Sometimes you plan and scheme, you discuss and argue, you adapt and compromise. Sometimes, you’re on the A Team and you get the chance to ‘Love it when the plan comes together’, but not often. That is the way life is. To quote my favourite quote, John Lennon is reported as saying that “Life, is what happens while you are busy making other plans”. Then. Just now and again. Life does something that you couldn’t have planned for even if you had intended to all along. Now, if you are unlucky enough to not be where you need to be in order to be lucky, you will probably be quite upset about it. But then, you could be lucky enough to never find out how unlucky you have been and so not need to sooth your psyche with a glass of wine or a bar of chocolate.
Today, we had just popped to the shops for a few odds and ends. We drove in the gate and parked the car as usual, as we stood by the car scrabbling for the various parcels we had accumulated on our shopping trip, Jackie said “Look at that smoke, something must be on fire. Oh, I think it’s a train!” We both ran to the house and I grabbed the camera and rushed out to where I had a view of the embankment. As you can see, she was right, it was a train.
It’s The Hadrian, LNER A4 Class 4-6-2 No. 60009 “Union of South Africa”, come from Hellifield, through Settle, Ribblehead, Appleby to Carlisle in time for luncheon. Then off to Haltwhistle, Hexam, Durham, Darlington to end up in York.
And they timed it exactly right for our return from shopping. Thanks, Hannibal!
You know that snow? Well, our snow, up here on the edge of England, actually slipped over the eaves and slid down all over Scotland. I know that some places had some snow and some places had quite a lot of snow – and then there were the places that had loads of snow. The wind was just bitterly cold in most places but if you where in one of those places with more snow than we had here, the wind did its best and took the snow and piled it in varying sized heaps for you. I suppose you should have left a note out, telling it where you wanted the snow drifted to.
Personally, well, let me put it this way. You know how, over this last year or so, everyone has become rather grumpy with climate warming overload? And you know how they picked on the Met Office for trying to push the temperatures up? I suppose there is a possibility that someone in the purchasing department there, didn’t realise that there are a hundred and forty four packs in a carton and that snow comes freeze dried (just add water) and then ordered a thousand cartons when they only meant to order a thousand packs.
But it would be easy to think that it wasn’t an accident, wouldn’t it?
The woodpeckers rattle around in the trees of our wood, sending off bursts of high speed Morse code, whenever they find a chunk of wood that has the correct consistency. Apparently they need to tap between ten and forty PPS (pecks per second) to match the resonant frequency of the wood.
Samuel Morse, who gave his name to the Morse, code actually only coded the numbers, as soon as the telegraph became useful Alfred Vail added all the letters. Alfred came up with the really good idea of using the shortest bursts of dots and dashes to represent the most used letters in English. He popped round to the local newspaper and looked at the quantity of each letter amongst the movable type that he found in a type case there. This gave him a good starting point. Endeavour Morse, luckily for him, was purely fictional. He was a master of the sleight of hand necessary to keep his first name hidden from the entire police force and his TV audience.
Both male and females woodpeckers signal with this drumming during the spring and early summer. It is a call or territorial marker. They do chip bits out of tree trunks looking for food, they have a very long sticky tongue that they can use to fish around under the bark looking for insects – but that’s different.
There’s not that many trees in the wood behind our house and this guy is generating his staccato chatter almost all day. I have been trying to get a view of him for weeks.
And today. Snap!
Typically British, the variety of crocus we grow here is not the useful sort. Our crocus is probably poisonous and nor does it contain any saffron. We are good at this sort of thing aren’t we? When ever there is a choice to be made we can be guaranteed to pick the wrong option. We definitely have the wrong type of weather and, if we were to get right down to basics, I’ll bet we live on the wrong kind of island too.
In ancient Egypt, if you woke up one morning and found that someone had half-inched your pyramid, you could burn crocuses and alum together and find out who the nasty little tea-leaf was, even if he had left it parked at the station with no petrol in.
