Themes of Tenderness

A page from my sketch pad - bridges, growth and trees

Things have been difficult – three times summoned to the hospital. Three times to be with Peat’s mum to help her passing – and she has pulled through each time. She is tough and fights. She fights everything – she will not take her medication and yet she will not give in, fighting fighting fighting to the end. We are there with her as much as we can be. We drive miles through beautiful highland mountains and dash along beside the gleaming lochs, fleet in our lives. She has had hers and it makes us evaluate and examine our own. There is hard work ahead, not for the faint-hearted.

The care she is receiving in the hospital is a real leveler. These amazing nurses are so kind and skilled – I feel humbled in their presence, they are indeed angels.

Life is short and we only have one go at it. Go and get on with yours – quick! Quick – do it now!

Latest Painting in the making Themes of Tenderness inspired by a pot by Eric James Mellon

When the sun shines suddenly on a dark day

sunshine beautiful sunshine you are making me feel faint overwhelming, the warmth of you, never such warmth enormous closing my eyes there is a fragrance, drowsy drowsy I am sleepy now, no not sleeping: the car floats diving I sink lost i was standing but now i am leaning and it's good against cool wood your warmth and i fall and fall and fall and i don't know anything at all except warm like swimming in the sky words all around and i have to do that sleep in your sunshine in my world is good when it shines orange in my eyelids heavy and closing but not so drowsy now i am awake but i will not open my eyes ever again until I can forget the places I have been without you

Drawing in oil pastels of the pylons which carry our communications and power through the hills and forests

A Real favourite poem of mine by Lorca: I have made a lot of work and paintings around this poem in the past, and I think of it a lot at this time of year as the ferns begin to stand upright and tall, still with a little crown unfolding in a spiral at their tips

In the sweet cabinette of wood
your voice watered the dunes of my heart.
South of my feet it was spring,
and North of my forehead, flowering fern.

In the small space a pinetree of light
sang with no songs of dawn and sown field,
and for the first time my tears captured
crowns of hope on the roof.

Voice, sweet and far away, poured out for me.
Voice, sweet and far away, savoured by me.
Far away and sweet, swooning voice.

Far away as a doe, wounded and dark.
Sweet as a sob in a snowstorm.
Far away and sweet and right to the heart.


Federico Garcia Lorca
Sonnets of Dark Love
The Poet Speaks to his love on the Telephone
Translation Eva Loewe and Noel Cobb

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Guests, Ravens, Art and Housework

The Raven - thief of hearts

He appears on the outskirts of our land. Our guests arrive and catch sight of him gliding over the brash. We look: in a sweeping motion of unspeakable elegance, dark and clever, he joins the sky and the earth, and we are lost.
In the deeps of his feathers lies embedded the mysterious presence of folk-lore. A lure, a spell, old old stories that have spun around with the human cycle of life, turning around and around in our minds. There lurk fear, bewitchment, and terrible loves, and fairy tales.

Later he is seen in the garden - keeping a sensible distance away from the house full of people and dogs having fun - but there all the same.

The naughty bird quite stole our hearts!

The picture is of a linocut I made a little while ago

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Housework & Art (two incompatible activities)

Here is a landscape painting I am working on at the moment. I have been hard at it since the guests left. One morning I scrubbed the house madly from top to bottom, tidying thoughts as I tidied the sock drawer. I missed my friends when they went, how empty a place gets when you have been used to it being full and noisy and cluttered.
Then it was down to work with painting. I was a little apprehensive about starting again - missing muses have been a bit of a bother lately - but once I began, the fillip to my soul of all the recent joy and fun and trips to the mountains and photographs and pebbles kicked in and I got through a terrific amount of work in one day. The photos are terrible as by the end of the day I felt too tired to fuff around with the tripod, and when I say fuff around I really mean it - no tripod was ever intended to be the shapes that happen when I start with it! This was the most presentable one of the lot.

Guests

Photo: Pingu

The last ten days have been filled with guests. Paying guests in the Farmhouse from home and abroad; two lots of friends staying with us; and a great big handsome black raven who appeared and stole our hearts!
It has been a busy and delightful time, catching up on all the time which seems like no time which has passed since we last saw one another. Lots of fun and laughter and some more serious thoughts too, wine and food to share, there were planned days and wonderful out of the blue days.
It's all put quite a spring in my step!
The photo was taken by my friend in Glen Lyon, high up in the hills. The waterfall icy cold, springing from an ancienct glacial bed of great tumbled rocks and pebbles which have faced the sky night after night for millions of years, until they are impregnated with star dust. They sparkle and shine and glitter in the sunshine. What a stone knows is inconceivable to us.

