August 31st 2014

What a fantastic day today. Weather warm, not a cloud in the sky and well, what better than to go for a walk. Well to be honest, Julie persuaded me to go for a walk as after yesterdays long day I fancied a quiet, feet-up sort of day. However persuaded I was and if I'm honest, I was pleased to be on the move. We left the house and walked to Sand Bay via Woodspring Priory and a bridleway-cum-across farmland I'd never used before. A stop at the Sand Bay Tea Rooms was obligatory (it was packed) before the return leg along the beach, over Sand Point and back via the Priory. Not entirely certain but it's around 10 miles as a circular walk. Certainly we were out 5 hours and walking all that time except when forcing down cake and tea. I was shattered and hungry after that and so we made a friend of mine's wonderful vegetarian dish, Gamagees Pie. I've no idea why its called that (containing only onion, chopped tomato, celery, carrot, berlotti beans, pepper and Marmite) but it made such a tasty treat at the end of a tiring day, it made the exhaustion I felt seem to melt away with the first mouthful. What a fantastic day indeed.

August 30th 2014

........ eventually, the ship encounters a ghostly vessel. On board are Death (a skeleton) and the "Night-mare Life-in-Death" (a deathly-pale woman), who are playing dice for the souls of the crew......

Samuel Taylor Coleridge walked along the Somerset coastline many times in the two years he lived at Nether Stowey with his friends the Wordsworths'. Nearly 200 years later I walked the same coast myself for the first time and like Coleridge found that it has an unnatural, magical and ethereal fascination. Neither pretty, nor unspoilt, it exhibits a spiritual attractive remoteness I can't explain.

Sandwiched between the carbuncle that is Bridgwater and Minehead this 30 odd mile stretch of coastline has a Nuclear power station, a blizzard of caravan parks, and Butlins yet, as Coleridge found, as we walked along Blue Anchor Bay today it feels isolated, strange, a place to not linger too long, yet somehow it's atmosphere of strangeness is a comfort. I know of no other place like this. Julie's reactions today were as mine when first coming here in 1994, I didn't like it, nor did she. I could tell Julie was uneasy being there, and yet 4 hours later the atmosphere here envelops you and provides a stillness of calm that only a landscape of many trod can provide. 

Coleridge many times traversed this area in his drug fuelled perambulations, composing some of literatures most astounding poetry, Kubla Kahn and from where the above comment elides to, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner. He also composed one of my favourites, the Frost at Midnight in the cottage now owned by the National Trust. I made a radio programme which included this a few years back.

I didn't compose any poetry today but as I sat by some truly weird wooden posts impaled into the beach, hulks of rotten teeth belonging to a green monster from the sea, the landscape glittered and shone in a melancholic beauty. A lone fisherman broke the reverie.  I felt the fingers of Coleridge's imagination envelop me in that Frost of Midnight, 

"Or if the secret ministry of frost 

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon."

August 29th 2014

Wodehouse. The very word dispels any thought of depression or melancholy. I thought it was only myself who when feeling a little dull around the gizzard opened up a Wodehouse tome and guffawed at the antics of the Drones Club. Elixir to any fevered brow. Yet over time I read of many who satiated their need for mirth with a re-reading of the antics of one Bertram Wooster at the Market Sodbury School prize giving. A delight then that today flopping onto the mat like an expectant kipper, two of the finest pick-me-ups a chap could wish for. December is a long way off, yet on checking the seating arrangements this week, such is the timeless draw of the comic genius of P.G. that most seats were taken or reserved. It will be four months before I fire up the old two seater and hove into the city for an evening of derring-do and aperitif. I can't wait.

August 28th 2014

I'd just sat down in the garden for ten minutes with a refreshing brew, while waiting for Julie to get home from Wiltshire when I made the mistake of checking Facebook on the Blackberry. I'd been nominated for the ridiculous 'Ice Bucket Challenge' by my lovely cousin in law Alex.  Much as I love Alex, it saddened me that the nomination came from her, because to her I'd send a refusal. But a refusal I did. I've watched this bizarre social media trend gather pace over the last week and wondered what has happened to the World?

Why have we lost our individuality to think and process without interference?  What is this gathering momentum to 'not be left out' of a situation. Stop and think.

Undoubtedly a good cause to put funds into Motor Neurone Disease charity (note if it goes to ALS this benefits American research), but this is just one of many millions of good causes around the world. Personally if the money went into sorting out the developing world's water crisis I'd support that whole heartily. Water, or the lack of it will destroy the Planet, and in not too many years ahead I'm afraid. But I digress.

The disconnectedness of social media allows millions of friends on Facebook, Twitter and other social media platforms to demand a service from an individual without a second thought. I'm not including Alex here but recent research has revealed that 53% of people doing the ice bucket challenge never gave any money to charity, and a third had no idea why they were doing it, with a sizeable number saying they did it as self promotion.  And there was me thinking giving to charity was an altruistic move. What worries me more with this increasing collective wave of social media is that it is an unstoppable wave of pressure on the individual to conform to what society wants us to be. You may think I'm wrong, you may think I'm just a grumpy 50 year old, and that is your right to do so, but let me explain.

