Country Boy

I feel I may have neglected my blogs over recent weeks. First of all I'm having complications after my hip replacement - my knees are acting up and I have been diagnosed with gout which isn't as funny as I think it sounds. Add this to the fact that this Friday I am in hospital for surgery on an impact tooth with a cyst on it and you will tell that my mind has been elsewhere. It also occurred that I haven't told you anything about where I live..

I have always considered myself to be a bit of a country boy, growing up in a rural village; the surrounding fields and woodlands were my playground when I was a child. Unfortunately the rural village has become a small town and I have long since left it behind. My next home was also what I would call rural – it was right next door to a farm and the tractors would often be seen and heard moving up and down the street on their various errands. Oh yes I was a country boy.

            Well as all things in nature change, so did my life and personal habitat, through a series of unfortunate events that are not necessary for the telling of this story. I found myself in my father’s house, a farm cottage in rural Northumberland. I very quickly had my preconceptions of my countryside heritage challenged. The relative isolation caught me completely off guard. Gone were the noisy neighbours and the sound of speeding cars and trucks; this was quiet with a capital Q.

            Gone was my leisurely stroll to the local pub; I now had to rely on a lift to get my refreshment; though this was no great loss, because the country pub (my new local) was to be a friendly and welcoming place. A log stove burning in the corner, fighting off the winter chill and providing an ideal platform for the roasting of chestnuts as we move towards Christmas. The same friendly faces and happy banter provide the perfect accompaniment to the odd pint.

            The friendly hospitality can also be found on the farm. The people living around us always say hello and enquire after everyone’s health. When summer comes around there are a good number of barbecues to be invited to, where the food and drink flows freely. After the dishes are cleared away it is time to sit, chat, reflect and wait for the bats to come out on their nightly rounds. There are a number living under the stone lintel of the farm cottage, and as if an alarm has sounded they emerge one after another in pursuit of their prey.

            The farm cat, in a wonderful display of hopeful futility tries to catch the bats as they zip past him. His method is simple, and wholly unsuccessful. He jumps, turns himself on his back in midair, waves his paws about and lands back on his feet, with an expression that says simply “what did I do?” The same cat could often be found lying inside the bird table. It is possible to imagine him lying there, mouth agape, waiting for an unfortunate bird to fly into his jaws. Of course it never happened, but the image will stay with me for some time.

            As the bats flit about it begins to get dark. This is another thing that catches me by surprise; just how dark it gets. I was used to the orange glow of sodium vapour lamps; out here it is only the glow of the moon and the brightness of the stars that break up the night sky. An owl hoots close by and there on the chimney top is the silhouette of a tawny owl; standing alert, watching, taking little notice of we people. This is its time – its habitat, we are only observers.

            Darkness moves in and it is time to call it a night and head for bed. A light rustling and a confused “moo” seems to come from nearby. That seems really close to be one of the farm cattle I think as I half drift off to sleep. I thought I must have been hearing things. However the next morning the evidence suggested otherwise. Right in the middle of the lawn was a huge cow pat. None of the garden furniture was disturbed, the bird table remained upright and all was well in the garden, except for the one little gift.

            The constant contact with livestock and the abundance of wildlife has been a continual source of entertainment and joy, but there was to be a new arrival. A goat was found running down the middle of a busy road in Newcastle upon Tyne. Quite how the beast came to be running down the road remains a mystery. There was some speculation that it was to be used in some sacrificial ceremony, but the truth will probably never be known.

            Anyway, through someone who knew someone, the goat came to the farm. It was put into the small field just behind the cottage, with a little shelter. This goat had other plans though – it simply would not stay where it was put. It wanted to be around people. Escaping on a nightly basis it would make its way down to the back door of the cottage and demand to be petted like a dog. I once made the mistake of  leaving the doors open and the goat roaming free, while I went to get something from the house. On my way back out I was faced with a goat standing expectantly in the living room. I eventually managed to encourage the animal outside, but it demanded attention, gently butting my leg until I stroked it. I couldn’t help but wonder if this happened anywhere else, and how fortunate I was to be there. Eventually the goat was to move on to another farm because of its mischievous behaviour, and by latest information she is perfectly happy in her new home.