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Secrets, Pots, and Lace

The difference a day makes - or a couple of hormones
Yesterday I hated my hair, today I love it. And everything else, secret smiles in the forest, I awoke with huge energy this morning, I don't know why - perhaps because of gale force winds overnight - the trees rushing about in the dark, the fallen ones leaning into the standing ones creaking alarmingly. I sat under one just to see if it would fall on my head! It didn't. The moon is waxing again.
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I like these words from Semisonic's Secret Smile:

Nobody knows it but you've got a secret smile
And you use it only for me
So use it and prove it
Remove this whirling sadness
I'm losing I'm bluesing
But you can't save me from madness


It's lovely to think of a secret smile.
There is one in the forest by the waterfall.


Finally it looks as though we will make real progress on the shed! Some of you may remember from the far mists of time when we all shared a Different World the saga of the constructon of the log-cabin which will be our pottery. A never-ending saga; only we could choose to construct a shed over the winter in the Scottish Highlands. A Good Man was so hard to find, but we came up with some fine ones in the end, and labour and weather permitting, the shed slowly took shape.
On Monday the electrician and plumber will come. I won't hold my breath. This will be the penultimate work before we can begin to move all the equipment in and very very soon we will be able to pot again!
I haven't brought any stuff with me from the Other Place, but I will put this here to remind you of how much I am looking forward to starting again.

I can picture myself in the shed, one day when it’s all finished, perhaps sitting at the potters’ wheel by the window, in that moment where you pause at the edge, catch your breath, and gather in your focus before the wheel spins and you jump off the edge of the world as you begin to throw. I will be looking at a different universe on each tile . . . but, stop - I mustn’t get ahead of myself, I have an agreement with my heart not to think about the day when the shed is done and we begin to work once more.

The picture above is of one of my small bowls. The torn rims are exactly the horizons of the mountains and hills which wrap around our home. I used a stoneware clay with manganese kneaded into it's body to darken it, then a paper-thin layer of industrial porcelain, manipulated and scratched into to make the picture. I'll show you some more of my pieces soon - but I don't want to get too excited!



A piece of old linen hanging over the iron bedstead.

The light shows its warp and weft as shadows, and punctuates each tiny entry hole of the needle as it plied the thread, weaving curling stems to soothe our tired eyes.

Tatting edges it on all four sides, slender bobbins flash in their creation: airy nothings to delight.

Punto in aria - stitches in the air that draw dreams of grace, spin starlight into a net, stitch patterns of pleasure and pain into nothingness.

Eva Loewe, The New Lacemaker
SPHINX Journal for Archetypal Psychology and the Arts
Volume 4 1992

Moon Diary & Pigeon Falls

I am a compulsive diarist - diaries of all kinds. I kept a moon diary for the entire lunation of last November - December. I drew a picture of the moon's appearance on every day, and logged the daily stats of moonrise, transit time, meridian height, angle, and moonset. A little information on tides and one or two snippets from the daily doings in the troll-hole were thrown in for good measure. Here is a photo of part of it hanging in our stairway drying. Mixed media - monotype, photography, collage, gouache.



On Marriage

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when white wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.

But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the wind of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver to the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each others' keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together, yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.


Concerning Marriage, from The Prophet Kahlil Gibran

Pigeon Falls

This is Pigeon Falls, not far from my house. It's where I take the dogs for their walks, although the little dog doesn't like it much, it is too rough and noisy for her on a day like today following rain, the water running quite fast rushing past the ancient rocks. So I went on my own today with the big dog Bogey. He loves it there, he leaps through the water and over the rocks, but he knows not to go near the very steep bit. I only got pictures of the gentler part of the falls today, as the rocks were very wet, I nearly slipped trying to get pictures near the edge of a steep drop in my wellies, so I came back to the safe bit. One day when I go there with O'Peat I will climb down to the bottom and try and get pictures of the really dramatic bits to show you.

