Kings and babies

'Ac yr oedd yn y wlad hono bugeiliaid'. These words are the start of Christmas for me. 'And there were in that land shepherds'.
Igo for months without attending a religious service, but these words come to mind as we go through December.

I was brought up in a Welsh Chapel, in the Carmarthenshire countryside, but I also went to church. When I attended Gowerton Grammar School,we had a religious Assembly each morning, in Welsh an English.

After we'd eaten the main course during our school Christmas lunch we sang 'So bring us some figgy pudding, so bring some out here' while we wawaited for the pudding.

The food eaten and cleared away, we finished our music making with the carol 'Adeste Fideles': 'Oh, come all ye faithful'.

Most people have a favourite carol and my daughter was talking about this today. My grandchildren have all gone to a Welsh medium school and for the last fifteen years I have joined them in singing a 'modern' carol each year.
'Seren wen uwch ben y byd, baban annwyl yn ei crud'. Translated this reads:
'A white star above the world, A dear baby in the cradle'.
We have sunf this in little country chapels, like Cas Blaidd, in north Pembrokeshire and in bethesda, Ebenezer and Tabernacle, in Haverfordwest.
Imagine a cold, dark night, a chapel packed with relatives, all joining the singing, creating memories that last.

Most people like what they know and know what they like. Traditional tunes often win over newer ones, but 'Seren wen' never fails to capture my heart.

Before you all disappear for the Christmas holiday .....

Write. Right?

Redstar on Aviary   

I am working on a novel, with the title of 'Red Emeralds'. This has made me think of how privileged we, in the  Western World are, to be able to read and write. Thanks to the Education Act of 1870, ordinary people have been able to enjoy books and to write them.

I am glad that I began reading  Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, D H Lawrence and George Elliott in my teens and twenties because the enjoyment has lasted throughout my life. What I am finding now, though, is that I look out for diaries written by ordinary people, such as 'Housewife 47', written during World War 11 and the 'Red Leather Diary', written by a teenage girl in the early part of the twentieth century.

I sometimes give talks to womens' groups, very often in rural areas. After I've spoken, almost every time, someone will ask if it is necessary to have formal qualifications before you can write.

I always say the good thing about writing is, anyone can do it. All that is required is the need to put something down on paper.

In the  'Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner', the sailor stopped 'one of three', because he had a compulsion to tell his tale. Similarly, a writer must want to make someone listen to the story.

The need to write can be so great in some writers, that it does not matter whether anyone wants to read their work or not. (Diarists write only for themselves, not wishing to reveal their thoughts).

It is often said you should write about only what you know. I believe this to be a form of tautology, because most people cannot write about what they haven't experienced.

Good writing is about sharing a universal experience and making it recognisable. Shakespeare is a genius because of this. Here is one of my favourite quotes, taken from Antony and Cleopatra:

'To business that we love we rise betime
And go to't with delight'.

Caerfyrddin

 NYCPrism on Aviary

I've been shopping in Carmarthen. The new town centre has all the big name stores and business is brisk.

Gone is the old market, open twice a week only, but occupying a valuable trading space. A new, slimline version of the market, clean and bright and open every day, is proving popular with shoppers.

In  Carmarthen, the old co-exists easily alongside the new. There are good antique shops in the town and a second hand book shop, if you like rare  books and out-of-print editions. There is a council run  art gallery and a shop where love spoons, jewelley, silk painted scarves, pottery and paintings give people looking for something individual the chance to browse.

For more than sixty years the Will Davy Rees family has traded in the town, supplying butter, eggs and bacon. Close to the new market, an enterprising  fishmonger has a license to serve drinks and fishy delicacies to customers.

Once a week there is a 'street market', with plants and  herbs for sale and stalls with jams and chutneys. Locally reared meat and sausages are available, also.

The town is not short of good places to eat, either. The 'Waverley'  restaurant offers vegetarian food of a high standard and the 'Ivy Bush' a more substantial meal.

Welsh can be heard everywhere in the town. Before the new development, Welsh language  programmes debated whether the ethos of the town would be destroyed with  the closure of the market, as though the language would die without the market. I am glad to say, the language is robust as ever.

Unconsidered Trifles

We went to Narberth on Saturday.  So did a lot of other shoppers. There was the added bonus of a craft fair, too.  The shops were so crowded, Peter waited outside most of them.

Narberth is a jewel of a town,  transformed in the last twenty or so years by little boutique shops, all privately owned.

'The Maltings' an antique emporium, exotic as any souk, is one of my favourite goody-bag places. It is large and rambling, but encloses small shop units, all displaying different things.

My Melyn Tregwynt blankets are from here, one in blue, one in a purple, pink and black pattern. I am looking for a red one next. I have bought cotton, crochet-edged sheets for the bed, and abundant teacloths and tray cloths in fine needlework.

Hats, bags, teasets, Sir Kyffin Williams paintings, furs, easy chairs and a whole kaleidoscope of treasures all await the enthusiatic shopper.

Athough the 'Maltings' was full, I found a  unit with no-one browsing, so I went in. Alas and alack, (I don't mean to sound like Dame Trot from the rhyme), I was immediately followed by a family of four adults.

Comfortably, there was room for two people. I decided on my exit strategy, which involvied a tight right turn and  straight out. I glanced, only glanced, at the handbags and the family followed me, going through the bags with intense interest. There were three other corners in the room, and I'm sure if I had gone to them, they would have followed.

I've seen this phenomenon many times, people developing an interest in what someone else is looking at.

I was in a Carmarthen store one day, reaching for a pot of jam, and a woman put her head under my arm to get something from the shelf.

Saccharine sweetly, I said:  'I'm so sorry. I would have moved if I'd realised.'
'Don't move. I've got it now' she replied quite insouciantly.

If I only hesitate to look at something in a shop window, people gather round and stare at it with interest.
There must be a label for this psychological condition: 'annoying fellow shoppers syndrome', comes to mind.

Enough was more than sufficient. Narberth was too busy for us. We decided to come back mid-week but the question is, what makes this little town so successful?

It helps that it looks like something out of Enid Blyton's Toytown. (Noddy and Big Ears might just go by in their car with the 'parpy' horn.)

There are little tea-rooms,  a surf shop, three art galleries, a newspaper shop, a hairstylist a chemist, a Clock Tower with a shop, a bargain box shop, three shoe shops, three grocers. Magical.

'To think there's this place, in the back of beyond, with all these goodies', one shopper from Cardiff said.
Well, get down here quickly for your Christmas gifts, I say.

The 'Snow Queen' and her carnival will drive by one night in December. Mulled wine and a mince pie, anyone?

