A Sloven's Year

March is here, the field's rich soil has been ploughed and rested for 

the long Winter months. The sun's warmth is returning and it is 

time to set the seed. May it be a wonderfully abundant season, a 

'sloven's year', where Nature will be beneficent with her bounty 

even for the most unskilled farmer. May my own small plot be 

blessed with plentiful crops to fill the store cupboard at Summer's 

end and enough to share.

A Blackthorn Winter

I saw today my first flurry of snow. It was preceded by hail, then the sky darkened and the wind whipped the fragile blossom on the plum trees and down the soft flakes flew. A brief vision of Winter appearing in Spring, a Blackthorn Winter, arriving with the bluebells which are just beginning to lift their dusty heads on the forest floor. I have missed the snow, even this brief small glimpse made my heart quicken with the enchantment of it.

Blackthorn Winter

Scraps of blackthorn blossom fleck my coat,
Another gust of hail, and down they float;
A fine spring this— the earth as cold as stone,
North-easterlies that cut you to the bone.

The primroses have withered, one by one,
The bluebells cower, praying for the sun,
Rumbling thunder stalks the streaming hills,
Sneaking frost has slain the daffodils.

My boots are caked in mud; the dog is, too.
Above a clump of ash, the sun breaks through,
A sudden glance of light on bud and bark,
My heart leaps up— the soul song of a lark!

Felix Dennis 

Mondard Procession

A straw man called 'The Great Mondard' is carried in or near the village of Orleans in solemn procession up and down the village on the 24th to 25th of April. It is, at last, placed upon the oldest apple tree.  There he remains until the apples are gathered. He is then taken down and thrown into water or burned, his ashes being scattered over the orchard.  He represents the tree spirit dying and reviving in Spring.

From Eleanor Hull's 'Folklore of The British Isles', 1928

Michaelmas Eve

Fret not if you are late to bed tonight as traditon dictates that we need our sleep before the harvest's end:

Nature requires five,

Custom gives seven;

Laziness takes nine,

 And Michaelmas eleven.

Sleep well tonight and sweet dreams be yours, 'til morning light.

Searching for St. Agatha

How many times as a child did I walk from the house of one Grandmother to that of the other and back again, always up and down St Agatha's Road -or 'Snta GATHas' as we children used to pronounce it.  Despite my Catholic upbringing rich with the lives of saints, bells and incense I never wondered who she might have been or how she might have achieved sainthood.  It was just the name of the road, the impatient road that had to be endured in order to reach the comfort of the women, those family women with open arms and warm kisses.  If we were good there would be pocket money given for a trip to the sweet shop, love hearts and spangles and red liquorice comfits that when licked could be painted on like lipstick. No, Agatha was never thought of as a person, just a length of tarmac which ran passed the red brick buildings where my parents went to school.  They spoke of school days long past when there were bombs, sirens and bodies being brought out of the chip shop after a raid.  It was merely the name of a road.

I was reminded that St Agatha may have once walked upon the earth when looking earlier to see if there were any interesting folk customs which are traditionally enacted on the 22nd of August. Until recent years a curious custom took place at Biddenham in Bedfordshire and St Agatha's name arose again but still shed no more light upon who she was.  In that village, shortly before midday, a small procession of villagers gathered together and they carried a white rabbit decorated with scarlet ribbons.  They promenaded through the village singing a hymn in honour of St. Agatha.  All the young unmarried women who met this group extended the first two fingers of the left hand and pointed at the rabbit.  They would then say, 'Gustin, Gustin, lacks a bier!  Maidens, maidens, bury him here'.  This custom is believed to date from the time of the first Crusade.  The questions relating to why they did this or what  became of the poor rabbit remain unanswered.  I was curious to know how this was connected to the life of St. Agatha.

It was time to find out who she was and it really is a gruesome tale. I don't like gruesome tales and find myself unable to relate the way in which she was martyred on an uncertain date in pre-7th Century Sicily.  It really isn't a nice story. I'm glad that I had no inkling of her sad tale when I wondered up and down Snta GATHas absorbed in my sherbert dibdab and the latest copy of The Beano comic.  Some things are best excluded from innocent minds like mutilated saints, raining bombs and bodies in chip shops.