            Wild visitors have also played a large part in my countryside education. The cats are let out to roam the farm on an evening, and one evening one of them was paying unusual interest towards the bin. There was a squeaking sound and the cat would jump back, then move forward again, head down, investigating something. Curiosity as to what could be making the cat behave like that made me investigate. There, trapped between our cat and the cottage wall was a young rabbit. The cat was intrigued by it, but needless to say the interest in being friends was not mutual. After some gentle encouragement, the cat was moved away and the rabbit made good its escape.

            Hedgehogs are also regular visitors during the summer. Sitting quietly in the garden there will be a snuffling, snorting noise as the little creatures make their rounds of the garden. The cat food left outside for them was not good enough for one brave visitor, who decided the food bowls inside the house were far more appealing. Snorting and snuffling it took the bemused cat’s food from right under its nose.

            I may have had a basic idea of countryside life as a child, but it was not preparation for the reality of truly rural life. The camaraderie, the constant surprises, the wonderful wildlife, the peace and tranquillity and the fantastic surroundings are all to be appreciated. When I get closer to home, as the road narrows and the hedges seem to move in, and the majestic trees spread their branches, I begin to relax and feel that I have returned to civilisation, rather than having left it.

What is art?

A TV programme, book and DVD have all fired the question into my brain; what is art? What is it that makes something artistic?


Does it have to be beautiful? Not necessarily, some of the greatest works of art deny their own beauty by horrendous content. Is the crucifixion beautiful? Far from it, but it is a significant record for the religious and the painting itself may be skilful. So is art skilful painting? Seemingly not by some artists (personal opinion, sorry!). Is art provocative? Usually, but does skilful and provocative painting make art? This is one answer, but I'm sure someone else would come up with a different definition.


A personal opinion about Matisse and Picasso is that while they provoke I don't see much skill any greater than a school child, but then I may well be missing something?


The Mona Lisa, one of the most valued works of art in the world and I have to admit I'm not keen on it - I just don't get the hype. One thing is Van Gogh includes a background perspective and I believe he was the first to do this with a portrait.


What is art to you? I have a tattoo of the Fairbairn Sykes dagger on my forearm because I feel it is the finest fighting knife ever created and is still used today after its creation in the World War. Is it art? Is a real one art? Some knife enthusiasts would readily compare top knife makers to any world class artist. It seems that art is a very personal thing, but is the essence of it that it means something or strikes an almost inaudible chord within each of us?

Dali

Now I  always thought Dali did weird animals and oddly bending clocks, but I discovered otherwise from an art dvd I have. Although a little strange it is fantastic, it is the crucifixion of jesus from an odd angle. It has been criticised on the grounds that we can't see Jesus'suffering face, but do we not have imaginations?

It is still quite surreal but I think tremendously powerful.

Eccentrics

Britain has its fair share of eccentrics and I thought I'd share the stories of one or two. This is 'Mad Jack' Fuller..

            Jack Fuller, later to become “Mad Jack”, was born on 20^th February 1757, in North Stoneham in Hampshire. He was christened in the village of Waldron in Sussex. At the age of 10 he began his education at Eton. On 7^th May 1777 Fuller’s uncle; Rose Fuller MP died, leaving Jack his Sussex Estates and Jamaican plantations. So he took possession of the Rose Hill estate (now Brightling Park), in Sussex.

            In 1801 “Mad Jack”, or “Honest Jack” as he preferred to be called, was MP for Rose Hill (now Brightling). His political behaviour was fiery to say the least. Several times he reduced Parliament to chaos and had to be forcibly removed. One such incident was when he referred to the Speaker as “the insignificant little fellow in the wig”. Fuller’s removal from the premises cannot have been an easy task; he was a large man (22 stone) and was nicknamed ‘Hippo’.

            For all the chaos he caused, he was by most accounts a pleasant man; he had a good sense of humour and no pretentions. On the offer of a peerage he is reported to have said “...I was born Jack Fuller, and Jack Fuller I will die”.

            He loved Rose Hill and commissioned Turner to paint five pictures of the area. During the time he was MP (1801-1812) unemployment was high and Jack had walls built on his estate that he didn’t really need, just to provide work for the local people.