This is a very special place. I would say it was a shinto shrine - it has a feeling of great natural power and gathered spirits. Today the sun came out when I was there, I spread my waterproof on the grass beside a little beach and sat and stared at the pebbles as they warmed in the rays of the sun. Dark spots flashed up on them as if from within - invisible raindrops that you can only see when they darken the surface of the stone. I feel a dark gush of love inside when I come here, and then peace, deep peace. The healing combs of water tumbling, rushing and dropping. The huge sky above my head, the sun on my face, and the quiet trees watching. The mountains avoiding my gaze as I am but a nanosecond to them.

The beauty and variety of the rocks and stones here is staggering. Here are two that I picked out today and laid on a little ledge of mossy rock in a nook beside the gentle part of the falls, beneath sheltering fir.

A Blurgey Blog of Birthdays and Bugs (four in one!)

What a funny few days it has been, a lot has happened and I wish I could write this better and make more of a story of it, but this is just my blog, an online diary - and as such, a sort of scrap-book, with untidy, messy mixtures. I like it that way, I often find that out of these messes the best creativity often grows, but it's not always easy for you dear readers to pick your way through the muddle! Every day is different and my mood changes; shifting seasons, weather patterns, light and day, sun sky and worry.

Tuesday There was the great fun and happiness which all of you wonderful people helped to create on my birthday, thank you all so much for your kind wishes of joy and fun! In between scrubbing down the holiday cottage for the arrival of new guests, it made the hard work a lot easier.

In the evening we drove to Dunfermline to celebrate with my family: my Mum, Dad and Gran, the dogs, and of course hubby Lita O'Peat. Mum at the hub of the kitchen cooked us an absolute banquet of a dinner, we had sparkling wine and lots of laughter, birthday cake and candles, and we stayed overnight in the old family home, in the same bedroom as I have had since I was a young girl. Some of you will have seen this pic of my Gran before, she will be 95 soon - but here she is again, just looking magnificent and sparkly with her glass of sherry! We are so fortunate as a family to be able to share these happy times together.

Wednesday Still in Dunfermline. Morning first thing brought a phonecall from the nursing home where O'Peat's mum is a patient. She has dementia and her health has not been great, in spite of being tough. The nursing staff suspected she had gone into heart failure, her condition was critical. The doctor and ambulance had been called and poor O'Peat had to just drop everything and rush off to drive the 45 minutes to the home, leaving me and the dogs with my family, to get there in time to meet up with the doctor and ambulance. His mum was vomiting blood and her legs had swollen dreadfully.

For several nights in a row now she has been screaming and screaming, working herself into a frenzy, all night long. Not good for her, the other residents or the staff. We have been warned that she could eventually give herself a heart-attack when she is in the throes. She ignores her medication, she doesn't even know it is there because of her dementia, sometimes she just stares at the colourful tablets which mean nothing to her. By law the carers in the home cannot force her to take it or put it in her food to ensure she receives the correct dose. Blood pressure, pain killers, tranquilisers, diuretics, iron supplements and medication for a stomach complaint and sleeping pills, all left, day after day, wasted. A waste of time, money and an old lady's dignity and comfort. A waste of the carers' resources. Meanwhile we all have to stand back and watch her suffer. By law if a 'crisis' is reached - in other words, if she screams herself to near death because she is in pain or is frightened by her pain, or simply having a tantrum, a team of heavies are allowed to hold her down while she is injected to try and prevent heart failure.

The picture above right shows O'Peat's mum with her twin sister as little girls in the 1920's, I love this photo.

A shock, we really thought that was it.

This time, however, we were lucky. She had worn herself out, anaemic, no fight left, so she allowed herself to be treated. She was taken to A&E and given a blood transfusion, pumped full of drugs to make her comfortable. Not heart failure, but something intestinal - perhaps an infection of the stomach lining, bowel cancer has been suspected for over a year but there are limits on the tests they can do on her.

Phew. O'Peat made it back to Dunfermline in time for a late lunch. We felt a bit whacked but rushed off to Perth on the way back home to pick up wicks for the Rayburn amongst other things. It was really hot in Perth, believe it or not - the traffic was bad, and in the car I began to feel a bit queasy and faint and achey, but brushed it off as tiredness, excitement, stress.

