And yes, my MS Paint skills are rubbish
Friday, 27 May 2011
Cesc Allured by Barcelona Superstars Advances
Following this little escapade at Arsenal’s training ground, Barcelona stars Carles Puyol and Gerard Pique have gone to even greater lengths to try to attract Cesc Fabregas to Barcelona.
And yes, my MS Paint skills are rubbish
And yes, my MS Paint skills are rubbish
Friday, 29 April 2011
Timber Timbre @ The ICA
Gotta love the ICA, down on The Mall, up the road from Buckingham Palace it is perhaps the most salubriously located live music venue in London. I was offered a ticket by my good buddy Sal to see a Canadian band I am ashamed to admit I’d never heard of previously, but I trust my fellow square jawed and throbbing forearmed Mediterranean friends judgement on many matters, whether they be culinary, literary or musical. And for this I am grateful.
We arrived early to grab a couple of beers and sat in the bar amongst quirky and obtuse individuals, there to suck upon the teat of dark gothic folk. After a hastily downed gazpacho we endeavoured to enter the sweat pit. On previous visits, I have boiled into a pool of sweat, like that senator dude in X-Men when he is zapped with Magneto’s mutant ray and turns into a pulsing watery slug seeking redemption upon Jean Grey’s trestle table before slopping over the sides like four gallons of carlsberg special brew. But it seems they have installed air conditioning, which is a nice touch.
Unfortunately, Sal had to go, his brother had smashed his car up into some pensioners vehicle and thus he needed to make a mercy run to allow him access to his insurance documents.
So I watched the gig on my tod.
Timber Timbre added to the atmosphere by positioning red lanterns around the stage and as they came on to play, a projection of 1922 seminal horror Nosferatu was also projected behind them.
They are low fi, sinister and dark. Check them out. One of the opening scenes of Nosferatu below, note red lantern and hooded lead singer Taylor Kirk, grim reaper-esque.
Renfield, he’s got a messed up face.
….on the fiddle
As Nosferatu was a silent film, it’s interjected with dramatic story text. It’s of its time…. shame some lanky piece of piss baalhead messed up this shot.
And not quite this one.
Nosferatu… sink your sharp buck teeth into that lanky piece of shit blocking my view
And then into the night air, as yet (Wednesday), The Mall wasn’t smothered with people in tents hoping to catch a glimpse of Kate Middleton and the future Kaiser (all those shenanigans would happen Friday). So it was a serenely beautiful spring evening.
We arrived early to grab a couple of beers and sat in the bar amongst quirky and obtuse individuals, there to suck upon the teat of dark gothic folk. After a hastily downed gazpacho we endeavoured to enter the sweat pit. On previous visits, I have boiled into a pool of sweat, like that senator dude in X-Men when he is zapped with Magneto’s mutant ray and turns into a pulsing watery slug seeking redemption upon Jean Grey’s trestle table before slopping over the sides like four gallons of carlsberg special brew. But it seems they have installed air conditioning, which is a nice touch.
Unfortunately, Sal had to go, his brother had smashed his car up into some pensioners vehicle and thus he needed to make a mercy run to allow him access to his insurance documents.
So I watched the gig on my tod.
Timber Timbre added to the atmosphere by positioning red lanterns around the stage and as they came on to play, a projection of 1922 seminal horror Nosferatu was also projected behind them.
They are low fi, sinister and dark. Check them out. One of the opening scenes of Nosferatu below, note red lantern and hooded lead singer Taylor Kirk, grim reaper-esque.
Renfield, he’s got a messed up face.
….on the fiddle
As Nosferatu was a silent film, it’s interjected with dramatic story text. It’s of its time…. shame some lanky piece of piss baalhead messed up this shot.
And not quite this one.
Nosferatu… sink your sharp buck teeth into that lanky piece of shit blocking my view
And then into the night air, as yet (Wednesday), The Mall wasn’t smothered with people in tents hoping to catch a glimpse of Kate Middleton and the future Kaiser (all those shenanigans would happen Friday). So it was a serenely beautiful spring evening.
Saturday, 16 April 2011
The Lost City of Dunwich
“A land that is lonelier than ruin
A sea that is stranger than death
Far fields that a rose never blew in,
Wan waste where the winds lack breath;
Waste endless and boundless and flowerless
But of marsh-blossoms fruitless as free
Where earth lies exhausted, as powerless
To strive with the sea.”
