Author Archives: dianaashworth

Doggy

RIP Pedro

It’s been a difficult winter as several of our good friends have crested the distribution curve for life expectancy and done what we will all do eventually — because of this it hasn’t seemed right to talk about the passing of our dog.


However Pedro was such a special individual he deserves his canine eulogy

Much of his early life is documented in my book Iolo’s Revenge where he looks out from the fly leaf to engage the potential reader just as, in life, he engaged everyone he met –he had extraordinary social skills with eloquently persuasive non-verbal powers — and verbal understanding.

“Not in front of the dog!” my husband would say as we discussed the possibilities of an outing , ” We don’t want to disappoint him.”

It was probably his idea anyway.

He had a way of fixing you with his stare and then glancing at the object of his desire (whole systems of psychoanalysis have been based in this method of communication). His glance would lead you to the path to the woods; his ball on the shelf; my crook when he wanted to look at the lambs; Wellies when he wanted to go to the stream or the beach (he loved the beach) — he knew exactly how to introduce the thought that he wanted into my head: feed the sheep; collect the eggs; walk the dog and don’t forget we are taking next-door’s dog today; it’s six o’clock (I know it is, I’ll feed you in a minute!)

Come on — time to set off!

The thing about dogs is that they communicate on an emotional level, with irresistible sadness when they don’t get their own way and uncontainable joy when they do — and joy is catching. A walk in the woods or a romp in the snow with a happy dog can elevate the meanest mood!

Retrieving a stolen ball on the Gower

Pedro was a family dog:

New Granddog

Good with sheep:

And lambs (he loved baby creatures — he’d bring them in and ask if he could keep them):

Not so good with cats

Protecting Boss from pesky cat (demonstrating sophisticated emotion) Jealous dog — they do PhDs in that.

Athlete:

Intrepid explorer:

Guard-dog:

Farm Manager:

Photo by Peter Jenkins — all rights reserved

Old Friend:

RIP Pedro 2005-2019

Standard
Humour, Local History, Wales

Under Fire!

The first of February was the last day of the season for shooting pheasants in the United Kingdom and presumably the last day for taking pot-shots at innocent little ladies walking in the woods which is what my friend and I were doing that day.

Hoods up against the sharp wind, we leaned on our stout sticks and felt our way through the frozen puddles along the bridal track from Bwlch y Ffridd to Gregynog Hall — so muffled were we that we could have passed for the ghosts of Margaret and Gwendoline Davies, the great patrons of modern art, who will have passed this way a century ago.

“That’s where von Ribbentrop used to stay in the thirties,” said my friend pointing out a building on the far side of the wide valley. I pricked up my ears but before I could question her further we became aware of several large four-wheel-drive vehicles crunching through the snow in the valley below and stopping one after the other to disgorge men with guns who seemed to be scrambling to take up positions along the valley, parallel with our route along the track. “Are they hunting today? Is it a shoot?”

“Shootings over for this year… I think” said my friend.

Young men with dogs and sticks appeared above us in the wood lashing at the tree trunks and clapping.

“Beaters?”

“I think we had better turn back and quickly.”

Bang!

“They are bloody shooting!” In a state of extreme arousal we slid and stumbled our way past the gunmen, along a fusillade that rained lead shot down through the trees like unearthly hail. They weren’t firing at us and probably were 30 feet away but it really was quite exciting!

I bet von Ribbentrop came here for the shooting or perhaps to meet Mrs Simpson (lovers evidently) as they both wooed the future king — it’s a small world.

Standard
Cornwall

Helicopter

At home I spend many a happy hour musing on possible sites to land a helicopter –specifically an air ambulance — basically there is nowhere within two miles that is flat or not festooned with power lines or patrolled by ferocious cattle.  The only flat place on the farm is where Alan has built an enormous bonfire which was too dangerous to light all summer and is now too wet!

Anyway, as everyone knows, no one ever gets around to being sure that they are ill enough to call an ambulance in the morning.  We have our lunch at 3pm and it’s dark by 4 — the Welsh Air Ambulance doesn’t fly after dark which is as well with all the mountains and the above hazards.

We’ve been in Lostwithiel in Cornwall — on the Fowey River.  There was a colossal roar the other day — so tantalizingly loud that Pedro and I had to go and investigate!

50 yards from the house we found the source of the row — a Cornwall Air Ambulance –come to pick someone up from the adjacent medical centre.

Here they are being loaded:

See –it’s already dusk, but note how wonderfully flat it is.

Then it started to roar again and the rotor blades which were drooping started to rotate faster and faster and got flatter and flatter and louder and louder until one thought it couldn’t try any harder — but it did  and, as Pedro sank to the ground and covered his ears, it lifted lightly up and turned to face us.  