The Great Divide

Starry_Night_by RavenMadd & AlphaWolf on Aviary

A twelfth century time traveller would have no difficulty in recognising present day Haverfordwest.

Approaching the town from the east,  the outlines of the churches of St Thomas a Becket, St Mary's and  the spire of St Martin's together with that of  the Norman castle dominate the horizon, a perpetual testament to the skill of the medieval stone-masons' craft.

'To Haverfordwest, from the earliest period, there was a degree of consequence attached', wrote Fenton, the Fishguard historian.

Romans, Scandinavians and warring Norsemen came to this part of Pembrokeshire from the fourth century onwards. A small town developed, in response to the need for protection and to establsih a centre of trade.

Following the Battle of Hastings, the Normans established their control over this country and over Pembrokeshire.

It was the military, occupying presence of the Normans that brought about the most profound changes to the life of the town.

Pembrokeshire was carved in two, the northern area governed by Martin de Tours and the south of the county by the ruthless Arnulph de Montgomery.

Of the de Montgomery  family, Henry of Huntingdon wrote: 'Their sins were enough to frighten the devils themselves'.

The Welsh in the southern part of the county sought sanctuary in the Preseli Mountains, becoming refugees in their own land, the king displaying an arrogant disregard for their needs.

De Montgomery was allowed to keep his ill-gotten gains and populate the southern areas with English settlers.

The Normans were brilliant strategists, consolidating their victory and forcing the Welsh to remain in the north of the county. Soon, a line of Norman castles scarred the landscape, effectively separating the north from the south.

Castles were built in Laugharne, Narberth, Wiston, Haverfordwest, Camrose and Roch, Carew and Pembroke, ruled by Norman barons.

Psychologically and linguistically, they created a divide that became known as the Landsker line. Those living in North Pembrokeshire spoke Welsh and those in the south, English.

Haverfordwest Castle is a prime example of eleventh century European military architecture, and was an important garrison in the line of defence.

For the Welsh, these castles became a hated symbol of subjugation, a constant reminder of an alien military force.

A potent reminder of their legacy is that south Pembrokeshire is become known as 'Little England Beyond Wales', the inhabitants mainly speaking English. In the north of Pembrokeshire, Welsh is an important part of everyday life.

Thus, the legacy of the Normans lives on.

The hand that rocks the cradle

Motherhood began for me when I was twenty one. I'm now sixty eight and I'm still involved with my children and grandchildren.
I worked in the Civil Service for a number of years but my ambition was to have a family. I had a vague idea that when they were older, I might work part time, but a job would have to be secondary to my family.

My elder daughter was born in 1964, a significant date, when life was changing for women. Automatic washing machines, frozen food, central heating and what was known as the 'pill' had all made their arrival, making life easier and changing social attitudes, too.

During the late 1940's men returning from the war were given prioroty for available jobs. Married women teachers were not employed by many authorities in Wales.
Women were not perceived as having the right to work or their own income. They were the responsibility of their husbands.  Highly qualified professional women, such as doctors and solicitors, were not frowned on in quite the same way if they worked, whether they had children or not.

During the sixties, Marry Quant, the Beatles and the mini burst upon the scene. Suddenly, youth culture was discovered.

By the seventies, the world had changed. It became socially acceptable for mothers to have a job if the necessary child care provision was available.

I've been reading 'How Does She Do It?' a book about a 'superwoman' fund manager who worked all hours of the day, plus giving birth to four children in rapid succession. (What was she wanting to prove?)

My opinion is you cannot have children and a demanding job. This fund manager learnt this truth a little too late to be home with the elder three but, after the Twin Towers disaster, when she was in New York, she resigned her job.

Why do we admire women like this ? (I don't, as it happens).
Why do these women bother to have children if they don't spend any time with them?
Once you have a child, your world changes. If you're not prepared for this, don't have a family.

The family of the woman on whom the book was based are now in boarding school. Far better to delay the career until you have time for it, because putting the children on hold is not going to work.
I think women now are able to combine work and family in ways they weren't previously, but if you want to be 'Superwoman', think carefully.

The Wild West

Off to Tenby

Peter and I were in Fishguard today. Peter and I were the only shopperes in Fishguard today. (I use the term 'shoppers' loosely, because there are hardly any shops in the town and there were hardly any open today).

Peter bought a tube of gel in the Pharmacy because he had scratched his gum on a hand-sliced, pan-fried, sea-salted, vacuum-packed crisp. I bought Chaucer's 'The Wife of Bath's Tale' in a charity shop for forty pence, so we were happy.

We should have arrived on horseback, two strangers reining in their  horses roughly before narrowing their eyes against the dust, scanning the  horizon.  But as this wasn't 'High Noon' we'd come by car, Peter driving as he likes to do.

We saw a funeral in the distance, just like in a cowboy film, but there were few mourners, so there was plenty of room in the car park.

Thirty pence was cheap for two hours parking, but I thought we should have been paid for coming and encouraged to make the thirty mile round trip again. The town needs as many shoppers as it can get.

We walked around the deserted streets, Peter saying 'It's like a ghost town. Why?'

Pembrokeshire relies heavily on tourism, but this year the hotels have suffered, with holidaymakers staying in caravans and self-catering establishments. Despite Tenby being a Georgian gem of a town and having had four television programmes devoted to it, the hotels are only half-full. 

Tenby's coastline can rival Italy's Amalfi Coast and though the boat does not leave for Capri, it goes to Caldy Island when the weather is fine.
Pembrokeshire has many attractions:  each year there is a 'Fish Week' and a County Show, plus Classic Car rallies and Tractor Rallies. Pleasure flights leave Withybush Aerodrome and are popular. So it's not for lack of trying that tourism is suffering.

A report suggests that European funding has not done a great deal for Wales. This country, like Malta, Spain, two regions of Portugal and four in southern Italy, has suffered a drop in relative prosperity during the past decade.

I have just eaten a pot of 'Rachel's Organic Yoghurt', gooseberry flavoured and produced in mid-Wales. An enterprising farmer's wife created the brand one winter when the milk tanker failed to get through the snow to collect the milk. 'Rachel's Dairy' is now a top brand. What we need is creative thinking like this if we are not to become the 'poor man' of Europe. Enterprise will assure our places at the top table.

Living and Partly Living

Redstar on Aviary

A neighbour stopped to talk to me today when I was in the garden gouging out some difficult weeds. She and her husband lead active lives and so I was surprised when she said she was lonely.
'Oh, I see and talk to people all the time', she said, 'but I have an aching emptiness inside'.