            However, he is best remembered for his love of follies. He built a domed rotunda and a ‘hermit’s’ tower on his estate. Perhaps his most well-know construction was the “Brightling Needle, a 65 foot high obelisk, which is still a landmark in Sussex today. The Sugar Loaf Folly at Dallington was built as a result of a bet Fuller made with his neighbour. Fuller wagered that he could see the conical spire of Dallington church from his window at Rose Hill. When he returned home he found this not to be the case. In keeping with his jolly sense of humour he built a 40 foot replica on a nearby hill, to give the illusion of a half viewed church.

            His masterpiece though was the pyramidal mausoleum he had built for himself, in Brightling church yard. It was designed after the fashion of Sir Robert Smirke, the architect of the British Museum. The reason that he declined conventional burying is logical, if a little eccentric. He believed that he would be eaten by his ‘relatives’ ‘...the worms’. His argument was that the worms would eat him, the ducks would eat the worms and his relatives would eat the ducks.

            It was said that Jack could be found in an armchair, surrounded by broken glass, holding a bottle of claret. He did this in case the devil came for him, so that he would at least cut his feet.

            Jack Fuller then was by all accounts a pleasant and entertaining character and perhaps his small eccentricities are endearing rather than ridiculous

Rant

I'm lying here thinking what to write and to do something different I may write a rant. Please don't take it too seriously it's just blowing off steam!

I admit I do sometimes wonder if I have been struck down by the curse of invisibility, but it only seems to work on some people, others seem to see me with no problem. My family hasn’t mentioned anything to suggest that I am disappearing, or in some way transparent. So why is it that some people fail to see me? Or is it perhaps because they are too downright lazy, arrogant or just unpleasant.

            There are several examples of the invisibility syndrome, obviously in places where there are a lot of people, such as towns and shopping centres. We have always had the aggressive bully type who will crash straight into us, but the habit seems to me to be spreading to very different characters. One of my favourite examples is the refusal to release the hand of the girlfriend or wife in a narrow area. There is clearly no way that two people can pass unhindered, but many attached people seem to live with the belief that they have the right to hold hands at all times, regardless of the situation. What are our options? Crash through with righteous indignation, or stop politely and let them pass. I know which one I favour.

            In a similar setting there can be found the oil tanker mentality. Oil tankers do, of course, have very large turning circles and are slow to manoeuvre; so they stay on the same course. This desire to stay on a set course can be found in the determined shoppers. They will select a route to their chosen destination and will stick to that route regardless of the inconvenience and discomfort it causes others.

            Possibly my least favourite treatment while I am suffering from invisibility is the complete ignorance of my presence. I swear they mustn’t be able to see me. This behaviour can be found in some shops and supermarkets. No hello, please, thank you or goodbye, from the cashier. Your items are scanned and if really lucky your presence may be acknowledged by fleeting eye contact at the end of the interaction (for want of a better, more accurate word).

            The star of the show has to be the etiquette of public door opening. I was brought up to hold doors open for people and to say thank you when someone did the same for me. I feel guilty if I say thank you and think the person hasn’t heard me, or if I inadvertently let a door swing because I don’t think there is anyone there. I would have to physically restrain myself to not say thank you. Just the other day I was going to the local pub for a meal with my father. A mini-bus had just arrived so my father waited and held the door open and they all just passed through without even acknowledging his presence. I’m not one to take such arrogant disregard, so I challenged them on their behaviour; all I got in return was startled looks then disgruntled words among themselves as if I’d just insulted them.

            I truly despair when it comes to common courtesy and respect. We should take every opportunity to challenge this behaviour, or pretty soon our common decency of times gone by will be lost, and somehow that seems to be the loss of something special to Britain.

Just wondering

I'm just doodling about not sure what to say. I've uploaded some new material to the website and removed some other. Have a look at www.treat-yourself.biz
I was watching a tv show on how clever crows and other corvids are. But there's also a lot of superstition around them. Probably because they are so clever. Anyway I have here an article I had published in Birdwatching Magazine

Corvidae – Myths and Superstitions

            A more obvious, noisy, garrulous and imposing group of birds in Britain, you are unlikely to find, than that of the Corvidae family. They make themselves known wherever they are, and though highly intelligent, have a wonderfully arrogant disregard for humans and their activities. As is the case with parts of the natural world that are either rare, or in this case, common, they have developed a case-load of myth and superstition. In referring to ‘they’ the prime species for investigation are the carrion crow (Corvus corone corone), the magpie (Pica pica), the jackdaw (Corvus monedula), the raven (Corvus corax), and the rook (Corvus frugilegis).