Most of us would be quite happy to attract love into our lives, easily done by planting crocuses in the garden. This is also thought to grant you the occasional vision. Whether the two are interrelated, would have to be discovered by trial and error.
The nice thing about saffron is that it was one spice that Europe actually exported to the orient, quite an achievement. It also bucks the trend in another instance. In spite of it being almost de rigueur for pretty much everything you find that could be remotely healthy, to be rich in vitamin C, saffron is rich in vitamin B2.
The Crocus is a rugged individualist – it’s no wonder he’s the wrong kind, is it?
Everyone knows that all snowflakes are different, no two are identical. Obviously, this can’t be taken literally. All snowflakes haven’t fallen yet so that person who has been saving them as they fall, hasn’t managed to collect them all yet. We don’t have any way of knowing if the one that turns up tomorrow will be exactly the same as that one that came out of the core sample, recently removed from the glacier in the very centre of Antarctica.
What we could do with I suppose, is a pre-paid envelope with each snowflake, with the address of a regional collecting office. Each snowflake could then be popped into its own packet and the packet put in the postbox.
At the regional centre, to avoid the project becoming overly labour intensive, the envelopes would only need to have the date and region code stamped on them. The bar code printed on the back of the envelope would be scanned to register the serial number and then the computer would print out a list of the missing serial numbers from this batch.
This is where we build in community involvement, These lists are then emailed out to a local controller whose job it is to put together teams of pensioners and school children to scour the neighbourhood, collecting up all the remaining snowflakes, taking them to have their serial numbers checked against the master list.
This, I’m sure you can see, is a crucial scientific study. I think I’ll apply for an EU grant.
There is still a handful of snow left in the big sieve in the sky and we are being given a light dusting. I noticed that the dictionary definition of dredge was ‘to sprinkle generously’ and I’m pleased to report that we are not being dredged. When we went out this morning, the wind had dropped – it was still there, but nowhere near as biting as it has been.
The wind has been playing games with the lanes around us. While most of the roads in the area and even their verges, are clear of snow, except for neat piles under the hedges, the little lane that leads to the ‘main’ road and up to the traffic lights, has had snow after snow piled in between the hedges that line it. We did go that way once – and it was quite exciting ploughing through, with the snow scrapping noisily underneath the car as we slid along with a very fetching salsa movement. Luckily it was downhill all the way. We’re going the other way round for the moment.
In case you hadn’t noticed we have a picture of daffodils today. They are starting to dominate the verges and woods so I expect that we will have many more to follow. Talking of sprinkling, there is now a sprinkling of lambs in the fields around, so we might manage a few photos of lambs if daffs get too monotonous.
We don’t often see a thrush in the garden. This guy was a little coy. I noticed his spotted breast and rushed for the camera, he promptly turned his back on me and stayed that way until he flew off. Thrushes and Blackbirds are the same family, it’s just that blackbirds are (mostly) black. The Song Thrush is slightly smaller than it’s cousin the Mistle Thrush. The Mistle Thrush goes out of his way to emphasise this by standing straight and tall. He’s inclined to be aggressive and will protect a holly or other tree with a good supply of berries against all comers. He has a similar song to a blackbird and his habit of often singing from a high perch in stormy weather has earned him the name Storm Cock.
I’m fairly convinced that this is the Song Thrush. He is blackbird size and when I first saw him he was scratting around in the the dead leaves, just the way the blackbird does. I don’t think I’ve heard him sing yet. His song is quite distinctive. He sounds just like a blackbird but whereas the blackbird will take a phrase and treat you to endless variations on the theme, the song thrush repeats each phrase twice – just to make sure you heard it the first time. His alter ego, the throstle, is a corruption of the German for thrush – drossel
Wordsworth in 1798, wrote a poem called The Tables Turned which, showing how little things change, is as valid today as it was then. Just change ‘books’ to ‘computer’ and he says it all.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
This is the fourth verse – go and read it all – it’s worth the words!