A report says that the natural state of humans is to be asleep most of the time. We should only wake long enough to find some food to enable us to go back to sleep again.  (That should please those who would like extra 'duvet' days). 

Since we don't live our lives like this, we have to acknowledge that loneliness is a problem that affects all ages and thugh we have sophisticated means of communication, human contact is essential if we are to feel involved with what is going on around us.

Apparently, those who live within a fifty mile radius of where they were born have better mental health than people settling in a strange place. Being able to visit family  often makes for happiness.

I was born in a farming community and though I moved away, (fifty miles), I was not living in a totally different environment and I was with people who spoke Welsh and English. 

T.S.Eliot said,'Hell is oneself/ Hell is alone'; that is assuming one does not like being alone.
The retirement age, is moving towards the late sixties but this might not be a bad  thing. Some studies suggest that giving up work is not always a blessing because, for many, it  results in a diminishing social circle. Work is not just about money, it is about friendships, self-worth and image, too.

Years ago, when there were less labour-saving devices there was not the time to be introspective. Leisure a chance to rest, rather than a time of feeling lonely.

Perhaps, to solve this problem of loneliness,  we shall have to  redefine our lives and challenge ourselves in different ways to create meaning in what we do.

Dandelion

 In Welsh a tooth is called a 'dant'.  In French, the word 'dandelion' means the tooth of the lion, so we have a descriptive word tripping off the tongue plus cross cultural pollination.

 A word I am very fond of is 'toothsome', suggesting as it does something tasty, acceptable to the teeth.
Unfortunately, I had to have a corker of a molar, complete with abscess, removed recently and 'toothsome' assumed another meaning.  All is well now and fortunately, I do not have to suffer the discomforts of false teeth.

 Admittedly, false teeth and dentistry have vastly improved over the last fifty years or so and now tooth implants are available, which are imperceptible from one's own teeth.

 During the 1950's, when I grew up, it was the custom for the less well off to have their teeth taken out as a right-of-passage. Ghoulish in the extreme to look forward to having bare gums as a twenty first birthday present.
Cosmetically, the side effects of this were that the cheeks sunk, giving a pinched look and the chin and nose almost joined with some people.

Practically, meals were difficult. Many people could not eat with their teeth in; chewing was difficult and when the plastic mould covered the hard palate, food could not be tasted.

During the 1940's a common pain killer for toothache was a clove jammed into the painful tooth. How effective it was at relieving pain is questionable but it was a home-spun remedy.

Archaeologists have discovered a body in Mexico believed to be four thousand five hundred years old. The corpse appears to be fitted with a set of false teeth.  It is often thought that more primitive people ate less sugar so therefore had less tooth decay, but teeth can wear away and break due to gum disease.

Seven hundred years BC, the Etruscan civilisation in Northern Italy produced sophisticated false teeth,  made from ivory and bone, mounted onto gold bridges.

 By 1538 the Japanese were continuing the search for acceptable false teeth but it was 1774 before porcelain was used in the manufacture of dentures.

The C18th saw an increase in the consumption of sugar by the middle classes to wide spread tooth decay.
Teeth from soldiers slayed on the battle field during the American Civil War teeth were sold in Europe to satisfy the demand for false teeth.

George Washington, the American President is popularly believed to have had a wooden set of false teeth but this is highly unlikely -elephant tusks, mother of pearl  and ivory were most probably used.

I have an image of an old man eating an apple when I was a child. (What joy to bite into an apple and smell its greenness, feel the crispness of the fruit on your tongue).

He had his own teeth and a strong white moustache.  As he ate a fine cloud of apple, shredded by his moustache, landed on his lap. (Fascinating to watch).

This reminds me of the Justices in Henry 1V Part 2, sitting in a Gloucestershire garden, enjoying a pippin. Evidently, they retained their own teeth.

I used to believe that the first sign of old age comes when you have to cut an apple into fine slices before eating. I still think I'm right.

Full of Sound and Fury

MCMarrs on Aviary

There was a time when those who wished to display some superior knowledge used the cliche 'this moment in time', as though they had an existential grip on metaphics denied to the rest of us. I will accept the words as part of a Barbra Strysand song, because I like her voice but, otherwise, the phrase is outdated and boring.

After listening to some people talking, you realise, with the bard, that 'Life is a tale, Told by an idiot, Full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing'.

I've just heard a freshly baked cliche: 'thrown under a 'bus'. This means cast aside, as in when someone gains a promotion, old friends get trampled. Those still waiting at the 'bus stop feel bitter. 

I 'feel their pain', but 'Much Ado about Nothing' teaches
'Friendship is constant in all other things,
 Save in office', so perhaps it's a 'necessary evil' to leave some friends behind.

In Welsh,  a 'cleck' who spreads the latest news, aka gossip, is alluded to as a 'cywun bach melyn' (little yellow chick), meaning a cheeper.

Mice are a focus for some aphorisms:  A mean person is said to be prepared to 'skin a mouse' and stewed
tea is thick enough to 'trot a mouse on' and you can stand a spoon in it.

Feathers conjure up images: 'You could have knocked me over with a feather', for instance and people who cannot make their minds up are referred to as 'Feathers for every wind that blows'.

Time's whirligig

Somerset Maugham said there were advantages to growing old, although he was unable to think of any.
In 'Antony and Cleopatra', Shakespeare gives us the line:
'Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
It does from childishness'.
If this were only true, it would be one benefit resulting from ageing, but Shakespeare also knew, when he talked about the seven ages of man, that we return to a second childhood.

It is true that some babies appear to be 'old souls', born with their boots on and they grow up to be 'young fogeys'.

In Henry 1V Part 2, we have the sad spectacle of Falstaff, who has been the young Prince Hal's 'boon companion' (they spent a lot of time drinking and wenching), cast aside when the new king assumes his duties.

In ancient Greece, silver heads were a sign of wisdom. At the age of fifty citizens were deemed to be 'Elders', their seniority bestowed by increasing years. Their goal was to lead an honourable life so that old age led to serenity.

W B Yeats, the Irish poet, spoke of old age as being 'full of sleep'.
In 'As you like it' the life cycle is likened to that of fruit:
'And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot',
which, whilst accurate, is not joyful.

When I was in college, one of the lecturers had a habit of quoting Marvell towards the end of the lesson:
'But at my back I always hear,
Time's winged chariot drawing near'.
This signalled that homework details were going to be discussed, thus taking us from the sublime to, if not the ridiculous at least to the mundane, a form of bathos which might serve as a summation of life's trajectory.   