None of us would write an e-mail or a letter to our friends or family and say you must give £60 to this charity because I say so, it just would not happen. (Social media seems to have forgotten the challenge is give £60 OR, I REPEAT OR, forfeit that with a dousing of ice water over the head - people are doing both). In the same way there is often a certain uneasiness reading the invitation recently dropped through the letterbox; Sam and Pete would like you to come to our wedding,  and suggest a donation to this animal charity instead of wedding gifts.

Yet social media is rapidly becoming the vehicle for a blunt ended weapon of pressure that 'you must conform'.

Increasingly I feel that social media's disconnectivity is a dangerous tool in the control of the many by a few. Its the same disconnectivity that allows car drivers to behave appallingly on our roads shielded by their metal box; they'd of course never cut people up in person or walk right up behind them for miles because the individual wasn't walking fast enough. Disconnection cultivates  individual bravado (and in serious cases cyber bullying) and mass hysteria.

I've recently deactivated my Twitter account for this reason, as anyone who puts their head up above the baying masses parapet was immediately shot, then hung drawn and quartered, before having their photo put on Instagram, by people who know much less of the discussed argument than the instigator. And that's not healthy. Debate is healthy, something the late Tony Benn spoke passionately about. We need to understand others views, but,  more importantly we need to listen to the views of others. Listening is the most important thing any individual can do. Don't talk, don't lecture, open up you mind to another way by just listening, and listen silently.

Listening and understanding are something I strongly feel social media is stifling - the mob is right the individual is wrong. That is of course until another 'viral sensation' comes along and like a pack of hounds chasing a foxes scent they move in the opposite direction onto another victim. If you have ever watched the train station crowd scene as they change platforms at the beginning of Jaques Tati's 1953 film  Monsieur Hurlot's holiday then you'll get the idea.  There is undoubtedly some good coming out of social media, but boy have I seen some collective baying of hounds. It's like the man on the eighteenth century gallows who facing the voyeuristic unwashed mob, contemplates his death for killing a deer to feed his starving family because the landowner he poached from didn't pay him living wage. How many in the crowd pitied him I wonder. 

Monty Python's Life of Brian is an excellent summation of this. Brian, addressing the masses outside his bedroom window in an attempt to get them to go away, the crowd thinking he's the Messiah....... (with thanks to Wikiquotes)

Brian: Look, you've got it all wrong! You don't need to follow me. You don't need to follow anybody! You've got to think for yourselves! You're all individuals!

Crowd: [in unison] Yes! We're all individuals!

Brian: You're all different!

Crowd: [in unison] Yes, we are all different!

Man in crowd: I'm not...

Crowd: Shhh!
.
And that's my point. If individuals wish to do the ice bucket challenge and post their efforts on Facebook, then do so, I'm happy. Equally, if I refuse to take part, then I'm at liberty to do so. I also worry that mass media coverage of ALS or MND will divert monies away from other research, other possibly smaller charities (we all have limited disposable income) and so what will that effect be in the long run. On the same day I saw a posting for a chap called Christian Nock who walked the 8,000 mile British coastline to raise funds for the homeless ex soldiers which this country happily just spits out and forgets about once they're of little use to our country's security. He himself ended up homeless. His target was a modest £200,000, (£181,849 raised so far) yet hardly any media coverage has followed him, I certainly didn't know about him before yesterday even though he finished the walk in March. And so, I shall donate to him retrospectively, and not to the now swelled coffers of the ALS charity. I am exercising my individuality, but conforming in a way as I rarely give to charity, so thank you Alex. If it hadn't been you who nominated me for the Ice Bucket Challenge I may have just said no and forgotten about it. But as it's you and I'm fond of you, Christian Nock actually doing something himself for others, gets the 50p.

And finally well done Alex, you did the ice challenge because you wanted to - and for that you make me happy.

August 27th 2014

It was such a glorious morning when I arrived at work just after 8am that it seemed callous not to spend 10 minutes enjoying the fresh air. This image was taken as I sat in mild, slightly fuggy air at one of the BBC Club's tables. Many moons ago Bob ran the Club and bought these pseudo Art-Deco tables and chairs. I once bought 2 of the chairs from him when the new metal ones were being ordered, however after a year or so they disintegrated sadly. But this morning I just sat with my cup of 40p tea and enjoyed the rays of sunshine on my face. A welcome balm to the day ahead being incarcerated indoors. Being an outdoor person I'm like Jekyll and Hide, I love being outdoors, but spend a lot of time indoors so have become acclimatised to that condition. But, this ten minutes not thinking about anything was bliss.

August 26th 2014

Take note of the weather forecast for today. Light shower at 9am and sunny, the rest of the day cloudy. A few hours earlier the forecast didn't include any rain. But as I drove into work at 7.30am the M5 motorway was awash with water. Heavy rain had been deluging this landscape since well before 6am, without a break. On the roads, mist and spray made driving the motorway almost suicidal and at one point the road surface was two to three inches deep. It was a miracle I made it to work in one piece and more of a miracle in that I had done so without breakfast encouragement. And so as I arrived at work on a morning that better resembled a November afternoon not an August morning, I tucked into my marmalade sandwiches and dream of empty hills with no traffic. Perfect, as long as they get the weather forecast right.