Strange Happenings on St Oswin's Day

It has been said in many parts of the British Isles that, since ancient times, trees would bleed when struck by an axe. John Capgrave (21 April 1393 – 12 August 1464) relates that in the year 1384 on the 20th day of August, the feast of St Oswin, the king being at Newcastle-upon-Tyne, a wright hewed a tree...but at every stroke it poured out blood 'as if it had been a beast'.  He was so terrified that he left his work. The same thing happened ( according to Holinshed's 'Chronicles of England') when this fellow, 'having no rever[ence] to this myracle, took the axe and smet', and again the blood ran out.
                                                               Taken from Eleanor Hull's 'Folklore of the British Isles', 1928

St Oswin was King of Deira in Northumbria 644-51 and venerated as a martyr.  His short reign and premature death were due to treachery and dynastic struggles.  According to Bede Oswiu wished to regain the land and power and quarrelled with Oswin which resulted in them raising armies against each other.  However, instead of adding one more battle to the long tale of violence in 7th Century Northumbria, Oswin, realizing that he was outnumbered, disbanded his army to avoid bloodshed, hoping to make good his claim at a future date.

Accompanied by a single trusted soldier, he hid in the house of his best friend Hunwald.  This Earl, however, treacherously betrayed him to Oswiu, who ordered Oswin and his soldier to be put to death.  This was on 20 August 651, preceeding the death of his friend Aidan, apostle of Northumbria to whom he was devoted, by just 12 days.

Bede described Oswin as 'a man of handsome appearance and great stature, pleasant in speech and courteous in manner.  He was generous to high and low alike and soon won the affection of all by his kingly qualities of mind and body so that even men of very high birth came from nearly every province to his service'.  In expiation of his crime, Oswiu built a monastery at Gilling, where Oswin was killed.

Oswin was culted as a martyr because he died, 'if not for the faith of Christ', at least for the justice of Christ', as a 12th century homilist explained.
                                                                   Taken from 'The Oxford Dictionary of Saints', 2004 ed

Musings At Midsummer

Sun-stone's kiss, midsummer pleasure,

Welcome all and some.

At the hele-stone sing and gather,

Every blessed one.

- Caitlin Matthews, 'Midsummer Blessing'

A Midsummer love-divination as described by Mrs Bray in Devon, 1838:

It is said here that if a young woman, blindfolded, plucks a full-blown rose, on Midsummer Day, while the chimes are playing twelve, folds the rose up in a sheet of white paper and does not take out the rose until Christmas.  It will be found fresh as when gathered.  Then,if she places the rose on her bosom, the young man to whom she is to be married will come and snatch it away

Over hill, over dale,
Thorough bush, thorough brier,
Over park, over pale,
Thorough flood, thorough fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moon's sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here
And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:
Our queen and all our elves come here anon.

A Midsummer Night's Dream

William Shakespeare

The Abbot and The Fox

I was reading today about Abbot Moling who died on this day in 697AD at Tigh Moling, St Mullins, Co. Carlow. He is said to have had a pet fox.  Can anyone really have a fox as a pet? The wild and wily fox may be thought to have had an abbot as a pet rather than the reverse.  However, this was no ordinary abbot, he is said to have won a debate with the Devil, maybe evidence that he was as wily as the fox by his side.  He was certainly a man upon whom fortune bestowed favour.  He was out fishing one night and landed a huge salmon in his net.  When gutting his prize he was astounded to find a bar of gold within the body of the fish.  A good man at heart he split it into three parts.  He gave one to the poor, another was used to make reliquaries and he spent the third on good works. Hopefully, there was a fox who dined on salmon as a reward for taming a man of the cloth.

Piggy Revenge

Today we should remember Mr John Camden 'J.C.' Hotten who expired this day in 1873 at his home at Haverstock Hill, just north of old London town.  His claim to fame was the compilation of a dictionary of slang, published in 1859.  His death was believed to have been caused by his over-consumption of pork chops.  Serves him right.