Matron's Party Then hurray, made it back in time for Matron's Party! Thank you, you wonderful Westerwitch, what can I say - could anyone ever have hoped for such a neighbour. Not only had she arranged the on-line party, but she had also cooked us a lovely dinner, knowing the events of the day would have left us tired and that we wouldn't be in a mood to prepare food when we got back. There were beautiful flowers and wine, and laptops all round to share the PurpleCoo party - all done with thoughtful care and enough space to allow us to recover and settle into the evening at our own pace - but the whooping it up began pretty quickly. She and her hubby Happy Snaper created a joyful and unusual evening together with all you amazing people out there, and again my thanks go out to all of you for entering into the spirit with such gusto and good-natured enthusiasm! Two parties now!

Pic above: Me and the lovely Bogey-man having a dance beside the fireplace

The Morning After Awoke Thursday morning feeling rather shaky. Naturally I assumed it was what you could describe as 'after-effects', the price you pay for having two parties and making your birthday last - normally I am one of those lucky people who hardly ever gets a hangover, but I thought, well I did sink a few battleships last night! After a while it transpired, though, that I had come down with one of those nasty viral bug thingies, it had been hanging about for a few days waiting for a spare moment to pounce.

The chance to do some happy scribbling in my sketch pad

Friday Bug still with me today, but it was not a bad day at all - to start with, there you all were again and thank you for your kind comments and fun, although I'm sure by this time sick to teeth of hearing what ghastly Matron had been up to next!

Peat visited his mum, and there was good news from the hospital - she was sitting up, rosy-cheeked from the blood transfusion, feeling an awful lot better, and demanding food! He took her flowers and presents and he was very happy to see such a change in her.

And I was in bed. With my laptop by my side, and nothing else to do. But I was so disappointed: at first I felt too rough even just to read a single blog, the laptop felt too heavy and my eyes wouldn't stay in focus. It really upset me and I got all weepy, hence the box of man-sized tissues on the bed! But around lunchtime the cloud lifted. I started off with a couple of gentle comments on the CCW page, then more and more, then I actually managed to get around a few blog-sites and visit people - I've been promising myself that luxury for ages. I've even managed a blog of my own now, and a medicinal sip or two of the red stuff (no, not Calpol this time!) and I am feeling much, much better.

Thought I would show you this pic of my sick-bed replete with laptop, box of tissues, sketchpad, camera, dog's toy, a slipper brought onto the bed by the dog, and yes that huge hairy lump at the end of the bed is Bogey sound asleep. The little dog is in her cubby-hole under the bed snoring. And yes - that is THE bedspread of bath-stomping fame that Bogey is sleeping on (will I never learn), neatly avoiding his 'blankie' put there to protect it - it washed up beautifully in the end by the way, and thank you once again for all your kind enquiries on that score too! Just thank you, thank you, you are a fabulous crowd, thank you for being there.

Still no sign of the pebble . . .

My blog of the day is these two little pictures,
which I started work on this morning

Still no sign of the pebble, though, I haven't the faintest idea where it could have gone! It is such a pity, it was so lovely. Perhaps that was Mad Smithy's price - give me the beautiful pebble, and I will leave you alone! Not so much alone though, that Mad Smithy didn't spend the morning perched on my shoulders and mocking everything I did, filling my mind with self-doubt and loathing, the turpsy rag hard at work deleting everything I did, until these two slipped through, and I will tell you, the top one nearly didn't make it!

However, with huge apologies and many thanks to Tumbling and Hopping Moon who have given name to this anti-muse, I now know that Mad Smithy also stole the comma, and that is how he slipped into this world - I have his measure! Mad Smithy's place is filled with commas, muses, special pebbles, and the wick for my Rayburn. Actually, it sounds quite good over there . . .

And oh dear, why oh why cannot I slip into the real world for once! I know that dreadful things have happened out there today, and they have made me so sad. This is a blog, though, and this is what happened to me today. You see, Mad Smithy has been on my back for 20 years now, ever since I 'dropped out' of the professional Art Scene. Now there's a blog - but not for today. And maybe not ever.

But it is simply great to know that you lot are all out there, and I am so proud to be part of the PurpleCoo! I hope you are all ok and have had a lovely bank holiday weekend. I am going to catch up with some of your blogs this evening and I am so looking forward to it.

What would we do without it

Sheep gibber, owls stand on their heads, trolls sing their hideous trollsongs and bats flee the nest, for indeed at the Lixtroll household plumes of turgid smeech have set off all the fire alarms and the Rayburn has gone out.