Lavender and Larvae

I've washed all my summer clothes and sealed them away in plastic bags. It's not that I like the smell of plastic, you will understand, but I care even less for the sight of moth holes.

I drew back the curtains this morning, disturbing the sweetest little moth you ever saw. I flicked my feather duster like a prestidigitateur flicks his wand and the darling disappear. Despite hunting up and down the walls the darng critter had made for the hills.

Now if I say that all the curtains in our house are made of linen, cottons and  silks, I don't mean to sound like a mercer from Cloth Hall, but natural fibres, which contain keratin are beloved by moths. Wool and cashmeres are particularly susceptible to moth larvae.

A friend lost a few hundred pounds worth of coats and jumpers to moths and their larvae, who are the real villains.  Keratin is a substance found on natural fibres and this is what attracts the creatures. It's best to wash all clothes or dry clean heavy items before storing them.

I have a long flexible brush for hard-to-get-behind radiators, and use a vacuum cleaner nozzle attachment to hunt out wee beasties who may be lurking in the corners of rooms.

The problem is central heating and airless houses encourage moths. If you don't like a chemical cosh, do as I did and get some lavender bags. I don't know if they've done the trick but the place sure smells nice.

Straight Talking

I went to Fishguard this afternoon. It was showery and windy but I passed a crab apple tree, illuminated by a shaft of sunlight, making the small fruits shine like enamel.

John Constable, the 19th century artist, writing of a day in September, called it  'silvery, windy and delicious'.
Often, autumn appears to be about over-ripe fruit and fallen plums infested by bees, wasps and various insects, but Constable transforms the feeling of decay into an image of crispness.

'Silvery, windy and delicious' brings the taste of fresh spring water, crisp slices of cool cucumber, grass rustling in the breeze. Torpor is replaced by an invigorating buoyancy

Speech can make the day sparkle and how sad it is that cliches are often used as form of short hand, to save the speaker from using original thought. 

'Happy in my skin' is meant to convey that one is, if not smug, at least fairly contented. (I believe this idiom is originally a French invention). What is wrong with saying 'I am happy with my life'. A cliche delivers the speaker from the need to probe too deeply into how she is really feeling.

Someone confided  they were going to explain to an acquaintance where she was going wrong. 'Not that I want to take the moral high ground' the speaker claimed.
'On the contrary', I wanted to say, 'you are merely disguising your moral superiority as a good  intention and this makes you a hypocrite'.

In a newspaper letter, a young person (who we can perhaps excuse on the grounds of youth but not self- centered smugness), said she had done some volunteering and 'for her sins' had been offered a job. There! She elevated her volunteering by calling it sinful when she  knew it was praise-worthy, but she was being ever so coy (and cloying).

So this is a plea for plain speaking. Not only will it exercise our brains but enrich the language, too.

Melin Trefin

The little hamlet of Trefin lies between Fishguard and St David's. There was a flour mill here for more than five hundred years. 

Originally the name was 'Trefaen' which means 'village on a rock'. Later, it became known as Trevine, but it is now spelt Trefin.

One of the most famous poems in the Welsh language 'Melin Trefin' was written by the Welsh poet and celebrated bard, Crwys, and speaks of the mill no longer grinding in Trefin.


Cerys Matthews, the singer and mother of Glenys Pearl y-Felin and Johnny Tupelo Jones, was married to Seth Riddle in Rehoboth Chapel, Trefin.

Quite a few years ago my daughters and I went to Cardiff, to listen to Cerys and Tom Jones singing  'Baby it's Cold Outside'. (Who needs Nashville?)

John Knapp Fisher, a favourite artist of mine, captures the essential loneliness of the Trefin area.  The paintings have a lime washed quality, a frugality that I find appealing. This is wind scorched country, where rocks sprout in the coarse grass and thorn trees bend and twist to avoid the weather.
If you go down under a moonlight sky, remember Crwys's words:

'Nid yw'r felin heno'n malu, yn Trefin ym min y mor'.

A lover and his lady

There are ways of seeing and you see what you look for, apparently.

In school we learnt Wordsworth's 'Daffodils' and Coleridge's 'Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner'.
Many years were to pass before I re-read the poems, seeing in them a record of  depression. 

Recently, I was thinking of the story of  the 'Lady of the Lake', set in  'Llyn-y-Fan-Fach', in Carmarthenshire.
Dating from the twelfth century, it tells of a young man tending his flock when he sees a beautiful creature emerging from a lake. He falls in love with her and  you can hardly blame him, because he probably met few comely maidens.

Wondering how to entice her, he offers his bread, which she refuses, arrogantly calling,
'Cras dy fara, Nid hawdd fy nala'.
In English  this means: 'Your bread is hard, it is not easy to catch me', an unpromising  beginning.

When his mother hears what has occurred, instead of being surprised that a girl popped out of the lake and spoke to her son, she suggests taking unbaked bread-dough next time, which might be more to the lady's taste.

With hope in his heart and the wet dough in his napkin, he sets out the next morning. Magically, the lady appears and, undeterred by her previous rebuff, he presents his offering.

Again, she scorns his bread, the representation of his love, with the words:
'Llaith dy fara, Ti ny fynna', which means: 'Damp is your bread, I will not have thee'.

Not many men would risk further rejection, but the ardent swain decides to take some half-baked bread the following day.

All day he waits, but there is no sign of the lady. Dusk is falling and, in despair, he turns for home, throwing the bread into the water.

Just then, the lady appears. The hopeful lover explains he has no riches to give her, just himself.  This declaration works the magic and she agrees to marry him.

She has no interest in the worldly goods the bread represents, but just himself and his love. (It would have made things so much easier if she had said so instead of playing games.)

Things were not straightforward, though.  The lady made conditions. If her husband-to-be struck her three times, however lightly, she would disappear back into the lake.  Despite this, the pair marry and have a son.

Preparing to go to a christening, the lady fusses about the child, saying she had to take this and that with her.
(I am tempted to ask here if this is the first sign of  post-natal anxiety, the inability to leave the house without checking endlessly that nothing has been forgotten? Or am I reading this wrongly?)
The husband grows impatient and taps her back.
She tells him he has struck her for the first time. Dramatically, she claims the child would have died if she had not gone through the various rituals. (Is this a part of her hysterical personality?)

A year or so later another baby boy is born.
At a church service, a wedding, the wife cries loudly (a display of her nervous disposition?) and her husband taps her lightly.

This is the second 'knock'. Her tears, she explains, are because she sees disaster for the young couple.
(Obviously, she cannot contain her emotions, and she seeks attention in public places. She does not doubt her predictions, either).