August 25th 2014

Quite an important thing happened today. The above gravestone is in All Saint's church in Charminster. It is marking the grave of John Satchell and his wife Martha. Heavily eroded and encrusted with lichen this is the last resting place of Julie's great great great uncle. Until recently Julie hadn't taken much notice of her family history, however as this interest increases we're unearthing the people who only 150 years ago or so were part of DNA on this earth. As we stood in the churchyard it was hard not to be thinking about John and his brother William, Julie's great great great grandfather. Did they play in the churchyard, maybe the stream alongside. Certainly this is an ancient village and one which, being just a few miles from Dorchester really does feel like 'Far from the Madding Crowd'. More on this when we've completed some good research. 

The family history completed, and the rain finally clearing we made a detour to Lyme Regis (via Cheddar Garden Centre, Castle Gardens Sherborne and Dorchester)to gain the last rays of the day. I love the fact Julie is finding her roots and those roots are as Dorset as Dorset can be. This makes sense as her way back ancestors apparently were French, so presumably they popped over the Channel, arrived at Dorset and stayed. I know I'd stay if I'd arrived in Dorset. 

August 24th 2014

Families eh? Who'd have them! Today has been a search the Satchell day. Julie doesn't have much of a family as her parents were both only children (strictly speaking her father was a twin whose brother died aged 8). So her lineage is limited. Or so we thought. I spent a day on the computer searching every Satchell connection in Dorset and Wiltshire where Julie's family have lived for 300 years. Frustratingly there is an unconnected branch of Satchells in Swindon who between 1840 and 1900 have almost identical names and dates of birth, a minefield of blind alleys. But by 10pm I'd honed down these main families: on her father's side, Satchell, of course, and a fascinating delve into Hurst (occasionally given as Hursk) from 1860's (which ends about 1700 with an unmarried birth -shocking!!), and on her mother's side, the Pontings. Through the Pontings we traced lines back through Ponting but also into Angell and Moore. By the end of the day this spider's web of Family History had been drawn. It remains then for me to sort this out and make it legible. All those people who were somehow connected with Julie.

One fascinating aspect of this was a Nathaniel Satchell, born Broad Chalk in Dorset in 1841. He was a railway policeman and then a railway signalman. Married to Elizabeth Allingham, (born 1834) in 1861 they moved about and eventually ended up at Congresbury in Somerset. He died in 1894 and is apparently buried in St Annes Churchyard, Hewish. Elizabeth died in 1895 and also buried there. St Annes Churchyard is less than 2 miles from where Julie now lives. I feel a visit coming on to find the graves if they still exist of her great great grandparents.

August 23rd 2014

An important part of my one year long project is to catalogue the minutiae of daily life. National moments energetically jostle for space alongside the mundane of the blog pages, yet it is the everyday that fascinates me. We all live 24 hours a day, yet how many of us can recall more than half a dozen things we did yesterday, or indeed anything we did a month ago? A reason then, a cause celebre, why diary writing has a long and distinguished past. Historians have long delved into the annals of the diarist to extrapolate what really happened, increasingly it is the mundane diarist who now illuminates the past with a spectrum of routineness. Yet blogging, this 'new kid on the block' form of diary writing, is markedly different. By and large diarists wrote intimately. Some may have harboured thoughts of future publication, yet most wrote a personal memoir for their own amusement, to clear a mind of a days trivia, or like me, the pure joy of writing. I'm not a great writer; my Comprehensive education left gaping holes in my grasp of English grammar and spelling, an appalling education breeds a lifetime of failure with the floating apostrophe, but that is of little consequence. I have risen above this conformity of language. I write as I wish to record my thoughts, at a moment in time. Linguistic errors can be corrected, remembering the detail cannot, as time fades a moment of clarity.

To write a blog is to lay bare the deepest of thought to an unknown public, beautifully encapsulating the modern worlds craving for instant gratification, a gratification which is not a problem in itself, but we are losing the creative ability to stop and stare, to revel in silent inactivity. As I write this, having replenished the seed feeders outside, my concentration flicks between this posting and the 30 or so sparrows jostling for dominance in the buffet bar I have supplied. Like drab workers heading home from a day's toil desiring to be at the front of the bus queue, they jostle, peck, flutter and swap places awaiting their turn at the breakfast provision. I adore my sparrows, nesting in the roof-space they endlessly and cheerily chirrup their presence. Yet, I am their only observer. Failure to record this moment at 7am on a glorious autumnal morning, with the sun shining, gulls calling along the coast, house martins on the wing, failure to mention the feeling of transcendent peace over the land, would allow the moment to drift into the obscurity of time and be lost forever. Even now at 7.30am that moment has receded, the first cars now travel the lane, early shoppers maybe, or tired workers desirous of a long Bank Holiday weekend like the rest of us. The birds are still there, but the moment of peace just half an hour ago has evaporated alongside the toxic emissions of a combustion engine.  