            The appearance of any of these birds is often taken to be portentous of something both momentous and miserable, and the name (crow) has become associated with anything, raucous, brooding, sinister, or simply coarse. The plant Crow Garlic (Allium vineale), is cruder than the real thing and a ‘crow-bar’ is a rough and unsophisticated tool.

            The magpie immediately attracts one’s attention with its pompous manner, bright colouring and harsh call. It is, though, quite a pretty bird, on closer inspection. It’s behaviour, like the others of the family has attracted a large amount of negative attention. There are many poems or rhymes about the bird, and they vary from one part of the country to another. The most popular is probably:

One for sorrow,

Two for joy,

Three for a wedding, four for a boy,

Five for silver, six for gold,

Seven for a secret ne’er be told.

            The rhymes tend to be quite kind and positive to the bird, though most people know that bad luck is associated with seeing a lone magpie. Another verse goes:

I saw eight magpies in a tree,

Two for you and six for me.

One for sorrow, two for mirth,

Three for a wedding, four for a birth.

Five for England, six for France,

Seven for a fiddler, eight for a dance.

 

            As there have been rhymes associating the magpie with ill omen, so there have been counter spells. It was thought that raising one’s hat or bowing to the bird would lift bad luck. Others believed that making the sign of the cross or reciting a rhyme would counter the bad luck:

I cross the magpie

The magpie crosses me

Bad luck to the magpie

And good luck to me

            Other defences against the bird were to spit in its direction and say “Devil, Devil, I defy thee”. Spotting a magpie that was flying away from the sun was considered especially ill luck and one would be required to shout “Bad luck to the bird that goes widdershins”. Less negative and the oldest recorded superstition, is that the sound of a chattering magpie foretells the coming of a stranger (quite likely as they often tend to chatter at people!)

            In contrast with the rest of the country, in Sussex it was considered good luck to have a magpie perch on your roof. This is based on the idea that the wise bird would not be foolish enough to alight on any unsound structure. So, any tree holding the nest of a magpie would never fall. Members of the crow family are undoubtedly intelligent if ill-regarded.

            The Jackdaw (Corvus monedula) is the smallest of the crows, and is found almost everywhere. According to a Norwich saying: “When three daws are seen on St Peter’s vane together, then we are sure to have bad weather,” something which must happen regularly, as the birds are very gregarious. This idea also holds at Wells, Croscombe, near Wells and Romsey in Hants.

            Having this species in the vicinity of one’s house does not seem to have been a positive omen. In Lancashire, it is thought that the perching of a jackdaw on the sill of a room, in which someone is ill, does not bode well. Also in the north of England it is considered bad luck on the owners of a home whose chimney a jackdaw flies down. As they are great builders of nests in chimneys, this makes a lot of unlucky home owners. Indeed, you are unlucky if a jackdaw nests in your chimney because its prodigious building is a nightmare to remove, even for the experienced chimney sweep. With this common habit, there is a belief in the north of England that having a jackdaw in the chimney presages death in the house.

            The thievish urges of the bird (often ascribed to the magpie) are also quite notorious, and have been for some time. In 1544 William Turner wrote that “it is by the Latins strictly named monedula as if it were monetula from the moneta (money) which alone of birds, as Pliny says, it steals”. He continues to tell us how “Ovid” describes the bird in the following lines:

 

Was changed into a bird, which even now loves gold

Monedula the black of foot, in plumage black arrayed.

 

            For all its associations with theft and death, the flesh of the jackdaw “fresh and warm”, was claimed to dissolve tumours, if held against them, and was also thought beneficial against Scrofula, or “King’s Evil” (a type of tuberculosis affecting the lymph glands, causing swelling). Its popular name derives from the belief that the touch of the monarch would cure it.

            Despite being part of the Corvid family, the rook has a relatively good press. It was considered lucky to have rooks nest on one’s estate. It is understandable then, that land-owners encouraged the birds to nest on their land. A late vicar of Morwenstow went so far as to make the invitation of the bird a special part of prayer within the service. It is unlucky, however, if rooks abandon their nests on the land, and may even foretell of the death of the heir.