During the third year of marriage, the wife gives birth to another baby. At a funeral, she laughs hysterically and her husband slaps her.
This is the fatal blow. The lady seems unrepentant about laughing, declaring she was glad the dead person had left the misery of this life behind.

Soon after this, she disappears into the lake, taking her cattle with her, leaving her husband and three sons distraught.

As the boys grew, the 'Lady of the Lake' sometimes appeared to her eldest son, Rhiwallon.
She taught him how to heal using herbs and flowers and so powerful were his remedies that he attended Rhys, the Lord of Dynevor and Ystrad Towy. His two brothers also learnt the secrets of healing.

For centuries the descendants of the 'Physicians of Myddfai', as they became known, were active in the area. Rice Williams, who died in 1842, was believed to be a direct descendant of the 'Lady of the Lake' and many travelled to seek his advice.

Did the watercreature suffer from some form of mental disorder, such as  post natal depression or was she one of the fairy folk? How are we supposed to read the story?

Bara Angylion Duw - God's Angels' Bread

Bread has a history at least thirty thousand years old. Unleavened bread, like flatbreads and pittas, contain no raising agent.  Pliny the Elder noted that the skimmed foam on beer, a result of the yeast used in the brewing process,  produced a lighter bread.  The yeast used for the fermentation process in beer is the same as the yeast used to make bread.

In the ruins of Pompeii, the poignant remains of bakers' shops can be seen.  It is the domestic details most of all that often highlight a tragedy.  

Yeast needs moisture, food and warmth to grow. A loaf of bread can be made from flour, water, salt, sugar, perhaps some butter. In the nineteenth century flour was often adulterated, with additions such as chalk.
Some bakers added sea-water to save on salt and customers complained.

Monks in the twelfth century Augustinian Priory in Haverfordwest ate their food off large slices of bread, using the bread as plates.  These were known as 'trenchers' and were meant to be distributed to the poor of the town, but often they were given to relatives or even stray dogs.

Cockleshells and Cakes

My favourite vintage tea-set - perfect for afternoon tea

I spent the afternoon on  Llansteffan beach yesterday afternoon, with my mother. Before going home, we sat outside the beach- front cafe, enjoying coffee and walnut cake, cups of tea and ice-cream.
Llansteffan is eight miles from Carmarthen and we holidayed here when I was a tot. That was during the 1940's, when there were donkey rides on the beach and cockling was a popular pastime.

I was reminded of a holiday, a few years ago, when I went to the beach at Marina del Cantone, a few miles from Sorrento, down a winding road.

It was a rough, windy day and we crossed the pebbles to the cafe that juts out to sea. There we ate almond and chocolate cake, watching the plumed waves crashing onto the beach.

I say all this now, because I have just come across a recipe called 'Gwbert Cakes', which are supposedly from the Ceredigion area. They are simple to make and I'll give you the recipe so you can fry them and try them.

(They are very similar to Welsh Cakes).

Delicious Welsh Cakes

Ingredients: 6 oz SR Flour,  2 oz sugar, 1 oz butter, 1 egg, a pinch of salt.

Method: Rub butter into flour, add remaining ingredients. Roll mixture out and cut into circles.   Fry in a little butter over a low flame. Sprinkle with sugar and hey presto!

"Sleep Furiously" by Gideon Koppel

I watched 'Sleep Furiously' and admired the way it cut across geographic boundaries. There was an elegance in the rhythm of what was recorded that appealed to me.





Peter Bradshaw writing in The Guardian 29 May 2009 says:  

"This delicate, tonally complex film by Gideon Koppel is a documentary love-letter to Trefeurig, the Welsh farming community in Ceredigion where he grew up, and where his parents found refuge from Nazi Germany during the second world war. 

Between these melancholy tableaux, the visual palate is cleaned with single-colour panels, and with weird speeded-up sequences. One repeated image was a real madeleine for me: the sight of the mobile library trundling around the winding roads, a vital source of reading, thought, ideas ... everything. Trefeurig is full of people who love books. I couldn't help remembering the mobile library that used to appear in the village of my own childhood (Letchmore Heath in Hertfordshire): a purple bus, shaped like an elongated tallboy wardrobe on wheels, which, Tardis-like, had a miraculous stock of books, far more than appeared possible from the outside. It gave you the feeling, when you effortfully climbed the big steps to get in and stood in its narrow aisle between the two great walls of books, that its centre of gravity was that little bit too high and that the whole vehicle would topple over if it took a corner at anything over 15 mph - and might well do so at rest, if you moved around inside too quickly."

I hope you like what you find here, and may be you'll tell me exactly how you found this piece, in the comments section.

My Novel Salt Blue

Thought I'd drop by to tell you copies of my novel 'Salt Blue' are selling well on Amazon.com!  I'm really delighted by this news received today via email.

There are still copies left - reduced for a short period of time only.

Hwyl, Gill

The Blue of the Night

                                     The Blue of the Night

                                She said it was the time she loved the best,
                                The hour when day caresses night
                                In deepest shades of blue,
                                When stars shine in the darkest light
                                And earth takes on an azure hue.

                               Golden Byzantium and Rose Red Petra,
                               Your body guilds my lips, my words
                               Shimmering shadows across the sands
                               Of time, whispering softly
                               In the twilight you called 'L'heure bleu'.

                              Ages have passed, I think, or so it seems
                              And I have tasted lips carved cold.
                              Now longer shadows blot the light
                              In the dusk I call 'The Blues of the Night'.

Metonymy

                            Metonymy

                  She was a stolen woman
                  But he chose her,
                  Mixed his pigments with her
                  Shadowed brightness.
                  Opalescence,
                  Light condensing on leaves.


                  He captured her image,
                  Dipped his paintbrushes in
                  Rinsed raindrops,
                  Verbascum, bugloss.
                  Made her his own,
                  Birdsong
                  At dusk and
                  Each evening.

                  Water marks paper,
                  Like pain revisited
                  From a safe place.
                  Experience can explain
                  But only poetry translate
                  The perfume of rosa rugosa,
                  Still in the air.

Majorcan Mice

Pollensa, in the north of Majorca, is one of my favourite holiday places. 
The light has a chromatic quality, giving it a clarity that attracts artists to the area and writers, too.

One day, we took the train to Soller, a small town with lovely old houses where orange merchants lived years ago.

I did not know at the time, but Alan Sillitoe, the author, rented a house there in the 1950's. 
It was 1963 when I read his book 'Saturday Night and Sunday Morning'.  I was expecting my first daughter and I had borrowed the novel from the Fishguard Library.