More-so, writing a diary allows digression. I first sat at my laptop wondering what to write when the image above caught my eye. It is my world, my office, my desk, my detritus. I wake most morning between 5 and 6am, my most creative time of the day, yet weekday work beckons and time is short. Weekends, released from the pressure of earning a honest crust, allow leisurely pursuits of my life. Some toast, tea and sit down before the day awakes to write. Soon I shall publish this on the blogging site, post a link to Facebook. A few kind readers may comment. Most will ignore it, yet, every day since October 1st last year I have jotted down a moment of mundane in my life. A cathartic endeavour. Fascinating to think in a weeks time, my year will, like the summer now fading, be moving to a close. September will be my last month. Should this continue? I'm not sure, can one continue to record the mundane, continue to remain alive to a days trivia? Possibly, but who would read it. Maybe I am about to become the unpublished diarist then I always failed to be. The exploration of the everyday shall I yet savour for myself. 

August 22nd 2014

What a fantastic day.  I worked from home today and in the afternoon had a break from the screen. nothing like a light perambulation around the garden to restore the creative juices. My (or should I say now our)  boundary at the back is a lovely brick wall. As I looked closer it had this butterfly shaped shadow, which looking away from the wall ended up being this superb red admiral, newly emerged by the looks of it. It was the briefest of moments, but it brought joy to my day. Soon after the image was taken the butterfly alighted and disappeared over the fields. Back to work for me then. It's the simple and unexpected things in life which are wonderful.

August 21st 2014

I awoke today to the most stunning rainbow out over the fields. Dawn breaks now around 6am and so low light brings with it a golden glow before the day fully awakes.  A time Richard Jefferies would have loved I'm sure. Having written a blog posting for the Radio 4 Tweet of the Day website, I found out today only three lines will be used. It seems a shame to waste my efforts. And so, longer than usual in this blog, herewith the entire thought for the day.

"It was one of our greatest nature writers Richard Jefferies who wrote in Hours of Spring, one of his last essays “It is sweet on awaking in the early morn to listen to the small bird singing on the tree. No sound of voice or flute is like to the bird”.  Almost 150 years later Radio 4’s Tweet of the Day provides a sweet awakening for its many listeners around the world.

Having returned from an extended leave to celebrate my half century, I was offered possibly the best birthday present I could have dreamed of “would I like to produce the second series of Tweet of the Day”. New bird species are being found every year but there are currently 10,530 known species of bird in the world. Of these 150 are now extinct.  But that still left me with over 31,000 bird species to choose from, if I also included the 20,964 recognised subspecies. This second series has a global reach, I had 120 programmes to make, I had a blank canvas which allowed me to choose any birds in the world, and I had a first recording deadline with Sir David Attenborough by mid-July. I had just 9 weeks.

Luckily at my disposal were the great team involved in the first series of Tweet of the Day, winner of the prestigious Broadcasting Guild Award. Writer Brett Westwood had just left the BBC but agreed to put pen to paper for this second series.  Fellow producer Sarah Blunt again agreed to act as script editor, and one of the best wildlife knowledge researchers I know, Rob Collis swung immediately into action, providing much needed species lists, facts and details. Excellent, we had a producer, writer, researcher and a script editor but as yet, no birds, and no birdsong.

Some birds instantly came into mind, as they bring wonder and glamour to the natural world. Blue bird of paradise, emperor penguin, blue footed booby, resplendent quetzal slipped under the wire immediately. Others like the unique wrybill, or the blood sucking vampire finch, waited patiently in the wings as encore understudies.  I now had the birds, but what of the birdsong?

In the time I had available it would be impossible to source specially recorded birdsong from around the world. This is where sound archivist Claire Diamond came to the rescue. As the World’s leading wildlife production house, the BBC’s Natural History Unit has been to every corner of the globe. For two weeks she and I immersed ourselves in this vast catalogue of sound. Amazingly some species I desired were not included in the back catalogue. Enter stage left the Macaulay Library in America, part of the Cornell Labs of Ornithology. What the BBC didn’t have, Macaulay did. The series had hatched.

I could only choose 120 bird species, therefore some favourites amongst the listeners will be missing, yet I hope to bring you the best of what the avian world has to offer around the world; the spectacular, the bizarre, the songsters or in some cases those we’re about to lose forever. I hope Richard Jefferies would approve of this sweet awakening on the airwaves."

August 20th 2014

Since Julie has moved in with me, each Wednesday she returns to Wiltshire for 2 days gardening. She has kept her two favourite clients at Little Bedwyn and Hugditch. Wednesday then are my retro-bachelor nights, where I revert to my old ways. Lounging on the sofa watching Top Gear, drinking beer and not washing up.  But tonight heading upstairs to bet I became traumatised by this. Barnaby in pink bed socks, was waiting for me. Should I be worried? Probably, as it's a sign that my bachelor evenings while wonderful are but a feint shadow of the former perennial bachelor of Somerset. And do you know what, I quite like it now. A bit too much pink though for my linking.