Disaster strikes, it is cold, the Janitor has to light the fire with damp kindling and logs, and what are we going to cook! And how is it going to get cooked, more to the point.

The oil-burning Rayburn's wicks have gone and stupid troll has forgotten to keep spares in reserve. The gas cylinder which feeds the hob from outside the kitchen is getting low. We are miles from civilisation and take-away land, and besides which it is the bank holiday weekend and the Grockles (Westerwitch's word for tourists) are out in force making the roads impassable further down the glen and blocking the bridge into the village with their caravans and shiny cars. What's more they shake their heads at us and tick us off for our slovenly country habits and lax driving! You see, there isn't a correct side of the road to drive on for most of the year round here, we just do as we please and we all know each other and we know who drives like what so it doesn't matter. But the Grockles would soon sort us out! They could give us a lesson or two and teach us the right way to do things! Furthermore they are in the village farm shop telling the owners how to store the food properly, and instructing the Co-op staff as to how to stock the shelves.

But I digress. What is that in the corner of the kitchen? The thingy with knobs behind the arm-chair? Erm, it's the wine cupboard, surely, hem-hem. But no it isn't. It's a neat and lovely electric oven. All I have to do is re-house the bottles of wine stored in its cavity, and it is an oven once more! Bingo, dinner town style, quick and easy.

The Rayburn is the heart of our house and there is almost always something cooking in it. It keeps us warm and dry and provides constant hot water. Its flue draws out all the nasty smells from the kitchen and the house always smells nice. It airs the laundry and dries the teatowels, pancakes get cooked on the hot hob and coffee stays warm on the other bit that isn't so hot. Stewed fruit lurks in the lower oven for breakfast in the morning, wafting fragrance and spice through the dark watches of the night, and the bread rises beautifully there too. Wellies and hiking boots and socks stay constantly warm and dry beside its cosy doors, as do the dogs. Bunches of herbs hang drying above, together with roses and sunflowers. Wine reaches room temperature on the bricks at its side.

More than that it is Bloggers' Corner for heaven's sake!

So here I blog beside the chill of cold cast-iron doors, with the electric oven opposite heartlessly fan-assisting the dinner with secretarial efficiency. Outside, the sky hovers above the hills, beige-brown, and a goodly portion of it has also drifted in through the door. I cast my mind back to our days in the city, and I cannot help but think how wasteful they were - how carelessly we burned electricity and gas, without thought to the detriment of the planet, the supplies invisible and seemingly endless, hundreds of thousands of us all doing it at the same time. And I should have known better, raised on Rayburns, and no reliable supply of electricity.

The oil which feeds our Rayburn is certainly not without guilt when it comes to our planet's well-being, I would be the first to admit. But we sure as hell are aware of where all our resources come from, and consequently they are metered out by the teaspoon-full in this house. This much-loved house in the middle of nowhere. Bring on the wicks, I say!

Meanwhile, whilst happily sitting blogging in the customary fashion, the dinner has been burnt to a crisp in overly efficient electric oven and has promptly gone cold on removal. It is also tasteless. That is just not proper heat!

No, Mad Smithy you can't come here!

. . . and the muse ran and ran until she made it to the safety of the tree-house.

With many thanks to everyone who has given me so much encouragement and freedom to break through the block!

A painting finally blogged itself out.
Still haven't found the pebble, but it was probably just as well.

Oh well, the missing pebble still hasn't turned up. It has really driven me quite mad, I keep wandering distractedly around the house looking for it, and in the mean-time nothing much is getting done.
This pebble was of exceptional beauty and it had 'called out' to me on that day from beside the waterfall.
I felt it was a little like Faith's angel cards; each pebble has its own spirit, something which carries meaning and lends the day identity.
This one was going to help me with my painting with its personality and colours. It clearly decided not to!
I will just have to wait until it chooses to reveal itself to me again.

The trouble is, how can I return it to its resting place beside the waterfall if I can't find it.

Mad Smithy has been here too

Two or even three days ago now I brought home this beautiful pebble, and I was going to write a blog about it - but Mad Smithy wandered over from Tumbling's place, leaving him to blog in peace, and stole my pebble! I was going to do a painting and everything inspired by this beautiful stone borrowed from a nearby waterfall , but it completely vanished within an hour of bringing it home. I have become quite distracted looking for it since and have got nothing done. So here is a blog about the stolen pebble, and no painting either.
Tom Redwing was right.