So begins Victorian wild bunch poet Algernon Charles Swinburne’s epic (as in it goes on a bit) “By the North Sea”, which is written about Dunwich supposedly.
We’ve been back from Suffolk over a week now, but there was one more blog to write. This is with regard to the lost city of Dunwich. Once one of the biggest towns in England and a foremost port, it fell into decline (and the sea) after the peak of its success in the middle ages. It all happened when the first of a succession of storms in 1286 blocked the natural harbour of Dunwich with shingle, meaning the prosperous town was cut off from it’s trade routes across the North Sea. It never recovered.
Now it’s a pretty little village perched on the natural cliff face, population of just less than 200.
There is a great little museum there with some discovered artefacts from the deep, but the main draw for me was going for a walk along with cliff face, along the boundary wall of the Greyfriars priory. How long this old ruin will hold out against coastal erosion, who knows, but it is breathtaking and quite unsettling. There is one grave from a long gone church (All Saints) still holding on against the relentless coastal erosion.
Here is a pic of All Saints (taken from this website) through the ages. Considering this was one of the many churches of Dunwich considerably inland in the middle ages, many other churches having been lost hundreds of years before, it makes you think how transient the coastline is.
And the grave? Well, residing in it is a chap called Jacob Forster. Only a few yards beyond this gravestone is the sheer cliff face, the shingle beach and the North sea. Soon he’ll be gone too.
The inscription says - IN MEMORY OF JACOB FORSTER WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE MARCH 12TH 1796 AGED 58 YEARS.
The priory now looks like this. This is with my back to the priory wall and the cliff behind that.
And the view from the cliffs is as follows, back in Roman times, the coast was a good half mile out from this point. You can just about see a couple of people fishing by the shoreline.
We wandered down through the village where the cliff flattens down to the beach.
When I was skimming stones down on the beach it didn’t really register that I was probably treading on what once was consecrated land, the cemetary of All Saints Church or that my stones were flinging out on old property and houses lost in the muddy waters of the sea. In recent times, when another slice of cliff crumbles down to the beach, human remains still tumble into the open air.
On getting back to our holiday rental, of course I considered this and my unknowing disrespect for the dead. My fears were amplified in the big scary house and shit myself. The Fog by John Carpenter came into mind and for some reason Michael Jackson’s thriller video.
I then did some research on scary legends of the area and I have to say they are awesome. *Adopts old sea dog accent* On some nights you can hear the bells of the old sunken churches over the waves at night.
Or the most chilling, the Dark Heart of Dunwich. Scary Link.
This one stuck with me a bit. It also made me think about HP Lovecraft’s “The Dunwich Horror” which is actually set in America, but he probably named the town after reading both Swinburne’s poem and a novella “The Terror (1917)” by the Horror writer (much loved by Stephen King) Arthur Machen, which was also set in the English Dunwich. I’ve stuck it on my wishlist :)
As for modern day Dunwich, it is a gorgeous little English village, nothing horrific to report, apart from the price of an ice cream in the beach side cafe (£1.75!) ffs!
A sea that is stranger than death
Far fields that a rose never blew in,
Wan waste where the winds lack breath;
Waste endless and boundless and flowerless
But of marsh-blossoms fruitless as free
Where earth lies exhausted, as powerless
To strive with the sea.”
So begins Victorian wild bunch poet Algernon Charles Swinburne’s epic (as in it goes on a bit) “By the North Sea”, which is written about Dunwich supposedly.
We’ve been back from Suffolk over a week now, but there was one more blog to write. This is with regard to the lost city of Dunwich. Once one of the biggest towns in England and a foremost port, it fell into decline (and the sea) after the peak of its success in the middle ages. It all happened when the first of a succession of storms in 1286 blocked the natural harbour of Dunwich with shingle, meaning the prosperous town was cut off from it’s trade routes across the North Sea. It never recovered.
Now it’s a pretty little village perched on the natural cliff face, population of just less than 200.
There is a great little museum there with some discovered artefacts from the deep, but the main draw for me was going for a walk along with cliff face, along the boundary wall of the Greyfriars priory. How long this old ruin will hold out against coastal erosion, who knows, but it is breathtaking and quite unsettling. There is one grave from a long gone church (All Saints) still holding on against the relentless coastal erosion.