August 19th 2014

I had another day off today and as Julie was entertaining friends of hers, I wobbled off for a day on my own.  My initial plan was to head over to Wells, but something made me veer off in a different direction and head for the Somerset coast around Blue Anchor Bay. I used to come here a lot when I lived at East Brent but less so now. I love it though because it is a quiet unspoilt part of the world and one which although visited by tourists seems to be lost in some time-warp. That could be because of the West Somerset Steam Railway which I adore. A properly functioning steam railway, 16 miles long and maintaining the connection between Minehead with Taunton. I was on here for a journey about a year ago and it was surreal, and the best experience of English eccentricity I've ever witnessed. So my day was spent just watching steam trains, watching the sea and having endless cups of tea in the Driftwood Cafe. Marvellous. As an encore on the way home Julie text'd and suggested a picnic at Sand Bay. A perfect end to a day by the seaside.

August 18th 2014

What a smashing day we've had in Wales. As a child growing up in the north east, Wales seemed a long way away. Scotland or the Lake District was where we ventured to smell the mountain air. To get to Wales meant driving through the Midlands and that wasn't a pleasurable thought. And so Wales is a bit of a closed book to me, which recently I've begun to open. Having a couple of days off, Julie and I headed off to the Elan Valley, near Rhayader. I first came here with work about 2 years ago and it is stunning. Less than two hours from home it is closer than Cornwall, a part of Wales I've wanted to return to for pleasure. Today we did. En route we stopped at this fantastic cafe for lunch, the Honey Cafe at Bronllys. What a find and it turns out a local institution.  Fed and watered we wandered around the Elan Valley in perfect August weather, warn, light breeze and the sharpest of colours in the unpolluted landscape. We'd built up such an appetite too that we just HAD TO pop into the Honey Cafe on the way home for supper. Their strawberry roulade was exceptional.

August 17th 2014

Autumn is gathering a pace despite the fact we are still in the summer holiday season. I'm not complaining as this means blackberry time, one of the greatest bounties from a nature one can experience. We'd spent a day in the garden, potting up roses, pruning back summer growth and generally having a tidy up. This year the shed, doyen of all gardeners, has been enveloped by brambles from the lane behind the house. A veritable haystack of thorns now engulfs one side of the roof, but a haystack with a difference. All too soon a waterfall of blackberries will cascade towards our crumble pot. I've had one or two already but today there was a good handful to enjoy. It's tempting to leave these and then collect to freeze them, yet, is that a wise decision? Eating blackberries on a warm August day, tasting the goodness of the suns rays moments after picking has to be one of the greatest pleasures of life. We will of course gather some and freeze for the long winter ahead. Only a shame the outdoor tomatoes can't be saved for later - now that is a tantalising taste bud experience, fresh yellow outdoor grown tomatoes off the plant. Blackberries, outdoor tomatoes, can life get any better?

August 16th 2014

Cleeve Garden Centre Cafe. This was an interesting morning. We'd popped to Cleeve as is our wont to fill in a morning. Saturday mornings aren't worth living if coffee and cake isn't part of the routine. We also had to go and fetch some picture frames. no sooner had we sat down to read the Somerset Gardener than I received a text from a friend, 'where was I, can we meet up'. Longs story cut shore, an hour later they turned up and after having arrived at the cafe at 10.30am, we left just after 1pm. Needless to say we got through three rounds of tea in that time. It is so exhausting doing that once we got home we had to have a snooze. Well, that's what a summer Saturday is for. Marvellous.

August 15th 2014

Blimey I've put some hours in today. Another day working from home (ideal really as in the summer the M5 on a Friday is unbearable) but as I'm in the middle of Tweet editing, it's head down. But, I have a room with a view and today it was of pigeon shooting and hedge trimming - not at the same time I might add. the field out the back of the house was always permanent grass. Two years ago they ploughed it and grew very scrappy maize. This year it's been sown back to cereals which also failed (it floods a lot in winter) so today it's just a stubbly field. As I rested my eyes I looked out and saw the farmer erecting a hide. With the camera beside me, too good an opportunity to miss. You can see his barrel above. I've no idea if pigeons made it to the pot but after he packed up, the hedges were trimmed. It's all go in the somerset countryside I tell you.

I finished about 7pm so as it was still wonderfully light Julie suggested we head to Sand Bay for a pre-retiring stroll. A good choice, a very good choice indeed.

August 14th 2014

Truly bizarre. Back in the days before computers I occasionally wrote a comic magazine. In those days doing this in a shoestring one had to write a piece, add photocopied illustrations and then photocopy the whole to distribute it to the expectant crowds of readers. Circulation 10. Hunting today through some old paper these 'originals' came to light. The top edition is from 1994, when I worked with a library system called 'Telclass' for the BBC. The bottom edition from about 1988 when I worked for South Tyneside Libraries. Looking back I can remember composing these and do miss that creative energy. Never meant to be anything other than a bit of amusement, they were also fun to compile. These days with news editing packages, publication is simple and easy. Then it involved a touch of the Blue Peter spirit, glue, Tip-Ex and scissors. 