Restocking the Etsy Shop

Letting your little creations loose upon the big wide world is always daunting. A Craft Fair needs a beautifully eye catching display, lovely packaging and efficient organisation (of which I'm sorely lacking). Craft Fairs are also exhausting and costly, so costly that it is hard to keep an expression of desperation off your face when an unsuspecting potential customer comes to view your stall. It is not acceptable to beg! Setting up an online shop seems to be an exciting and more anonymous option. It also cuts out the vehicle loading and unloading, setting up and taking down and finding somewhere to put everything again when you get back home - albeit a few items lighter with any luck.   In addition, being a bit of a 'shrinking violet' on such occasions it eliminates that overpowering desire to hide under the table when someone comes to look at your wares.

Etsy is an online department store extraordinaire where anything that can be handmade is available in abundance and I can spend many a happy hour in wonderment as I explore the beautiful creations of Crafty folk. This then is the route for me but oh the fear is still there. I have to get over the Technology Gremlin that hovers over me when I try to set up. I always assume that I must be doing it wrong and everything is bound to go pear shaped. I have selected a few items to put on there just as soon as I come out from under the computer table where I am still hiding. It really isn't very different from trying to sell face-to-face. When you make something yourself its not just a 'product'. Its a wee bit of your own imagination and skill and what if no one likes it? Oh dear me, the shame!

So, just as soon as I become rather less like Dorothy's lion and find my own courage I shall be re-opening my Etsy shop.  However, if anyone knows some really efficient wizards out there who can wave their magic wands and fill me with confidence and techy savviness I would much appreciate it. Thank you.

PS  Any comments on the photos above would be greatly appreciated. Please be gentle!

Wild January

It seems like weeks since the winds and the rain came roaring in. We are being battered, blown and drenched to the core. A time to stay indoors and imagine the weather as it whistles through cracks and fights to enter. Here is a poem by Ted Hughes which is just right for reading in front of the fire:


Wind


This house has been far out at sea all night,
The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills,
Winds stampeding the fields under the window
Floundering black astride and blinding wet
Till day rose; then under an orange sky
The hills had new places, and wind wielded
Blade-light, luminous black and emerald,
Flexing like the lens of a mad eye.
At noon I scaled along the house-side as far as
The coal-house door. Once I looked up -
Through the brunt wind that dented the balls of my eyes
The tent of the hills drummed and strained its guyrope,
The fields quivering, the skyline a grimace,
At any second to bang and vanish with a flap;
The wind flung a magpie away and a black-
Back gull bent like an iron bar slowly. The house
Rang like some fine green goblet in the note
That any second would shatter it. Now deep
In chairs, in front of the great fire, we grip
Our hearts and cannot entertain book, thought,
Or each other. We watch the fire blazing,
And feel the roots of the house move, but sit on,
Seeing the window tremble to come in,
Hearing the stones cry out under the horizons.

Ted Hughes

Time to read Tolkein again?

Every two or three years or so I am drawn to reach down my copies of 'The Hobbit' and 'Lord of The Rings' from the bookshelf. As the days are lengthening and the sun is warming I am getting that feeling again, that longing to sit outside on Summer evenings until it is almost too dark to read about hobbits, elves, dwarves and wizards. I may lose myself again in Rivendell and walk with Galadriel in the forests or sing with Tom Bombadil and the River Maiden until the sun sinks down in the West.

Roads Go Ever On

Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journety new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Still 'round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

J.R.R. Tolkein

May Eve, the coming of Summer

'The evening being May Eve I ought to have put some birch and wittan (mountain ash) over the door to keep out the 'old witch'. But I was too lazy to go out and get it. Let us hope the old witch will not come in during the night.  The young witches are welcome'.

Kilvert, i.119-20, Saturday, [1870]

Divinations on May Eve in Ireland

'If a young woman wishes to know who is to be her future spouse, she goes, late on May Eve, to a black sally-tree, and plucks therefrom nine sprigs, the last of which she throws over her right stocking. She then, on her knees, reads the third verse of the 17th chapter of Job; and on going to bed she places the stocking, with its contents, under her head. These rites duly performed, and her faith being strong, she will, in a dream during the night, be treated to a sight of her future husband'.

W.R.Wilde, 53 (1852)

To the Celts the winter sun Grianon reigned from sunset on 31st October (Samhain) to sunrise on the first of May (Beltane), and today his daughter Cailleach Bheur (Scots Gaelic) or Cally Berry (Ulster) or Caillagh my Groamagh (Manx- The Old Woman of Gloominess), the goddess of winter, turns to stone. The two great fire festivals of the Celts, Samhain and Beltane, in honour of the sun, are thus six months apart.