The book impressed me,  describing situations  clearly and simply.  Before this, I had been reading Thomas Hardy but  'Saturday Night and Sunday Morning' was different.

Sillitoe's style struck me as a completely new way of writing, not that I had much experience of reading novels at that age, but I realised it was something special.

Alan Sillitoe lived in Soller for a number of years, surviving on a small disability pension from the forces. One night, on returning from the local taverna, he found the kitchen was swarming with mice, which he had to sweep out through the door.

I am given to sudden flights of fancy and remarked to my husband that it must be lovely to live in Soller.
He thought about it before remarking that the winters can be bitterly cold there, hence the mice invasion, probably.

Let's just say I'd like to spend the summer months there, then, with something of Alan Sillitoe's to read.


 

Tomatoes Again

When my daughters were in the grammar school, I liked reading the books they had to study.   Laurie Lee was new to me.  I loved  'Cider with Rosie' so much that I went on to read 'A Rose for Winter' and 'As I Walked out One Midsummer Morning'.

I thought of Laurie Lee this morning, when I came down to a kitchen warmed by the scent of tomatoes.  For Lee, the smell of peppers meant he was in Spain. He might have said the same about tomatoes, the ones I bought in Fishguard yesterday.

I haven't been to Spain, but I've holidayed in Pollensa, in Northerm Majorca, a few times. The market stalls there are laden with huge, gleaming brutes of tomatoes.

Six years ago, the  last time we went, we stayed in a villa and  the only meal we cooked was breakfast, which included fried tomatoes.

After eating we liked to go out  before it became too hot. There was a laundry room just off one of the outside balconies and my daughters enjoyed washing clothes, shaking them out, carefully pegging them to the washing carousels, knowing they would be dry in a few hours.

One day the cleaner sought me out to say, in no uncertain terms, that she cleaned to the standard the agent required, not to anyone else's standard.  I don't know if she  had been frightened by the girls' laundry standards but we left her to it!

Behind us was the church of Calvari and the shops just a five minute walk away. Mid morning usually found us at a pavement cafe, under sun shades, sampling  the 'caffe and cwchen', (coffee and cake)  offer.  Air Berlin flies regularly to Pollensa and the menus are printed in different languages, including German.  

One evening, the church held a fete and old ladies, dressed in black, sat outside selling cakes. We were too late for the cakes but we went into the church, where there were lurid  paintings of the martyrs covered in blood, which the younger ones studied very carefully.

I went outside and sat on the wall, while the others had a wander.  An elderly couple came and joined me  and, though I could speak little of their language and they spoke no English, I managed to tell them where I was from.

Then the lady mentioned the Spanish Civil War and how she'd come to Pollensa and never gone back to Spain.  She had known a lot of sadness, all a long time ago.

Oliver and Harry appeared then, hot and damp after running up and down the three hundred and fifty steps of Calvari.

Realising they were twins, she cheered up.  They told her their names and we did finger play to show their ages, then the rest of the family came and she wanted to know which daughter was their  mother and then she saw my granddaughters and she liked everyone and we were all happy. 

Her husband was getting restless now, so I bade them 'Buenos Noches'.  With much amusement, she explained it was early evening, so I should have said 'Buenos Tarde'. I repeated it, gave her a hug and off they went.
Once they were out of hearing, my daughter, said. 'Caw, you do your best and then they correct you!'
 
Back in Haverfordwest, I made a stew with chorizo sausage from Ultra Comida in Narberth, tomatoes, garlic, olive oil, white pepper, and chopped lamb.  The chorizo gives a robust  flavour to the stew. Chick peas and  lentils will thicken the stew or you could mash a slice or two of bread into the stew, like the Spanish do.

 A stew requires long, slow cooking, to tenderise the meat and for the flavours to meld together. Broad beans are a good addition, cooked separately and not overcooked.  A sprinkling of chopped parsley on top of each portion makes everything sparkle.

In Pollensa, one of my sons-in-law was impressed when he saw me drink a can of beer before breakfast. Later, he realised it had a very low alcoholic content and I went down in his estimation.  My advice is, don't drink beer just at breakfast. Have it with your stew, too.

I read a book last winter about the Spanish Civil War.  I don't remember the title, but I do remember the images of desperate poverty and food shortages that the war brought.  Most household had very little meat or vegetables, so their stews were flavourless. A man with a ham bone went about dipping it into people's stews for a few minutes, to add flavour.   I thought of the couple I'd met in Pollensa and the shortages they must have faced.  I'd rather forget things like that.

Tomato Treats

  On the way to Fishguard today I stopped to buy tomatoes. Beautiful round tomatoes, in varying stages of ripeness: sulphuric greens, orange greens, Spanish yellows and gutsy, deep reds. 

Back home, I piled them in a white enamel colander.  I like using fruit and vegetables as ornaments in the kitchen, if only for a few hours.

Someone said  that education teaches that a tomato is a fruit, but knowledge stops you from putting it in a fruit salad. Quite. But how about using tomatoes in a jam?

I've had this recipe for years.  Once made into jam, the peppery traces of the tomatoes disappear and the flavour resembles rose hip jelly.

It's a sacrilege to fry or cook a beautifully firm tomato, so first we'll have a tomato salad with  slices of tangy, Havarti cheese from Denmark and toasted rosemary bread.  Later in the week, when the remaining tomatoes ripen, I'll jam them and feel no guilt.

This recipe produces about 4 pounds of jam, or slightly less than 2 kg.

Tomato Jam

Ingredients:
2 pounds or 1 kg of tomatoes
2 pounds or 1 kg preserving sugar
The juice and grated rind of 2 lemons

Method:
Prepare the tomatoes by  plunging them into really hot water. Alternatively, simmer for a few seconds in boiling water.  Skin when cool. Cut into quarters,  remove the centres and the seeds. Chop the flesh  into small pieces.
Using unwaxed, washed lemons, grate the rinds and squeeze out all the juice. (Warming the lemons for a few seconds makes it easier to extract the juice).

I dislike jam that has had the flavour boiled out of it, so to overcome this, the chopped tomatoes can be microwaved until they are soft, to cut down on boiling time. 
3 to 5 minutes minutes should be long enough.
Transfer the tomatoes to a very large saucepan. 
Add the lemon juice, the rind and the sugar.
(The lemon juice and the preserving sugar should ensure a good set, so there will be no need to boil the mixture for as long as many other jams).
Bring slowly to the boil, stirring all the time. (Burnt jam is vile and the saucepan will be devilish to clean).  Boil  for 40 minutes, but not fiercely,  before dropping a globule onto a saucer.  Leave for  a minute or two then prod with your finger.
It should be gooey now, at setting point.  If not, boil for 5 minutes again, but no more.  
Home made jam is runnier than commercial jam and that's part of it's beauty.
(Some people use thermometers to gauge the temperature for setting point, but I don't.)
Skim off the foam on the top and allow to cool to room temeperature, before potting.
The jam will be clear and golden as a boiled sweet.