August 13th 2014

I spent tonight watching the fish. Earlier in this year long blog I mentioned (I think) the unexpected arrival of tiny live born your Tetra fish into the tank. We'd initiall bought 5 adult fish, 3 Tetra and 2 Bronze Cory's which Julie adores. That gave a total of 6 adults. 1 adult Tetra died but then 9 baby tetra arrived one weekend, no bigger than a grain of rice. One, maybe two of those must have died as we now have 11 adult Tetra and 2 Cory in the tank. The chap at the aquarium shop advised us to buy a huge tank to accommodate all this fish based expansion. But with one thing and another the old tank remains a permanent des-res for these piscean chaps. They seem very happy and they're great fun. The 2 Cory's, being bottom feeding,  bomb about the bottom hoovering up sweetmeats from amongst the gravel, or occasionally propelling themselves to the water surface and back for no apparent reason. The Tetra have now established a pecking order. A dominant male (mid image) guards his female, usually by the bridge. Should any usurper male hove into view he chases it off with an astonishing speed and calm is restored, before it all begins again. Read any learned book and fish are supposed to have a memory lasting seconds. Well let me tell you if I go so much as withing six inches of the food container, the Tetra congregate in a seething gannet like mass at the top of the water, expectant of a morsel or two. They remember that much hours later at least. Julie is really the fish lover, but I have to say I'm enjoying them almost as much now. Better than watching television any day.

August 12th 2014

".....I didn't bring them up here to ridicule them. I brought them up here to illustrate the point of conformity: the difficulty in maintaining your own beliefs in the face of others. Now, those of you -- I see the look in your eyes like, "I would've walked differently." Well, ask yourselves why you were clapping. Now, we all have a great need for acceptance. But you must trust that your beliefs are unique, your own, even though others may think them odd or unpopular, even though  the herd may go, "That's baaaaad."

Robert Frost said, "Two roads diverged in a wood and I, I took the one less travelled by, and that has made all the difference." Now, I want you to find your own walk right now. Your own way of striding, pacing. Any direction.   Anything you want. Whether it's proud, whether it's silly, anything. Gentlemen, the courtyard is yours....."

Today I woke up to the news that the manic lexicographic genius that is Robin Williams had died overnight, an as yet unconfirmed suicide.

Little I can say to add to this brilliant quote from (for my money) the best film he ever performed in, The Dead Poet's Society. His work will live on, yet today as I write this, he now can mingle with the Dead Poets, and dream. Carpe diem Robin.

August 11th 2014

Today is the 20th Anniversary of the first ever on-line purchase transaction, as it turns out a CD by Sting. Yet I wonder. Given that Private John Lawson Hall died during the first day of the Battle of the Somme, July 1st 1916, was the ability 78 years later to purchase a CD on-line really what he and the one million other men wounded or killed in that Battle gave their life for?

It all began with this photograph of a bible owned by John L Hall. My second cousin Anthony Young got it from my great uncle John. Great uncle John was my grandmothers brother, a Sheridan who's father married a Hall. And that was all we had to go on. A name, and a regiment. I spoke to my father who at 83 is really the only one left with any family history, and he remembered his mother talking about an Uncle Joe who was gassed in the First World War. He didn't know whether he had died immediately or lived after being gassed. Since then, some detective work by another second cousin Jo Breeze amongst others has uncovered some fascinating facts, although some are yet shrouded in confusion.

As already noted, we now know that he died on the first day of the Somme, aged 32. His death is commemorated at the Thiepval Memorial in France. As part of this citation we also were given the information; son of Joseph and Eleanor Hall, of Stanley County Durham and husband of Lucy Hall, 57 Milton Street South Shields. the bible gives the date 27.10.15 Sutton Veny. Why there? Well some research on an army website dedicated to the 34th Division (which contained the 27th Northumberland Fisilliers) reveals this;

"The Division was largely comprised of locally raised units often known as "Pals", notably those raised in the north east and known as the Tyneside Scottish and Tyneside Irish. There were also the Manchester Scottish, the Grimsby Chums and others. After in most cases commencing training near home, the units were moved in mid 1915 to concentrate at Ripon in Yorkshire. It was not until late August that the Division moved for final training and firing practice at Salisbury Plain.

On 3 January 1916 embarkation orders arrived; by 15 January the Division had crossed the Channel and was concentrated at La Crosse, east of St Omer.

The Division then remained on the Western Front for the remainder of the war and took part in the following engagements:
1916
The Battle of Albert* including the capture of Scots and Sausage Redoubts
The Battle of Bazentin Ridge*
The Battle of Pozieres Ridge*
The Battle of Flers-Courcelette* (only 103rd Brigade and the Divisional Pioneers)

* the battles marked * are phases of the Battles of the Somme 1916 "

http://www.1914-1918.net/34div.htm


It turns out then that after Wiltshire he was in France for 6 months or so before he died. His death also highlighted something no one knew, that he was married, and the search is now on to discover what happened to Lucy Hall. From a name in a book, I now discover something about my great great Uncle, son of my great great grandparents on my grandmothers side Joseph and Eleanor Jane Hall (nee Ainslie). Their daughter, Hannah Jane Hall, sister of the above John, married James Patrick Sheridan on 19th August 1899 and my grandmother Ann Eleanor (Nellie) Sheridan was born in 1901. 100 years or so is a long time, but not that long, yet these names whilst familiar in broken conversations with the family in my childhood, are now coming to life. The research goes on.