It flew directly at us (must have seen the camera) then rose up in an aerial pirouette —

— and set off towards Plymouth.  Good Luck!

Standard
Cornwall, Wales, Welsh History

Madrun

When you meet someone for the first time, it seems to me, that you can nearly always find something that you have in common — places you have lived, people you have known, views, tastes, maybe you have the same sense of humour — we humans like to do this, to forge bonds with new people.

I have just met Madrun and she is a remarkable woman.  She’s been dead 1500 years. 

Whatever you call her, Madrun or Materiana, this woman must have learned a thing or two from the turbulent power struggles that raged around her in her early life.  She was born a princess, eldest daughter of Gwerthefyr Fendigaid (Vortimer the Blessed), the 5th century warrior king of Gwent who opposed the Saxon invaders from Germany who were allied with his father.  He temporarily overthrew his father and took power but eventually is said to have been poisoned by his Saxon stepmother (that’s a recurrent theme!)  On his father’s death, his daughter, Madrun, succeeded from her grandfather and rulled with her husband Ynyr (descended from Roman emperor Magnus Maximus). (Thankyou, David Nash Ford for this information from Early British Kingdoms)

The details of her life are obscure but we know she was Christian and that, like many of her contemporaries she travelled to Ynes Enlli (Bardsey Island — at the tip of the Llyn peninsula in North Wales) as a pilgrim. 

Looking towards Bardsey Island,  Ynys Gwylan in the foreground

On the way she and her servant Annun stayed a night at Trawsfynydd.  I have visited this area — infact I blogged about the visit and the spooky nature of the place.(Off the Straight and Narrow) 

Madrun found it spooky too.  She and Annun both dreamed a dream of  founding a nunnery there, which they did –the church there still bears Madrun’s name.

Circle of hills around Trawsfynydd –slate wall in foreground

Yesterday we were at Tintagel, Cornwall, in a magnificent gale, shouting greetings to fellow walkers with excited wind-tousled dogs.  We watched the huge swell and the breakers hitting the offshore islands and sending spray 60 feet into the air.

The Sisters, Tintagel.

As we drove away we caught sight of a small church on the cliff and we were drawn to look.  Here it is — St Materiana’s (that’s the same Madrun — she ended her days in Cornwall)

Saint Materiana’s Church, Tintagel, Cornwall

Relatively modern –rebuilt in 12th century!  But there’s been a church here since the 6th century — I bet you Madrun’s buried here — look at the view.

Someone is keeping an eye on it anyway!

Standard
Hill Farming, Humour

Chutney Days!

As I get older my back aches a bit and my trousers get tighter otherwise I feel much the same but I notice that the people around me seem to ail more and the things that fill my days are changing.  A lot of the things that we do hardly merit a blog — I can’t promise you a riveting account of my breast screening appointment next week.

This week I have scratched the new car and got stuck in the car-wash but I have mostly been making chutney — apple chutney.  Well, I’d cleaned the house after the cider episode (the floor no longer clings hysterically to my shoes as I walk, nor the door handles to my hands) so I thought, I’ll fill the kitchen with vinegar fumes, taint the washing on the dryer and torture myself with chilli fingers when I remove my contact lenses!

I can feel exceedingly green by recycling jam jars, soothing my hands in warm soapy water, marvel at the amazing adhesiveness of modern labels  and turn a blind eye (still red from the chilli) on the amount of sugar that goes in — much less than in  jam! 

All because I read somewhere that the reason the days seem to fly past as we get older is because we don’t do enough different things– distinguishing things — that-was-the-day-I-made-the-chutney things!  

Standard
Hill Farming

Sticky Situation!

We have a decrepit apple tree — the sheep barked it, a hedge has swamped it, it has die-back and more lichen than leaves and has produced about ten apples in as many years — until this year.

SONY DSC

It still doesn’t look very healthy but, by God, this has been a good year for apples!

SONY DSC

A fraction of the crop.

Trouble is everyone has had an exceptional year — Alan was bemoaning this fact at the pub and the fact that we no longer had a cider press (actually that was a huge relief — we are trying to cut down.)

Next day a friend arrived with, guess what!

SONY DSC

State of the art cider apple masher and…

SONY DSC

Cider Press!

It takes a lot of apples and a lot of mashing and pressing to produce a gallon of cider.  We’ve got through about 200 pounds of apples.

SONY DSC

The kitchen is now full of demi-johns bubbling away — it smells like a real farmhouse kitchen and everything is sticky!

I don’t think I can face bottling it so we will have to rack it off (to remove the sediment) and insert bungs into the big jars — that will mean we have to drink it a gallon at a time — Happy days!

SONY DSC

SONY DSC

 

 

Standard
Hill Farming, seasons, Wales

Before the Storm

It’s a misty autumn morning with dew on the pasture where Aby is getting to know her new companion.