Here is a pic of All Saints (taken from this website) through the ages. Considering this was one of the many churches of Dunwich considerably inland in the middle ages, many other churches having been lost hundreds of years before, it makes you think how transient the coastline is.
And the grave? Well, residing in it is a chap called Jacob Forster. Only a few yards beyond this gravestone is the sheer cliff face, the shingle beach and the North sea. Soon he’ll be gone too.
The inscription says - IN MEMORY OF JACOB FORSTER WHO DEPARTED THIS LIFE MARCH 12TH 1796 AGED 58 YEARS.
The priory now looks like this. This is with my back to the priory wall and the cliff behind that.
And the view from the cliffs is as follows, back in Roman times, the coast was a good half mile out from this point. You can just about see a couple of people fishing by the shoreline.
We wandered down through the village where the cliff flattens down to the beach.
When I was skimming stones down on the beach it didn’t really register that I was probably treading on what once was consecrated land, the cemetary of All Saints Church or that my stones were flinging out on old property and houses lost in the muddy waters of the sea. In recent times, when another slice of cliff crumbles down to the beach, human remains still tumble into the open air.
On getting back to our holiday rental, of course I considered this and my unknowing disrespect for the dead. My fears were amplified in the big scary house and shit myself. The Fog by John Carpenter came into mind and for some reason Michael Jackson’s thriller video.
I then did some research on scary legends of the area and I have to say they are awesome. *Adopts old sea dog accent* On some nights you can hear the bells of the old sunken churches over the waves at night.
Or the most chilling, the Dark Heart of Dunwich. Scary Link.
This one stuck with me a bit. It also made me think about HP Lovecraft’s “The Dunwich Horror” which is actually set in America, but he probably named the town after reading both Swinburne’s poem and a novella “The Terror (1917)” by the Horror writer (much loved by Stephen King) Arthur Machen, which was also set in the English Dunwich. I’ve stuck it on my wishlist :)
As for modern day Dunwich, it is a gorgeous little English village, nothing horrific to report, apart from the price of an ice cream in the beach side cafe (£1.75!) ffs!
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
Bunny Update, Heidi and Ludvig
It lives! After Deb’s rescue mission yesterday, we were worried the cat would come back…. But looking out through our window this morning, we saw it, munching through the beautiful garden (oops). Sat outside earlier and it made another appearance, long enough for me to take this photo at x40 zoom.
Other news, walked to Walberswick from Southwold today along the embankment of a disused railway line, what a lovely village, nestled in behind the sand dunes. Sat in a tea shop gardens and scoffed stuff, then walked back, the more direct way, along the river bank, over the bridge and through the common, which has Adders in it (we didn’t see or get bitten by any!)
Pie for dinner tonight from the local deli. I chose the “Kate and Wills” pie which contains beef, red wine, shalots and a dash of brandy (sadly not made from the flesh of our future king and queen as that would cost significantly more than 4.50 – which is already expensive). I felt slightly embarrassed asking for it. Debbie got the “Heidi”, which contains Goats Cheese, Sweet Potato, Spinach and Roasted Garlic, how this equates to Heidi I don’t know, but it reminded me of the badly dubbed childrens TV programme from the 1970s. Her mate was a barefoot tramp/shepherd called “goat peter” and the other major character was her grandfather and when she said “Grand-father!” it reminded me of grange hill when that girl used to say “but Row-land” to chubby Roland Browning. And there was a posh girl who couldn’t walk as well and Heidi was her friend, being a go getting tom boy type and they all had adventures in the alps. it was shit. Here she is with some co-stars.
Amazing I could still remember the theme tune!
But not as shit as this, possibly the weirdest animated series ever broadcast. Pointless! it’s about an egg made of glass who thinks he’s beethoven…. or something. I just watched this 3 minute clip and it’s fuelled my childhood rage against this programme!
Other news, walked to Walberswick from Southwold today along the embankment of a disused railway line, what a lovely village, nestled in behind the sand dunes. Sat in a tea shop gardens and scoffed stuff, then walked back, the more direct way, along the river bank, over the bridge and through the common, which has Adders in it (we didn’t see or get bitten by any!)