            If a death did occur it was often held that the rooks on the land must be told of it. There is a large rookery at Round Green, in west Yorkshire and the birds in residence have long been believed to be the reincarnations of the Elmhirst family, who own the land, and have done so for many centuries.

            It is foretelling the weather that rooks are most commonly credited with. Should the bird remain close to home or fly low it tells that wind and rain will follow, while if it flies high and far away good weather will surely follow. “Tumbling” in flight is a sign of rain, as is returning from feeding early. If they feed hurriedly and facing in one direction, then one is warned to look out for a storm and if they line up on fences then prepare for wind.

            Like the other birds of the family, the crow has long been considered a bird of ill omen, or a “bird of death”; particularly to the Romans. Its ‘cawing’, especially near the house of someone who is ill, portends evil. While in other parts of Europe, if the bird alights on the roof of a house in which a recently deceased person is ‘resting’, then that, it is claimed, tells us that their soul is damned.

            In Sussex to hear it cry three times is to hear repeated warnings of death, while in the North country, children greet the crow with the words:

Crow, crow, get out of my sight,

Or else I’ll eat thy liver and lights.

            Another rhyme, much like those attached to the magpie is:

One’s unlucky

Two’s lucky;

Three is health;

Four is wealth;

Five is sickness;

And six is death.

            Once again a mixed message is given as to the nature of the bird; it may presage good or bad events, depending on numbers.  

            Scottish herds-men did not have mixed views on the birds; they used to make offerings to the hooded crow, eagle and other birds, that they may spare their flocks and there is a Morayshire saying that:

The Guil, the Gordon and the Hoodie Craw,

Were the three worst things Murray ever saw.

            Some believe that the crow does have virtues in the hand of a person, bestowing riches and honour. It is also credited with being capable of undoing human deeds. It is said to have knowledge of a special stone that will make its egg fertile again if it has been hard boiled. Whether boiled crow’s eggs are quite so popular now is open to debate!

            The raven is largest of the crow family by far, and possibly the most imposing. Because of its size, colouring and arrival on the battlefield, to feed on corpses, it has always been associated with foreboding and death. Strangely, however, its associations are not all negative; as we have seen so far, much depends upon the circumstances.

It was widely believed that their presence before an important event, such as a hunting or fishing trip, bestowed good luck on the venture. In the Highlands of Scotland it was thought that to hear a raven croak was a very positive omen when deer-stalking. In seventeenth-century Ireland, the sight of a raven with white on its wing (very unlikely), flying on one’s right-hand side, whilst croaking at the same time, was most definitely a sign of good fortune. To see such an event in itself is an event of good fortune!

Having said that, the majority of superstitions associated with the raven are negative; in Christopher Marlowe’s Jew of Malta the bird is unequivocally sinister:

...the sad, presaging raven that tolls

The sick man’s passport in her hollow beak

And in the shadow of the silent night

Doth shake contagion from her sable wings

           

One of the best known legends regarding ravens is that if they dessert the Tower of London then the fall of the country will soon follow. This is reminiscent of the rook forsaking her nest and the death of the land-owner. The ravens at the Tower were all killed during World War II and new ones brought in. They are now tamed and pinioned to prevent their escape, which gives an insight into the power bird superstition has over us even today.

Its powers in the past are perhaps a little more gruesome and strange. According to many old ‘Bestiaries’ and ‘Naturall Histories’ raven’s eggs roasted with nail clippings of a murderer were a certain cure for ague (fever). The origin of this particular belief is as obscure and bizarre as to be impossible to trace. Pliny claimed that “if women great with child chance to eat a raven’s egg, they shall be delivered of their children at the mouth.”

There are many such legends in which various parts of the birds or their eggs or chicks can bestow magical powers. However the overwhelming majority of superstitions attached to the raven are similar to those of the other corvids; it is an ill omen or a sign of death. This belief probably stems from the family’s food source and their congregation at that food source. Mix this with dark plumage and sinister calls and here is a family ripe for the attachment of death. But all carnivores thrive on death, most kill their prey themselves, and yet they are not the subject of such superstition. The crow family is an efficient ‘cleaner’ of the dead and sometimes a messenger of good intent.