Car hassle and salvation

Don't worry this isn't a religious post. Our car was a wreck and we don't have the money to replace it. We. Live in the middle of nowhere with hardly any buses so a car is vital. Unfortunately my grandfather has suffered from glaucoma for a number of years. Now they say he can't drive and what did he do? He offered to give it to my father. It's not posh but it's a lovely little car that uses less petrol. We're going to try and sell ou old car for spares or repair. Just a little story during the day to hopefully make you smile.

Getting around

Having had a hip replacement and now arthritis in the kne I have trouble getting around. A wheelchair is no use as I live on a farm. I've taken my quad for granted  but the truth is I wiouldn't be able to get about without it.

The Bastards!

This isn't really art, comedy or stupidity, mind there is some stupidity in there, like choosing the job in the first place and expecting to be liked. I am talking about traffic control wardens. There was a time when you'd get a bit of grace to be 10 minutes late, now the bastards hide behind lamp posts, wait for you to leave and stick a ticket on.


I watched a documentary on them in the hope of seeing one or two getting a slapping, but no such luck. It wouldn't be so bad if they were decent human beings, but they really are arse holes. One of the plaques on their office wall suggested slapping on the ticket and getting away as soon as possible. So, they're cowards too. I went into the town one night with my dad to pick up a takeaway. The taxis were lined up, blocking the parking spaces so my dad parked in a taxi rank. We were away 5  minutes and some twat had put a ticket on. The documentary also said you should contest your case as apparently the success rate is fairly high. He has a blog on the subject, but I can't remember the name off hand. Anyway, I agree, contest your fine and show what a useless shower of bastards these people are!

Stupidity

This is kind of a mix between stupidity and comedy. I live on a farm quite happily, though I'm not a farmer (you work it out). I have a quad and off road 250 bike. I was happily riding the bike through a field I'd not been through before; the sun was shining and the grass was high, so high that the ground looks level. Have you ever had that sickening feeling when you just know you're going to hurt yourself? Well I didn't see the ditch til the last second, the front wheel dropped and I flew over the handlebars to land on my face. We had to get the quad to drag the bike out. I got concussion and whiplash but didn't break my spectacles!


I don't go in that field anymore - I think I used up my luck in that clatter!

No here

I've not been here for a while for a number of reasons. I'm starting a new magazine (you can see it at www.outdoorsne.co.uk). Then there's the maintenance of the magazine page and another page I run called www.treat-yourself.biz. I've also been in and out of hospital to have a cyst removed from inside my jawbone. so don't give up on me yet, have a look at the other sites

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?