. . . and suddenly . . .

Where there was merely an empty field before, I suddenly spotted a sturdy, stumpy, sappy growth, rather like an asparagus thrusting out of the scrub. I looked, intrigued. Then I saw amother, then another, and yet more and realised hundreds had sprung up, all overnight, the field of ferns was coming to life once more!


South of my feet it was spring,
and North of my forehead, flowering fern.


Excerpt from The Poet Talks to his Love on the Telephone,
the Sonnets of Dark Love by Federico Garcia Lorca
Translation Eva Loewe and Noel Cobb

Haven of Lost Tranquility

This morning progressed very rapidly from fog to a raving heat-wave. During our morning’s scramble through the forests, Bogey the giant Bouvier became over-heated and took to the cool of the thick black sludgy slime that oozes along the irrigation channels dug between the clusters of spruce. He used them to ploop and glollop his mad navigations home, his feet are mops, his body one huge sponge.

Bear in mind before you read on that it is the full moon today, and to cap it all I am, erm, somewhat ‘hormonal’ – not the tranquil, balanced and quietly reasoning Lixtroll (hemhem) to which you are accustomed. When I tell you that even dear Westerwitch, the most tolerant and understanding human being on the planet went into hiding when she saw the state of me this morning, you will understand.

Burst back out of the forest to find the oil-tanker had arrived and was filling our tank. Completely side-tracked with moving vehicles for the oil man to turn the tanker around to depart down our long narrow track, oh Stupid, Silly Lixtroll. Let the blessed animal into the house unsupervised, where he totally and gleefully ran riot in his stinking slimy state. Result: the new, beautiful, eau-de-nil quilted bedspread - here the lip rather trembles - no, words fail me, I can only turn my face to the wall and sob - I am not materialistic, or precious in the slightest about clean stuff, it simply doesn’t pay to do much housework round here, no white sofas in this country abode, Suzy, but this bedspread is my one luxury. All I can say is that the dog had had a field-day on it. On the one day when I forgot to put the old blankie for doggies over it.

There followed a brief fit of the vapours. Then the bedspread, and this is a huge bedspread (although it appears no bigger than a girl's blouse in the pics), was whisked outside and draped over the decking rails and sponged down with a solution of Oxyclean - no Vanish, hysterical phonecall to Westerwich fruitless, she didn't have any either - and bundled into a laundry-bag, dogs shoved into the trusty wagon, hubby driving (I in not fit state) straight off to the village miles away to the launderette. I have never set foot in this establishment before, and only had fairly vague recollections of launderettes of my childhood equipped with very big capacity machines that will handle almost industrial loads.

Shock horror – the machines, all three of them, were no bigger than my one at home, furthermore the wall was papered with attractive notices saying ‘No Bedspreads’ amongst other forbidden items.
So mad drive back home before the stains began to dry into the fabric and become permanent sordid features, filled up the bath and straight in the bedspread went.

The weight of the waterlogged quilt was unbelievable, leaving no choice but to do it the old-fashioned way – squishing and squashing it with bare feet using body weight. It took me and the Janitor several hours to wash it by hand and foot, gaining first-hand understanding of what our poor female ancestors had to go through on laundry days. So here I am, somewhat resembling Madame Grognonne trampling the grapes chez Un Peu, with the culprit lending a helping hand. The good news is that the weather is hot and sunny enough to spread it out to dry in the garden. And my feet ended up the cleanest they have been for years!

It may also interest you to read that in addition, today has added the incidents of: the bag of dog-meal which had split at the base, the crashing of the computer, the strimmer and petrol saga, the deaf Janitor, the poo in the wrong place, the missing hiking boot, and the run-out-of-stuff-in-the-fridge-so-nothing-to-eat, paper jams, guests in the wrong place at the wrong time, VAT and accountants, and – Oh Ho Ho Ho! – the Cesspits are playing up something rotten again!!!!

Just One of Those Days, as my mum would say. Nothing drastic, all rather trivial – but awfully time-consuming and exasperating!

A Pagan Prayer

I did actually wash my face in the dew this morning. The dew in the Scottish Highlands, in the hills, in a forest clearing. It was irresistable. The sun, still hung low through the larches, swinging rainbows in the jewels on the grass, the beads it had transformed from hoary frost. I raised my face to the parent sun to dry and worshipped at the pagan altar on this day the first of May, the month in which I was born. Snow still lingers on the highest peaks. I removed my gloves and fell on bended knee: marry me with the moss, the rocks, the anemones, the swift burn, the great skies.
I love you so, earth and sun.