If you like Spanish membrillo, a jammy paste, you could reduce the jam further by boiling it gently for about 60 minutes in all.  Eat with Cheddar cheese and a bread roll or water biscuit.
A bunch of fresh thyme added to the jam when it is cooling gives it a savour.  (Remove the herbs before the jam has set.)
This jelly is good  eaten with pork. It goes well with almost any meat, though, especially in a Brie and bacon  sandwich.    

Midsummer Madness

Purples and oranges, pinks and limes, temple golds, pthalo blue, sweet pea pinks, all the glorious colours of high summer jostling together on the 'Sale' rails, waiting  for me to splurge.

I can sniff a sale a mile away. My pulses race. I'm going to buy. Let's see what's on offer.  Crunchy crochet tops, eau-de-nil green cardies, jewelled sandals, I love them all, though my wardrobe is stuffed with clothes, many I've forgotten about.  Never mind,  there's nothing like a new outfit to cheer a girl up (even an old girl). Muslins, thick cottons, heavy linens, velvets, oh! oh! so beauiful. The smell, the feel. The money I'm saving, though it's nothing to do with saving, it's all about the pleasure of spending.

But, as I've learnt, you must keep your wits sharpened. Take a matching pair of shoes in a store. Good idea, trying  them both on. Why? One was a size 5, the other a 6. I call the assistant, who is as bemused as myself.

There was this  navy jersey dress with a centre panel of whisper soft silk that I'd been eyeing for a few weeks.  Sleeveless, it was little more than a large T-shirt, but worn over a pair of leggings, I could saunter down the Croissette in Cannes and be mistaken for someone with Gallic style, I hoped.
The only thing wrong with the dress was the price.   At £66 it was a trifle steep for something which, after a few washes, might be more backpacker chic than French Riviera smart. But hey ho! it came down in the sales.

First it was slashed to a 30 % reduction, making it £46.20, but, though like John Gilpin's wife on pleasure I am bent, I am not that extravagant, if you understand, so I exercised steely will power and waited for the Big One.  50%, that is. (The one I really like is 70%, but I don't chance that, not being massively large or noticeably tiny.)

I found my size, took it to the till and presented my card.  Fortunately, instead of casting my eyes around in a last gasp to see what else was delectable, I noticed that £46.20 had been rung up. 

Ever so patiently, I explained that the reduction was now 50%, making the price £33.  The assistant looked at me as though  trying to decide if I was capable of mental arithmetic. She then turned the label this way and that. After much pondering, she pronounced  I was correct and yes, she should have remembered for she'd sold one at £33 earlier that morning.

Well, prices are falling quicker than autumn leaves, so perhaps that's why staff get confused.

Two weeks ago I bought a half price dress.  No quibble over the price but there was a wait for the changing rooms.  I hate waiting, so bought the dress, a designer in-store label, took it home, tried it on and it fitted, but I had to find a petticoat to go under it.  Surprise, surprise. My daughters had been into the same store the day before (thirty miles away in Carmarthen) and realised that a petticoat came with the dress, though it hadn't with mine.  They'd seen a forlorn rail festooned with odd peticoats in the store.
A quick phone call on my part, an apology on theirs, and the slip arrived in the post the next day and in the correct size.

Perhaps I should  pop out and buy something else, just to get over the strain of it all.

Old Broadway Families

The Averill family were known to have lived in Broadway, a pretty Cotswold village, since the sixteenth century at least.   Alfred Averill, born in 1840, became a surgeon and doctor to the Wedgwood Factory. I believe it is his wife, Maria Ann, who wrote the cook book I own.

In summer the meadows around the village were filled with lime green spurge, daisies with centres gold as duck egg yolks, pink jewelled clover and golden buttercups. On the hills, long woolled sheep, known as Cotswold lions, grazed, bringing prosperity to the area.
By the end of the fourteenth century the woollen industry had become England's most important trade.
Wealthy merchants invested their riches in large manor houses, which still delight today.

Sir Thomas Phillips, the antiquarian, lived in Middle Hill Park Lodge.
Born in 1792, he developed an obsession for books.  By his mid thirties he had collected over fifteen thousand books and eleven thousand manuscripts.
'I am buying printed books because I wish to have one copy of every book in the World!!!', he declared.

His passion, or mania, for books drove both his wives to distraction.  One became alcoholic and the other left him.

The house was stuffed to the gills with books, making it a comfortless place. Only at meal times was it possible to enter the dining room and one of Sir Thomas's wives complained she could not get near her dressing table.

Eventually, he agreed to move to a larger house to allow the family more space, but the inevitable happened. More books were bought to fill the extra space available.

Sir Thomas set up a printing press on Broadway Tower, putting his daughter in charge of subscribing the manuscripts. So irksome did she find the task that she left her post, to the approval of the whole village, who sympathised with her.

Generous in sharing his books, Sir Thomas attracted many intellectuals to his home.
Though he died in 1872  his books were still being sold at auction in London in the 1970's.

Mugs and Jugs

Serenity by Rock-Well on Aviary

Teachers and schools are always in the news. Tomorrow, some teachers go on strike about changes to their pensions at a time when Michael Gove, Education Secretary, is calling for more teachers with first class degrees.

All this reminded me of  my grandmother who, when in her sixties, used to enjoy doing my Latin homework. She was quick and got full marks, so I let her.

The teachers in Queen Elizabeth Grammar School, Carmarthen, which she attended, must have been good.  The formula was simple: they taught and she listened. More than that, she admired them.  Some could sing Nursery Rhymes in Latin, thereby making learning fun and it lodged in her mind and later, she taught, too.

Will more teachers with first class degrees mean better results? I wonder, I wonder and the reason I wonder is this. Knowledge of one's subject is vital. No one can teach what they don't know, obviously, but here's the other side of the coin:  many teachers don't like children and surprise, surprise, the children don't like them.

A teacher should have some empathy with children first of all, then the necessary knowledge needed to teach and to teach in an interesting way.

Dickens's Mr Gradgrind believed in the 'mug and jug' method of education. The teacher was the vessel of knowledge who filled up the empty mugs with information. There was no interaction with the pupils.

Sadly, this mechanistic view of education encouraged the 'scholars' to view themselves as nothing but cogs in an enormous wheel.