SONY DSC

The other sheep (including her old friend Twts) have gone to meet the ram.  Aby, who had retired from lambing, has a new friend to keep her company  — no sheep is happy to be alone (although this particular, hand reared one might well prefer to be back in the kitchen with the dog and me).

SONY DSC

That’s why she looks so grumpy — to top it all, the new friend (who is very undersized) is getting extra rations which is very irritating to Aby who is on a diet!  New ewe lamb who is from a neighbour’s farm, is still nameless but was an orphan like Aby, so is very bold with humans but still not at ease with Pedro, the dog.  She stamps her feet in an unfriendly way when he comes near — it’s early days.

As the sun appears over the hill the whole area is bathed in amber light reflected from the dying bracken.

SONY DSC

The woods are glowing with new colors.

SONY DSC

and dew, on spider silk, drapes the dead stalks of yarrow in gossamer.

SONY DSC

and polishes the mellowing bramble.

SONY DSC

SONY DSCEven the dead wood on the compost heap is looking its best.

Standard
Hill Farming, Sheep, Welsh culture

Highlight of the Farming Year

Llanidloes Ram Sale — a proper country Sheep Fair — where breeding sheep are traded locally just before the onset of the proper farming year, when the tups are turned out with the ewes at the beginning of November — for lambs in the Spring!

SONY DSC

All the sheep looking their best and relaxed — no frayed tempers today even if the hormones are beginning to flow.

SONY DSC

Perhaps the tups are a bit too laid-back — but then the ewes are down wind on the other side of the marquee.

Here’s a pen of fine young Blue Faced Leicesters —

SONY DSC

They may end up servicing  these beauties —

SONY DSC

–or these very tidy Black Faced ewes (I think they may be Beulahs)–

SONY DSC

to produce a valuable breeding Mule.

But best of all (to my mind) are the lively and hardy White Faced Welsh Mountain sheep.

SONY DSC

Best behavior in the ring but glad to be out of it!

SONY DSC
SONY DSC

High Flighers!

Standard
Cornwall

Taking Pointing to a Whole New Level

I’ve done a lot of pointing in my time — that’s the hacking out of old mortar from ancient masonry and replacing it with fresh, new, lime mortar.  I like doing it — it’s very relaxing and, if you are not alone, you can chat in a particularly unguarded way, with your mind half on the methodical job in hand.

But look at this chap!

SONY DSC

Not so relaxed!

You can’t see his little pick in the photo but I could hear it.  And he didn’t stop there,  above the 700 year old octagonal lantern of the parish church of St Bartholomew, in Lostwithiel, Cornwall.

I don’t know how he got his rope to the top of the tower but here he is higher:

SONY DSC

hacking at the mortar of the church, the body of which was built in the heyday of the town in the twelfth century when it was one of the most important ports in Britain — before the river silted up with the waste from streaming tin on the hills which, ironically, was the source of the town’s wealth.

It is no longer the capital of Cornwall — but a very picturesque and quiet village in which to enjoy a cream tea and watch the twenty-first century go by.

2 of the remaining arches –used to be 8 — see the silt!
SONY DSC
SONY DSC

Standard
Thoughtful, Wales

Listening through the silence

Last night was very quiet — I went to listen for owls and nightjars  at 4 am but all I could hear was the occasional high pitched bip of a bat passing overhead, looking for the last of the midges.

14988291720_cb7508aa92_k

Night Sky by gaigegarza966 (CC BY-NC 2.0)

I leaned against the field gate and listened very hard —  faintly there was the white noise of the stream, fifty yards below, a billion splashes and glugs of millions of different, asynchronous frequencies vibrating the air.   But above that there was another sound.  Above, because it seemed to come from above, but below in pitch — a celestial hum.  There was no wind, no traffic for fifty miles, not a plane in the sky — only drifting cloud over a hazy moon and this strange brown noise (or maybe it was purple).  Infinite sound from an infinite number of sources — jet planes in Cardiff, a generator in Machynlleth, the creaking of the trees, dogs in far off farms barking at the moon  (too far away to distinguish individually and too many), thunder on the coast and the sea lapping on the shore, back doors opening (to let out cats), snoring from upstairs windows and sheep (millions of them) eructating — burping in the moon shadows.

All these sounds bounce over the Earth, off the sides of  houses, resonating in tin sheds and ricocheting off cliffs and bouncing off the underside of the clouds.  They can be muffled by the mist and absorbed by the moss and the snow but they all  combine to make the hum of our planet.

We value the darkness of our nights (the lack of light polution) that allows us to see the brightness of the firmament.  Last night I appreciated the stillness of the night that allowed me to hear beyond the silence!

Standard