A Sorry Pass

A sorry pass indeed hemhem is this blog of the day, for Poo (hubby, Milla, not the dog) got very excited towards the end of the afternoon and called me out to the stream which divides the housey bit of the garden fron the workshop bit (yes dear readers, still under construction, and with girlish excitement he cried, "quick, quick, look what I've done!" pointing wildly at a bit of old futon base with slats missing. This object has lived happily on the woodpile in the woods for several moons now, enjoying the fascinating process of decay which woodlands are good at. Now it spanned our little stream.
"What?" I said, a bit confused as usual.
"I've made a bridge!" he cried with joy, and immediately demonstrated its bridge-like properties by stomping across, lucky he was wearing his wellies for yes dear readers a quick wobble and a brief vascillation and Poo was in the stream yet again.
What is it about Poo and that stream? He spends a lot of time falling into it bless him.
"No, no," he replied as the jolly troll engulfed herself in hysterics and began staggering about on the bank, "it really does work, look it's fine now" and he demonstrated successfully avoiding the missing slats this time. "We can carry the old bench across now and put it in that golden spot of evening sun near the waterfally bit!"

I reluctantly agreed. The journey was perilous, the alleged bridge boinging and sproinging wildly with the load of two people and an old wooden bench, and of course I had pretty shoes on - there are standards to maintain here, after all - which sank pitifully into the muddy banks, but never mind, the bench got safely to the other side. (no, not that Other Side dear).

The bench looked so lovely, in its golden spot beside a trickly little waterfall that ploops and sploshes and tinkles so attractively that I simply had to try it out. A seat in the mellow evening sun, listening to the birdsong and the said plooping etc of the water!

Oh yes, avert your eyes now if you are of a sensitive nature, for in a ghastly air-splitting groan of dowels parting from their moorings, the jolly troll's derriere passed straight through the seat and there was Matron with her ar*e on the grass and her legs sticking straight up and pointing at the sky! Poo was reeling around in delirious joy, meanwhile the old bench let rip a final sort of belch of tearing wood and kindly wrapped itself around the remains of Matron's dignity. Quite weak from laughter (and bladder control getting weaker all the time) it was simply impossible for Matron to extricate herself from the melee. Poo eventaully pitched in with a helping hand, but the operation sadly blew a fuse several times before the rescue was complete.

Need I add that this all took place in full view of the new arrivals who were being shown into the holiday cottage by WesterWitch. Oh, well, it seemed to lend an air of general jollity, and within a couple of seconds the hills were resounding to the sound of merry giggling all round.

Country Matter and Where to Put It

The next two pages are the same blog as this one - it's the only way I could get the pics to follow in order! Part one of three:

Well yes indeed, the Purple One is now one week old, and a party is ON at Cesspit Cottages in the grounds. Lixtroll has been reported to have been out on the hills at twilight surrounded with fluttering bats, sitting calmly (hemhem) in the gentle pool of light spread by an old kerosene lamp on a rise amongst the larches, singing to the four dogs who sat entranced before her, the words of an old Steeleye Span song. Many of you will be familiar with the strains of ‘Black Jack Davey’, which she had somewhat adapted to suit her own mood:

“Late last night when the squire came home
Enquiring for his lady,
Some denied and some replied:
She’s off with Purple Davey.
Go mount me the very dark horse,
The grey was ne’er so speedy:
I’ll ride up hills and I’ll ride down dales,
‘Till I catch Purple Davey. . . etc.”

Her loud strains as he ‘rode up hill and rode down dale, over many a wild high mountain’, echoed near and far across the valley of the Dochart, causing not too much distress to the inhabitants and delighting the wildlife no end.
Read on:

Part Two:
Meanwhile Westerwitch and Matron hosted a bonfire which was full of ‘Country Matter’ hemhem, chicken poo and the like of course, raising it to such a blaze that the cauldrons quite bubbled over and the Janitor perilously drove the 4x4 through the grounds to deliver a double Belfast sink to the shed which one day will be the new pottery. The extraordinarily good-looking carpenter and his simply breath-taking assistant whose eyes matched the colour of the skies today in their rampant blueness made Matron’s hormonal cauldron bubble over to excess, and she had to retire to a cool shady nook for a breath of fresh air to say nothing of Mme Grognonne’s cigars!