Pie for dinner tonight from the local deli. I chose the “Kate and Wills” pie which contains beef, red wine, shalots and a dash of brandy (sadly not made from the flesh of our future king and queen as that would cost significantly more than 4.50 – which is already expensive). I felt slightly embarrassed asking for it. Debbie got the “Heidi”, which contains Goats Cheese, Sweet Potato, Spinach and Roasted Garlic, how this equates to Heidi I don’t know, but it reminded me of the badly dubbed childrens TV programme from the 1970s. Her mate was a barefoot tramp/shepherd called “goat peter” and the other major character was her grandfather and when she said “Grand-father!” it reminded me of grange hill when that girl used to say “but Row-land” to chubby Roland Browning. And there was a posh girl who couldn’t walk as well and Heidi was her friend, being a go getting tom boy type and they all had adventures in the alps. it was shit. Here she is with some co-stars.
Amazing I could still remember the theme tune!
Tuesday, 5 April 2011
Big House and Big Load o’books
17:30 - We’re staying in Southwold at the moment, in a big house by the sea. We’re on our own now, the family have moved out, who spent the weekend with us. We had a lot of fun with the kids, playing on the beach in gorgeous tee shirt weather. (As in the weather being gorgeous, although my tee shirt was gorgeous too). Today is a grey day however, spots of rain and a bitter wind cutting in from the North Sea. But how can you not be moved when you look out of your window and see this?
We love the sea and being near it. The sound of it through the night breaking against the shore, the salt spray, the sun rising in the East, brilliant over the waves, even the sound of gulls bickering. Suffolk is probably one of our favourite places, with Southwold and Aldeburgh our holiday destinations of choice.
The house is huge, I admit I’m a bit scared so stay in my room when dark. I don’t piss at night and uncomfortably wait till the first dull light of morning before I will venture down to pee. But other than my childlike fear of the dark and creaky old buildings groaning in the wind, this is a wonderful holiday.
Another feature of the house is the abundance of books, whoever owns or owned this place has a wonderful collection. They are learned, I am impressed. Overwhelmed with the choices I can take to the little sun trap conservatory/lean to overlooking the sea and garden I procrastinated as to what to read.
Kingsley Amis, George Orwell, M.R James, Angela Carter, Tennessee Williams, Shakespeare, D.H Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, Evelyn Waugh, Aldous Huxley, James Ellroy, Oscar Wilde, Joseph Conrad, Ted Hughes, Satre, Kafka, Greer, Kipling… to name a few.
And my choice… an old book of short stories by Jack London. An American socialist, he died young. He seemed to have an ambiguity in his perception. Sometimes vilified by both left and right, as capitalist and communist respectively and roundly condemned for alleged racist views, was he just a victim of his time and circumstances?
As to his writing style it’s warm, full of colour and vivid analogies. It always depresses me when I read someone who can create dialogue and characters seemingly so effortlessly!
21:30
Had to go to dinner, so didn’t finish this blog. Before we left, we (Debbie) had to deal with a murderous cat in our garden, which was torturing a rabbit. Yes, this rabbit is normal rabbit sized, which means the cat is the size of a puma. It was freakin’ huge!
And during dinner, we had a nutty geordie woman on a nearby table kicking off about her Bouillabaisse Sauce smothering her Halibut. She had the airs and graces of gazza after seventeen pints.
“This wasn't what ah expected leik, ah divvent even leik octopus, it should be more leik a soup yee southern bastid”
She was excessively rude and the proprietor was right to hand them their bill. But she continued to rant and rave like a mentalist on the restaurant doorstep threatening to “I'll gis a reet poor rating on tripadvisor an myek sure the lercal rag gets te knaa aboot this terrible fuud”
All good fun, but it somewhat disgusted me to hear a geordie say “Bouillabaisse”, it just sounded wrong.
We love the sea and being near it. The sound of it through the night breaking against the shore, the salt spray, the sun rising in the East, brilliant over the waves, even the sound of gulls bickering. Suffolk is probably one of our favourite places, with Southwold and Aldeburgh our holiday destinations of choice.
The house is huge, I admit I’m a bit scared so stay in my room when dark. I don’t piss at night and uncomfortably wait till the first dull light of morning before I will venture down to pee. But other than my childlike fear of the dark and creaky old buildings groaning in the wind, this is a wonderful holiday.