August 10th 2014

I plan to do something different with my daily posting today, it shall be in two parts. A morning of bright emulsion followed by a dark after-storm encore.

I am writing this at 09.08hrs on Sunday morning. I'm still in bed with the windows wide open, but have spent an hour listening to the softest of  rain falling.  I've also been trying, largely unsuccessfully, to take images of raindrops on cobwebs from the bedroom window. A futile gesture considering I needed to use the telephoto lens in poor light. But, that being said, it is a fabulously soft day here on the Somerset coast, dark clouds weep a soft drizzle onto a silent still world; Micro raindrops lightly kiss and gather on an apexoidal leaf tip to magnify the scene, a microcosm of verdant serenity. I absolutely love these soft damp days in summer, they excite me, throw me back to childhood walks brushing my legs against rain sodden foliage, that triumphal note of release as a booted foot breaks free during a muddy stride. Heightened senses to make the mind flow into its farthest reaches of composition fervour and release a line or two in celebration of this green and pleasant land. All is serene, all is calm.

And yet, for all the calm serenity without as I type, the remnants of Hurricane Bertha (which caressed the Carribean on Monday ) is scheduled to hit this area by mid afternoon. If as predicted winds of 40-50mph and driving rain by teatime arrive, the scene from the bedroom window will have changed out of all recognition.  Can a day have such contrast, almost a metaphor for life, in that its birth as a mild soft-rained summer morn will end in the explosive fire of a cyclonic event.  Certainly in the 15 minutes it has taken to write this the wind has noticeably increased, from an admittedly stationary mode,  lightly billowing formerly motionless curtains. Fascinating to feel the subtle changes minute by minute.

I wonder what will happen; I shall return at 10pm and report if the contrast was as to be expected, dramatic after all.

As I write this it is not far off my 10pm deadline, 9.30pm to be precise and the remnants of Hurricane Bertha are battering the back of the house as the final vestiges of light disappear over the Welsh Mountains. The above photograph was taken at about 1pm and until then it had been calm and sunny. We wandered up a Forestry Commission plantation for a walk only for the front to come in. Soaked and with upturned umbrella's we headed back to the car and that was the end of the rain. The wind continued to pick up and still is, but it was sunny. 

High Tide down at the coast was 7.30pm, so we made good our wish to see how windy it was down there. Sandblasting was a new game for us as the wind whipped the dunes into a barrage of stings. The oft gentle rolling motion of the Atlantic hitting the buffers at Sand Bay, was, today, slightly more robust of energy with the tide coming right up to the sand dunes and sea wall.  Certainly the skittish flocks of dunlin and ringed plover enjoyed the wind. We also attempted to drink a cup of tea from a flask. I'd not recommend that if the wind is over 30mph, choppy tea in a plastic mug is entertaining if attempted once only.

And so, I began this post in calm, mild and damp conditions awaiting the onslaught, as predicted it came and as I sign off nearly 10 hours later with the sound of Thor beating a wind-hammer on the window pane, it's a sound I find most exciting. The weather forecasters got it spot on too, today really was a day of contrast, weather wise at least.

(After writing this I've just checked the BBC Weather website, current sustained wind speed here is 28mph, gusting 48 - marvellous)

August 9th 2014

 

"Gone with the rain" being re-enacted at Sand Bay today. I just missed a more striking photograph as Stephen on the left had his umbrella aloft at a rakish angle over Christine and Julie. Long term friends of Julie, the Gampers had come to visit her at her new abode. Following a wonderful luncheon in the sunlit garden (baked potatoes and tuna salad) we headed off for a walk and a coffee at Sand Bay - in the ten minute drive there the rain began to fall and refuge was quickly sought in the café. Cream teas completed we headed along the beach and watched the tide come in. A trio of sirens.

August 8th 2014

A busy morning.  Driving in at 7.30am in front of me a sea of floating jelly-fish filled the sky. A quick count made me think about 50 to 70 balloons suspended like giant drops of rain in an otherwise clear blue sky. This was a mass balloon lift off from the 36th Bristol International Balloon Fiesta which happens annually at this time of the year. The morning could not have been better, with near null wind the balloons were literally suspended in animation. Sadly by the time I'd located a place to stop and take some photos, many had sidled over the woods I'd just driven through so as a record only, the above image was taken.

I couldn't stop long anyway as at 10am I had a rendezvous with the RSPB''s President and for 3 hours today at least, the latest Tweet of the Day presenter. 25 scripts were read with gusto and aplomb, I like Miranda's voice very much. So now, just the editing to do then! Miranda's first Tweet is September 29th  -  The Southern Ground Hornbill!