Then they all cooked some skool sossages and quaffed mightily of the Red Stuff, and wassailed and generally made merry until the Purplecoombes came home and the owls stood on their heads. Toasting the wellbeing and congratulating the wonderful crowd of erstwhile bloggers who have come to the Purple place in their droves and made it a beautiful place indeed.
Read on:

Part Three:
In the last day or two Matron has had to visit all the lovely rooms at the Towers with announcements, and much to her sorrow was so pressed for time in the race to rescue the Towers from ghastly invasion that she couldn’t stay and make personal comments – but suffice it to be said, the rooms are so impressive – she can only send out her apologies that she could not stop by for a cup of something and to have a chat – but soooooo Well Done to all of you! And WOW what a place this is becoming!!

Golly, now I’ve come over all teary and I have to sign off, it must be the cauldron’s smoke in my eyes; but just let me say: Thank You everyone for being such good sports! We have a toast up here which we use on such occasions: so I raise a glass to all of you wondrous people and shout:

Here’s to Us, and Blugger the Rest!!!!
End of today's blog - thank you (bows and exits left)

The Wiggly Eyed Come Here

It's wild here in the Highlands of Scotland today - squally winds pounding a thick mixture of hail and rain against the house, all the bats will be in the kitchen after Matron's gin again soon!

Speaking of which I have tinkered about a little with the typeface and text colour on here following the complaints from the masses who flock here to eagerly read the literary works this page hem-hem, and I have discovered it's not the gin, or the wine for that matter, it's the browser! (How's that for a classic excuse) I have switched to Firefox and it kindly lets me do an awful lot of things I couldn't before on this site.
Not that it really matters whether you can read all the written stuff, because I never write anything of note, but here's the thing - I like the black background for the piccies! Piccies are my life and I love them and cultivate the little dears with a loving hand, and very soon some of my new paintings will appear here to delight you all hemhem. That is, if I ever get off this darned keyboard ever again!

Now Matron really has to go and do some other work - guests coming into Cesspit Cottages tomorrow! Janitor, fetch the mop and drain-roddy things!

It's Been a Sheep's Bum of a Day!

Phew, another day of madcap shenanigans and mayhem at the Purple Fosses, er I mean Towers, offices in Cesspit Cottages. Mr & Mrs Westerwitch went out at some ungodly hour this morning not to return until the tiny wee hours of the morn, leaving Matron and the Janitor to try and keep the cauldrons on a gentle simmer, attend to the smooth running of the fosses, and take care of the livestock in the grounds for the entire day.

As soon as the Westerwitches departed, the sheep ran into the woods and stood on their heads, chickens stole the skool sossages, owls gibbered, creepy crawlies escaped from the cauldron, and bats fluttered gaily about the kitchens attracted by Matron’s gin. The Janitor fell in the fosses which immediately overflowed, Matron whooped with joy, meanwhile the dogs decided to set up a blogsite of their very own, in their excitement creating about 90 new ones all over the www.

The Highlands internet connection, always clunky at the best of times failed miserably (small wonder after the dogs’ postings) leaving Matron quietly quacking with panic in a corner with a paper bag over her head, while the Janitor wasted loads and loads of time (and money) on the phone to BT trying to get it back again – oh the dread of it all, the little dears running haywire around Purple Towers unsupervised! What if someone got hurt, or fell off the bottom of the page and got lost, what if they all got locked out of the pearly purple gates – but never mind, Mousie is there, and Blossom, and all the sensible prefects, is Chief Patissier around for technical support?

Oh well while the internet connections have popped out of their sockets I may as well blog . . .

PS Hope you all like the earthy country connection of the title of this blog.

Ruby Tuesday

Well, it's Tuesday, and here's a pic of a knobbly piece of driftwood in my collection which looks a bit like the head of a dog which I have named Ruby, because it's Tuesday . . . when I was a very little girl, a long long long time ago, I had an invisible dog. Its name was Doggie and it went everywhere with me. How lovely now to be able to give it an image available for the entire world to see! Of course, they wouldn't, because who would Google Lixtroll to find an imaginary dog called Ruby . . . but how great is this, to be able to put pics up all over the place to our hearts' content!
The pictured knobble also resembles the map of Fife, which is where I'm from.