Another feature of the house is the abundance of books, whoever owns or owned this place has a wonderful collection. They are learned, I am impressed. Overwhelmed with the choices I can take to the little sun trap conservatory/lean to overlooking the sea and garden I procrastinated as to what to read.
Kingsley Amis, George Orwell, M.R James, Angela Carter, Tennessee Williams, Shakespeare, D.H Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, Evelyn Waugh, Aldous Huxley, James Ellroy, Oscar Wilde, Joseph Conrad, Ted Hughes, Satre, Kafka, Greer, Kipling… to name a few.
And my choice… an old book of short stories by Jack London. An American socialist, he died young. He seemed to have an ambiguity in his perception. Sometimes vilified by both left and right, as capitalist and communist respectively and roundly condemned for alleged racist views, was he just a victim of his time and circumstances?
As to his writing style it’s warm, full of colour and vivid analogies. It always depresses me when I read someone who can create dialogue and characters seemingly so effortlessly!
21:30
Had to go to dinner, so didn’t finish this blog. Before we left, we (Debbie) had to deal with a murderous cat in our garden, which was torturing a rabbit. Yes, this rabbit is normal rabbit sized, which means the cat is the size of a puma. It was freakin’ huge!
And during dinner, we had a nutty geordie woman on a nearby table kicking off about her Bouillabaisse Sauce smothering her Halibut. She had the airs and graces of gazza after seventeen pints.
“This wasn't what ah expected leik, ah divvent even leik octopus, it should be more leik a soup yee southern bastid”
She was excessively rude and the proprietor was right to hand them their bill. But she continued to rant and rave like a mentalist on the restaurant doorstep threatening to “I'll gis a reet poor rating on tripadvisor an myek sure the lercal rag gets te knaa aboot this terrible fuud”
All good fun, but it somewhat disgusted me to hear a geordie say “Bouillabaisse”, it just sounded wrong.
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Tales from the Moor
Warning : Includes Scenes of a Sexual Nature (just frogs though…)
I love this time of year, it makes me appreciate to change in the season from Winter to Spring. Just the briefest hint of watery sun, the tiny bit of warmth it offers makes me happy.
It also gets me out of my fitness stupor and I start emerging from my pupae, a plump and translucent skinned glistening lump, to strengthen and toughen as the days get longer.
I’ve started running a little bit again, had a mad few running days in January, but work put paid to my progress. Now, with the longer daylight hours I’ve no excuse really.
I love running on Flitwick and Flitton moor. In Winter the ground is too muddy, but now, it’s firm enough to not splatter too much, with a satisfying spring in the spongy peat. In times gone by, recent times in fact, up to the 1960s, peat was dug out for fuel. There is even an old peat cart and remnants of the tracks and runners it was pushed along, rusting away behind a hedge.
It’s also a great place for wildlife. I’ve been fortunate enough to see frogs mating a couple of times now (another of my blogs has a video of this phenomenon) Frogs Porn Video.
With a bit of patience, you can observe the writhing mass of their bodies and their croaking calls (once disturbed they become self conscious – which is understandable really, considering giants had just stomped up to watch them going at it)
The ponds in amongst the reed beds were just loaded with breeding frogs and their spawn. Their chorus an ubiquitous drone. This photo doesn’t really do them justice.
This close up came out quite well, I was taking photos into the sun, which meant a nice silvery effect from the water.
As for this chap (or lady) – you’re missing out! Get in the scrum!!
On that particular day, we also saw a shy heron, who flew away to a safe distance. In that they aren’t the most quick to get into flight from a standing start, they keep a safe distance from potential dangers. The heron is in the top right of the photo.
And here is a pic of the bark of a silver birch, which caught my eye.
We also saw a Great Spotted Woodpecker drumming from the top of a tall tree. In the distance, we could hear another male replying. It’s all about the territory, a peat turf war. He let us watch him for a bit, then flew off. It’s amazing to think they evolved to have heads with such insulation and shock absorbers as it was freakin’ loud. Head banging is bad for your health.
My wife Debbie is very educational, she let me know that the Great Spotted woodpeckers are the ones that hollow out trees to make nests. The other major British woodpecker species, the Green Woodpecker, aren’t really big on the pecking side of things.
