle. Members of the immediate family stayed overnight in the castle and the MM and I were given a suite of rooms slightly larger than our cottage. I've mislaid the disc with the photographs I took but I'll show you some grainy scanned pics just to prove we were there!

These pictures were taken in our bedroom.

You can see most of the other rooms on the castle's website. The wedding itself was in the Auld Keep. We climbed the spiral stone stairs to the chapel at the top, stopping halfway up for champagne by a roaring fire.

As we descended to return to the castle for the wedding breakfast, a piper played on the roof of the Keep and a harpist was stationed on the main staircase.

I do apologise for the poor quality of the photos but they are all I have and I think you might suspect me of telling fairy stories without this evidence of my weekend in a real castle!

As you can see, Edinburgh folks live in a world far removed from Mma Ramotswe and Mr J.L.B. Matekoni and I may well be guilty of a serious breach of etiquette in reading about them at the same time.