August 7th 2014

When I come back into this world, I wish to be a cat. Cat's have remarkable stressful lives. The sleep, they wander about a bit and then they sleep a bit more after a light breakfast or maybe a spot of luncheon. And if that isn't enough, if they become bored with their permanent home they wander about until some other open house cat sitting service can be found and decamp for a while.  Once again, meet George. I've no idea if George is his name but 3 weeks ago he befriended us ( I think it was the free sausage I lobed his way). Since then George has become semi permanent in the garden and house. Julie has succumbed to buying Sheeba cat food and well we seem to have become his new cash, (or is that tuna), cow.  I looked out the bedroom window this morning and there he was. The sun was up at 6.30am but not hot yet, but there he was catching the morning rays perched on the garden fence. Hearing me open the window to take these images made him think food may be in the offing and not long afterwards, his face was pressed to the kitchen window. He likes Sheeba, duck with rabbit very much.  

August 6th 2013

 

As a location, this garage where my car went for a service is quite picturesque. CRT Auto Services are a full blown garage in the middle of nowhere. They occupy a former farm building and I first used their services in 2011 when my car was involved in an accident. Their bodywork specialist, Chris did a remarkable job and to the day that car was finally written off in another accident I couldn't see the join. Today however was an oil change / minor service on what I call Suzie Grey.  The garage is only half a mile from home as the crow flies, 1 mile on foot which provides a most pleasant walk in the summer sun, admiring the views to be quite impressed by. The image below is the landscape the garage, to the left, nestles in, with my house behind the trees to the right. Service done, all was well until they attempted to reset the 'flashing' oil service light. Long story but this can only be done via computer diagnostics, and their diagnostics can't reset it.....yet! To be continued. 

August 5th 2014

 

A slice of Christmas sparkle pervades the heat of an August day down at the BBC bar. I'd just finished mixing the first 30 Tweet of the Day's in the studio and had popped into the bar to have a well deserved cup of tea. As I sat ruminating on this momentous moment, the lights of the bar provided a spectrum of colour onto the CD's surface. A sign maybe of the future shining back at me? The lights of Christmas shining through already? Or is there light at the end of the tunnel. Whatever it was it was a brief moment in the time of my life and one I captured forever.

August 4th 2014

 

Sidney John Ponting born Stratton near Swindon 1896, died Swindon 1976. And grandfather of Julie. Today is the 100th Anniversary of the Great War, World War 1 and as is oft the case at such events our mind is cast back to relatives. This time however it is cast back to someone I never knew. Sidney Ponting was Julie's maternal grandfather and one of the first things  she showed me was his photograph, underneath which was an inscription for a Distinguished Conduct Medal. A medal equivalent to the D.S.O awarded to officers. The D.C.M was awarded to the ranks. He was a good looking chap, looking back out from the frame with youthful vigour. Julie remembers him only as an older man, a man who was a very keen gardener and grew thousands of bedding plants in a proper Victorian greenhouse, possibly where Julie gets her green fingers from.

 

I'd been wondering how to celebrate the Great War as my only connection to it was my own maternal Grandfather Edward John Dawes who seemed to wander into the war just as it was ending in 1918, as he was only 18 himself. Although I do know he went to France before being wounded.

 

Julie has just told me that just before her grandfather died he was hallucinating about the trenches. 60 years after the horror of WW1, it's so sad to think his life was forever linked to that time. Was this why he loved the peace and tranquillity of gardening I wonder.

 

Both men survived the war, but many did not;

 

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam

 

 

For the Fallen

Laurence Binyon, September 1914

August 3rd 2014

 

It is not every day that I'm involved with a World Record attempt in egg throwing and today was no exception. I stood well back on the side-lines. At 3pm or thereabouts I left this message on the 'don't forget board' hoping that Julie would see it. She didn't, not until 4.30pm anyway, when she changed the ET of depart to 5pm. 16.50 to be precise and by 18.05 we were by the sea at Lyme Regis enjoying the Regatta atmosphere. Sitting on the sea wall sucking on an ice cream (tea for the lady) the announcement stage left was that a World Record attempt would be made in egg throwing and any volunteers would be welcome. Within 5 minutes a heavy mob had congregated around the megaphone which then split into 2 groups. A small adults group, small as in number. And a children's group which seemed huge (bottom image). To the adults group I strolled.

 

Now to be brutally honest I have no idea what was going on. A parallel line of people stood about 30 feet apart and threw eggs at each other in turn. If the egg smashed that pair retired. If it remained intact they threw again.  This continued for about 20 minutes until eventually after much oohing and ahhing by the assembled crowd, the only pair remaining with an intact egg was the chap in blue throwing the egg (arrow to denote trajectory) at the chap in orange. They continued to throw until one high lifter failed to connect softly with the chap in orange hands and that was it. Everyone left. The children's event continued for another 10 minutes before that too abruptly ended. Was the World Record achieved? Well if it was, it wasn't announced to the Lyme Regis crowd.