You can hear them more than you see them, they have a laughing like call, which is what Professor Yaffle’s laugh was based on in Bagpuss. So that’s one mystery solved. Professor Yaffle is a Green Woodpecker… not a Great Spotted. And a quick google search shows that “Yaffle” is also a lesser known name for the bird in some areas of the UK. So there you go.
Although normally shy, in the breeding season (now), Green Woodpeckers can get surprisingly bold. I saw two of them displaying to each other, fluffing out their wings and swaying their heads at each other. They ignored me as I watched them. It was really fascinating.
Other recent sightings / news -
Buzzard
Within Southern England, this is quite a big bird of prey. We heard it first, it has a cat like call, it loped away with its big wings pushing it through the air. We’d probably disturbed its feast.
Red Kite
These beautiful birds are not endangered anymore. Once they were a common site, even in London where they’d eat carrion. They’d been pushed to the limits of extinction within the UK. But these distinctive birds with their forked tails are now pushing into the South East again. We see them riding the thermals, circling up high with their distinctive forked tails. They do manoeuvre like kites.
Skylark
Debbie pointed out our first Skylark sighting on 2011, somehow it can fly and sing at the same time. It seems to struggle through the air, buffeted this way and that. When there are loads of these birds flying and singing, it’s pretty noisy.
Kingfisher
Deb has seen them… I haven’t yet. Always looking for that flash of blue lightning whenever I cross the River Flit.
Deer
Muntjacs are the most common species in the two moors and the woods, but so skilled at hiding, you rarely get to see them. Escaped from a private collection (non native, from China), these small deer, with their unusual tusks are now all over Beds and Herts. I couldn’t believe reading a news article where dog owners complained about their pets being gored by these tiny animals. They should be under control when visiting the nature reserve… and all they were doing is defending themselves and their young.
Otters
Most exciting (if you’re into this sort of thing!) is that otters have been seen in the river Flit. We’ve not seen any yet… one can but hope!
I love this time of year, it makes me appreciate to change in the season from Winter to Spring. Just the briefest hint of watery sun, the tiny bit of warmth it offers makes me happy.
It also gets me out of my fitness stupor and I start emerging from my pupae, a plump and translucent skinned glistening lump, to strengthen and toughen as the days get longer.
I’ve started running a little bit again, had a mad few running days in January, but work put paid to my progress. Now, with the longer daylight hours I’ve no excuse really.
I love running on Flitwick and Flitton moor. In Winter the ground is too muddy, but now, it’s firm enough to not splatter too much, with a satisfying spring in the spongy peat. In times gone by, recent times in fact, up to the 1960s, peat was dug out for fuel. There is even an old peat cart and remnants of the tracks and runners it was pushed along, rusting away behind a hedge.
It’s also a great place for wildlife. I’ve been fortunate enough to see frogs mating a couple of times now (another of my blogs has a video of this phenomenon) Frogs Porn Video.
With a bit of patience, you can observe the writhing mass of their bodies and their croaking calls (once disturbed they become self conscious – which is understandable really, considering giants had just stomped up to watch them going at it)
The ponds in amongst the reed beds were just loaded with breeding frogs and their spawn. Their chorus an ubiquitous drone. This photo doesn’t really do them justice.
This close up came out quite well, I was taking photos into the sun, which meant a nice silvery effect from the water.
As for this chap (or lady) – you’re missing out! Get in the scrum!!
On that particular day, we also saw a shy heron, who flew away to a safe distance. In that they aren’t the most quick to get into flight from a standing start, they keep a safe distance from potential dangers. The heron is in the top right of the photo.
And here is a pic of the bark of a silver birch, which caught my eye.
We also saw a Great Spotted Woodpecker drumming from the top of a tall tree. In the distance, we could hear another male replying. It’s all about the territory, a peat turf war. He let us watch him for a bit, then flew off. It’s amazing to think they evolved to have heads with such insulation and shock absorbers as it was freakin’ loud. Head banging is bad for your health.
My wife Debbie is very educational, she let me know that the Great Spotted woodpeckers are the ones that hollow out trees to make nests. The other major British woodpecker species, the Green Woodpecker, aren’t really big on the pecking side of things.
You can hear them more than you see them, they have a laughing like call, which is what Professor Yaffle’s laugh was based on in Bagpuss. So that’s one mystery solved. Professor Yaffle is a Green Woodpecker… not a Great Spotted. And a quick google search shows that “Yaffle” is also a lesser known name for the bird in some areas of the UK. So there you go.