                                                          Unite, unite, let us all unite,
                                                          For Summer is a-come unto day
                                                          And whither we are going, we will all unite
                                                          On the merry morning of May.

                                                          Padstow Night Song - Trad. Cornish

Rise before dawn and wash your face in the dew tomorrow to receive the blessings of the season.

Signs of Spring

Yesterday I saw snow on the mountains, two major rivers, beautiful lakes, forests and a herd of deer, landscape so stunning that it took my breath away and I went no further than twenty miles from my house. All this and sunshine too. Lovely.

Waiting for The Plough

A Wolf, a Badger and a Fox

The fifth of March, the feast day of Saint Ciaran known as 'the first-born of the saints of Ireland. It is told that Saint Ciaran founded the monastery of Saighir which became the burial place of the Kings of Ossary.

Saint Ciaran did not have to build his monastery alone, he had help from the animals of the forest. Legend tells that he had assistance from a wolf, a badger and a fox. However, the fox succumbed to temptation and stole the Saint's shoes. The wolf and the badger sought out the miscreant fox and brought him back to Ciaran to be scolded and shriven.

Winter Solstice

And so the Shortest Day came and the year died
And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world
Came people singing, dancing,
To drive the dark away.
They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreen;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
And when the new year’s sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, revelling.
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them
Echoing behind us – listen!
All the long echoes, sing the same delight,
This Shortest Day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land:
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
And hope for peace.
And now so do we, here, now,
This year and every year.
Welcome Yule!

by Susan Cooper

November 5th

Remember, remember the fifth of November
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason, why gunpowder treason

Should ever be forgot.

Guy Fawkes, guy, t'was his intent
To blow up king and parliament.

Three score barrels were laid below
To prove old England's overthrow.

By God's mercy he was catch'd
With a darkened lantern and burning match.
So, holler boys, holler boys, Let the bells ring.
Holler boys, holler boys, God save the king.

And what shall we do with him?
Burn him!

A New Direction

I have been spending the Summer adding a new branch to my tree. I have found a wonderful family company in the Midlands that supplies ethically sourced genuine gemstones and precious metals.  After receiving my first delivery I am completely hooked. I have worked in silver before as I have been on several silversmithing courses and produced many items of jewellery but there is something about working with real gemstones, that have come from the earth, that adds an extensive new dimension.  As you hold a real gemstone in your hand you can feel the weight of it, it is cold but soon warms to your own body temperature as if it is reconfiguring itself to your own tuning.

When you work with glass , acrylic or plastic beads they are what they are. They may look beautiful but there is no story connected to them. When you work with a gemstone you think of its history, geology, possible healing qualities and folklore. Who can resist a gemstone named by an ancient Greek philosopher or reputedly given by mermaids to protect sailors at sea.  You think of the places in the world where they have been mined and the efforts made to discover and collect them from the ground.  I am heartened to think that the supplier is a company that cares about the conditions and welfare of the miners.  Schools are set up in many of the local villages and  earth stoves are fitted within the homes: these replace the open fires used for cooking  and benefit the health of the whole family.

I am passionate about the materials that I use. I recycle where I can and have become quite adept at making something out of nothing. However, I am prepared to invest in these wonderful gemstones as they are providing me with a new found interest that I can become completely absorbed in.  My first pieces are quite simple in design as the stones are so beautiful in themselves that you do not need to be too elaborate to show them off at their best.  As I learn new techniques I am beginning to be a little more confident and ambitious with my designs and I am thinking more about how the light affects the surface and how different colours next to them can make them glow.

I have recently taken part in Herefordshire Art week and have had lots of lovely feedback from the large audience that came to visit.  I have to thank Katie at Trumpet Corner Tea Rooms (www.trumpetcorner.co.uk) for hosting the week long event and my fellow exhibitors: Ed Elliott, Elaine Mason, Douby Evans, Kevin Kimber, Bronte Woodruff, Victoria Harrison and Clare Hooper for their company and their wonderful art work.

Photos of many new creations will follow shortly.