I have no advice to offer and I'll let you draw your own conclusions but I shall quote Freud, who usually gets it right.

According to Freud, adolescents have two developmental tasks to accomplish:  they must learn to love and they must learn to work. The rest is simple.

Gillian Morgan - United Kingdom - Email, Address, Phone number, everything! 123people.co.uk

Gillian Morgan - United Kingdom - Email, Address, Phone number, everything! 123people.co.uk



I live in the County Town, Haverfordwest and, like all old towns, it has a deep, rich history.

Today, I walked passed the house in Hill Street where Gwen and Augustus John, the painters, lived for many years when they were children. Situated at the top of the town, the house displays a blue commmemorative plaque.

All his life, Augustus John was deeply fascinated by the gypsies, seeing in them a superiority not possessed by ordinary people.

In 'Chiaroscuro', Augustus tells how, when the fair came to the 'Green', he and Gwen were told to be wary of the travellers, for they stole children. The young boy pondered these words, failing to understand why gypsies would want anyone else's children when they had so many of their own.

Although their mother died when they were young, Augustus remembers happy times when he and Gwen were taken for walks by their father.

In the spring time they picked primroses in Scotchwells. There was a water-mill along the way and the children entered the mill through an iron turnstile which played a tune. Sometimes the miller would appear, dusted in flour and resembling a character from a fairy tale.

The John family went to Bethesda Chapel. Often, two ladies who also attended, would remark that the children would miss their mother more and more as time went by. So irksome did Augustus's father find their behavious that he moved the family to Tenby.

A Little Learning

It was a few months ago. I was in a cafe in Fishguard, all Laura Ashley wallpaper, with a silver sheen, porcelain chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and turquoise leather banquettes in the corners.  Handmade chocolates were decorated with crystallised violets and squiggles of gold.Under a glass dome a ginger cake with lime and coconut frosting winked enticingly at me.

I was feeling contented and indulged, stirring the tea leaves in the pot, when suddenly I heard something that nearly made me burp. Two couples were sitting at a nearby table, middle aged, middle class, middle England. One of the men was speaking: 'The educational standard of most people around here is that of  the average eleven year old'.

One of the women hissed, 'Hush'.

At the time I thought they were holidaymakers who probably imagined they were in a foreign country where the indigenous natives were backward and wild. What had been said seemed so preposterous I had to stop myself laughing out loud.

After this week's revelations that twenty per cent of Welsh eleven year olds are behind in key skills,
perhaps there was more than a grain of truth in the holidaymaker's observation.

Apparently, since the abolition of league tables showing the position of individual schools, standards have dropped.

I'm not sure who is responsible for this state of affairs, though politicians will, obviously, blame the previous government.

A small, educated elite rules this country but a recent report showed that many MP's, whatever  they're political persuasion, are privately educated.

If we look at fee-paying schools, we'll find that they are not failing. On the contrary, their pupils continue to do exceptionally well.

Why is this? Smaller classes and better equipment all help but these schools attract enthusiastic teachers who know they are teaching motivated pupils. And why are the pupils motivated? Because when parents pay they want to see results. Therefore they take an interest in what is happening in class and support the teachers to ensure success. Homework is done on time and pupils take part in extra-curricular activities such as sport, music and drama.

If there is one equation that always works it's this: Teachers plus parents plus pupils=Success.
There's your answer. Simple. QED. Taken as proved.  

 

 

Mamgu's Tambourine

Even when she was eighty, my grandmother was able to paper the ceiling, standing on a dining table to do so. She dug potatoes from the garden and prepared vegetables for four each day.

Her pastry was a mixture of lard and butter and she made blackcurrant, gooseberry and rhubarb tarts, all fruit she had grown and picked herself. Rice puddings were baked, using a mix of full cream and condensed milk, with rice, syrup and raisins. Fruit cakes had a wine glass of brandy added to them. She took pride in her skills and they were not just practical. I called one evening and she was studying a French dictionary. A visitor was calling, from Paris, and she was revising.

She was not unusual by any means. A lady of eighty three, a one time neighbour of mine, climbed onto her cottage roof and hammered a loose tile back into place,  when a windy day had dislodged it.

I say all this because in Cardiff Royal Infirmary, patients who needed a nurse were told to shake a tambourine. One of the visitors tried the system and he shook for sixteen minutes before someone appeared. ('If the tambourine fails, try the maracas instead', they were told). Sounds like something out of 'Carry on Nurse'.  It would be laughable if it wasn't so sad. It's like giving the nursery class a percussion lesson, treating older people like infants, teaching Mamgu to suck eggs.   It's the sheer effrontery of it.

My grandmother's generation had no labour saving gadgets, yet the chores, though sometimes arduous, gave them a purpose in life.    

I have another gripe about some hospitals: the menus.  My contention is this: when people are convalescing, they do not want to be presented with 'healthy' food if they don't like it. I'm talking about a hospital that served brown rice, brown bread, margarine, apples and salad. Food should be appetising to the individual if it is to be enjoyed. This applies to all ages but especially to the elderly, who often won't complain. 

No, I haven't got a degree in nursing and I don't need it to state what should be blindingly obvious.

Books and cooks

Old books, handwritten books especially, interest me. Twenty five years ago I bought a handwritten cookery book at an auction in Bristol. 

Though no information was available about where the book had come from, I was still pleased with my find. I took it home and read it carefully. Copper plate writing flowed over the thick yellow pages, horizontally and diagonally, too, in some places. (Past generations had a habit of 'saving' everything, writing over notes they no longer required).  Unfortunately, the cook had not written her name but, evidently, her family was well fed. I could smell the old, floury kitchen and long ago meals.

There were recipes for 'Breakfast Cake', mayonnaise, kedgeree, wines, jams, jellies, pickles and even cough mixture, emetics, hair colouring, bees wax polish. 

As I carefully turned the pages, some of which were coming away from the spine, I encountered a recipe dated 1745!  This book had been a family treasure and the last entries were in the twentieth century.

Accompanying the book were some loose recipes, known as receipts. Examining a torn envelope, I found the name, 'Mrs Averill', Broadway. On the back of the envelope was a recipe for soup, for the attention of the overseers of  the 'Poor House'. (The soup required gallons of water and just a few vegetables).

This was a find. I had a name and, by sheer chance, I had recently spent a holiday in Broadway, not far from Stratford on Avon.

I asked the then Vicar of Broadway for his help and he was excellent, copying the Averill names on gravestones and sending them to me. Going one further, he asked an elderly relative of the Averill family if she would like to correspond with me.

This resulted in contact with family members in America and an invitation to stay with them in New England.