Although normally shy, in the breeding season (now), Green Woodpeckers can get surprisingly bold. I saw two of them displaying to each other, fluffing out their wings and swaying their heads at each other. They ignored me as I watched them. It was really fascinating.
Other recent sightings / news -
Buzzard
Within Southern England, this is quite a big bird of prey. We heard it first, it has a cat like call, it loped away with its big wings pushing it through the air. We’d probably disturbed its feast.
Red Kite
These beautiful birds are not endangered anymore. Once they were a common site, even in London where they’d eat carrion. They’d been pushed to the limits of extinction within the UK. But these distinctive birds with their forked tails are now pushing into the South East again. We see them riding the thermals, circling up high with their distinctive forked tails. They do manoeuvre like kites.
Skylark
Debbie pointed out our first Skylark sighting on 2011, somehow it can fly and sing at the same time. It seems to struggle through the air, buffeted this way and that. When there are loads of these birds flying and singing, it’s pretty noisy.
Kingfisher
Deb has seen them… I haven’t yet. Always looking for that flash of blue lightning whenever I cross the River Flit.
Deer
Muntjacs are the most common species in the two moors and the woods, but so skilled at hiding, you rarely get to see them. Escaped from a private collection (non native, from China), these small deer, with their unusual tusks are now all over Beds and Herts. I couldn’t believe reading a news article where dog owners complained about their pets being gored by these tiny animals. They should be under control when visiting the nature reserve… and all they were doing is defending themselves and their young.
Otters
Most exciting (if you’re into this sort of thing!) is that otters have been seen in the river Flit. We’ve not seen any yet… one can but hope!
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Childhood chocolate
Funerals are time of reflection, respect, sadness and celebration of a hopefully full life.
This blog is concentrating on the reflection element, those places your mind takes you to when you are thinking about the times you’ve spent with the recently departed.
I’d known “Auntie” Ifigenia or Fiona all my life, the latter name chosen to make it simpler for non-Greeks to pronounce. She was part of the Cypriot generation who came to North London to work in the 1950s and 60s.
Every Saturday, she’d do her weekly shop and then pop into our house for our coffee. As a small kid I really looked forward to her visits. This was the one day of the week I could eat chocolate. It was a kit-kat, a two finger kit-kat. Without fail, she’d bring it to me, I’d politely say thankyou and then go and hide in some corner, where I would savour every bite, I remembered the feeling of emptiness and disappointment the times she couldn’t make it.
It’s strange to think that everything is a commodity now, so accessible. Yet chocolate was a luxury, is a luxury. For working class families in the seventies it wasn’t something that was easily accessible or necessarily affordable. I used to think things like “When I grow up… I’ll eat crisps and chocolate every day” it seemed decadent and regal to me, a real step up from where I was. (as well as wanting to be an astronaut – a chocolate/crisps eating one clearly).
It’s only a small, funny little memory. But it seemed important to capture it. A way of saying thank you to a lovely lady.
This blog is concentrating on the reflection element, those places your mind takes you to when you are thinking about the times you’ve spent with the recently departed.
I’d known “Auntie” Ifigenia or Fiona all my life, the latter name chosen to make it simpler for non-Greeks to pronounce. She was part of the Cypriot generation who came to North London to work in the 1950s and 60s.
Every Saturday, she’d do her weekly shop and then pop into our house for our coffee. As a small kid I really looked forward to her visits. This was the one day of the week I could eat chocolate. It was a kit-kat, a two finger kit-kat. Without fail, she’d bring it to me, I’d politely say thankyou and then go and hide in some corner, where I would savour every bite, I remembered the feeling of emptiness and disappointment the times she couldn’t make it.
It’s strange to think that everything is a commodity now, so accessible. Yet chocolate was a luxury, is a luxury. For working class families in the seventies it wasn’t something that was easily accessible or necessarily affordable. I used to think things like “When I grow up… I’ll eat crisps and chocolate every day” it seemed decadent and regal to me, a real step up from where I was. (as well as wanting to be an astronaut – a chocolate/crisps eating one clearly).
It’s only a small, funny little memory. But it seemed important to capture it. A way of saying thank you to a lovely lady.
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