Yesterday did not go to plan, our proposed destination was packed with holiday makers and festival goers squeezing the last moments out of the school Easter Holidays.
Luckily a chance conversation with a patient earlier in the week took us to a nearby beach that was much quieter.But also deeply surreal as the sea had turned the colour of red wine and was stormily bubbling like a cauldren. An earlier clifffall had turned the sea into a mass of red water with pink surf. If staring out to sea is mesmeric at the best of times then yesterday it was 10 times more spellbinding.
Nothing felt quite as it should. Funny how a colour change was quite so discombobulating. Especially when the sun was shining brightly.
It was however freezing. Even water like wine could not keep us long on the beach but even the Otter river estuary kept up the other worldliness. Particularly the remnants of old Lime Kilns tumbling into or being isolated by the flow of the river.
Possibly the most bonkers tulips we have ever grown. A squirming and outrageous cousin to the prim creatures of my still life studies.
In a week where Spring has tentatively sprung these tulips have been slow to reveal their quirk.
But every phase has kept me interested. I realise these tulips would not be to everyone’s taste but I love their unpredictability and resilience. They have survived the wettest winter on record on Stonehouse Peninsular. They are slightly Rhubarbian in colour which also pleases me. In a fantasy planting scheme they could peek out through early rhubarb leaves.
Not in their current location however as the Parrot Tulips are growing in a prime spot on our street for larger dogs to wee on them. These are strictly look but don’t touch blooms.
The blog I should have written yesterday. I have been an urban bad person, driving 24mph in a 20mph zone. Unknowingly until a brown letter dropped through my door. £100 fine and either mandatory attendance at a Speed Awareness Course or 2 points on my licence.
I accepted the course either on-line or in person. On-line bookings were not being accepted so I opted to attend a city hotel 5 miles away. The booking that appeared when I clicked Plymouth, was a remote golf club in Launceston, a small Cornish town more than an hour away.
And then the chicken story of yesterday got in the way. The ear worm of The Janner Song became my in car entertainment as I drove through miles of beautiful Cornish Countryside in glorious sunshine.
West Country accents shift and change as the geography of Devon and Cornwall change.
As I sat in the front of the classroom I could easily pick up the distinctive Plymouth accent from quite a few course attenders who, like me had been relocated ” down Cornwall”
Every time a “Proper Job” Plymothian spoke my head played a few seconds of the Janner Song.
Well, in England’s South West is the
county that’s best,
full of rolling green hills and a coast
that’s been blessed.
And inside of the Sound lie the three
Plymouth towns,
where everyone’s known as a Janner.
Janners, Janners,
down in Plymouth we’re all known as
Janners.
And our own footballteam Plymouth Argyle
supreme
are the finest this beautiful county has
seen.
Every player of every nationality,
when they pull the green they’re all
Janners.
Janners, Janners,
down in Plymouth we’re all known as
Janners.
So, there was our song, we didn’t keep you
too long,
now you all know just one word of
West-Country slang.
And while there’s meat on me bones, I hope
I’ll always be known
as a typical Plymouth grown Janner.
Janners, Janners,
down in Plymouth we’re all known as
Janners.
Janners, Janners,
down in Plymouth we’re all known as
Janners.
The Janner Song by the Sensational Baret Brothers.
I blame the chickens.
There was an irony to attending a speed awareness course in deepest Cornwall when, for many of us, our misdeeds took place within Jannerland City Limits.
These were two of the roads I drove down to get home.
Not a chance of reoffending.
Cornwall Road on the South Bank of the Thames, London
Yesterday’s blog slipped off my schedule almost as my fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Lola had been let into the yard, the sun was out, and my neighbour was clambering up a ladder in the sunshine. In that wrinkle in time the blog was lost.
He, my neighbour, asked me to unlock our back gate as one of his chickens was in my yard. At that moment, out of sight, but not sound, Lola and the chicken met. Lola had the chicken under a citizens arrest with a very firm grip on its feathered armpit. There was no catching them , the chicken broke free , scuttled into the house and I decided to leave them to their own devices whilst letting our neighbour in the back gate. Another human gave me a better chance of conflict resolution.
Armpit feathers
There was no sight or sound of them.
We searched rooms. Lola appeared calmly on the stairs but no chicken.
A chicken bottom feather.
Just one chicken bottom feather laying on the stairs.
I thought I could hear a fluttery feather settling sound coming from the kitchen. Janner the chicken had escaped the jaws of Lola and returned downstairs and was roosting inside a dark bag that had been left on the floor.
Both chicken and dog had a winning look in their different locations. The chicken, victorious, by settling in enemy territory. Lola,perhaps, because she had driven the chicken downstairs and plucked a feather out of Janners* enormous bottom.
Chicken and neighbour went home. Lola went into overdrive. Every moment of the chickens journey through our house relived by sniffing and tracking every glorious moment of her hunting frenzy.
*I have no idea where a Janners apostrophe goes.
Two chickens, one named Argyle to honour the local football team. The other called Janner or Janners the collective name of Plymouth Argyle supporters. Or indeed Plymothians in general.
And that my friends is how the day started and I was given my earworm for the day.
Which leads nicely into the intended blog of the day.
We tapped out of Easter 2026 with an Easter Egg hunt. Sharp, bright sunlight and winter clothes against the biting winds.
A good time was had by all , our cheeks rosy from wind burn and sunshine.
I was protected from the wind by one of my very lucky accidental purchases at an airport. Singapore is a very hot country and I was transferring to the early summer in Sydney . However a lunchtime snack had blobbed Chilli sauce on my clean travelling t-shirt. Not wishing to hug friends with a chilli stained t-shirt in Sydney. I went to an airport shop in the hope of finding a cheap replacement. My eye for a bargain was caught by a most unexpected garment. A cotton and cashmere blend long sleeve T-shirt. Very seriously reduced.
Now I have no need for any more thermal garments but the t-shirt felt incredibly soft and aircraft can get chilly. So why wouldn’t I ? I could hug on arrival with no chilli shame.
Which brings me back to the Easter Egg hunt. It turns out that in a colder than average April exactly what I needed was a cotton and cashmere blend T-shirt. What puzzles me is why anyone would ever need such a thing in Singapore but maybe that was why it was a bargain.
Easter weekend has been a mish mash of weather. Sometimes very greige other times bright. Storm force winds, heavy rain and other times bitterly cold bright sunshine. As people with no religious bones Easter still has traditions, some linked to Pagan times and others to Christian Traditions. Four days of doing what we fancy really.
A highlight was the sudden blooming of Cherry Trees in the city.
Sun setting through Cherry Trees
Another was some glorious rust and graffiti in bright sunlight.
The closest we got to eating Lamb was to visit a small local harbour called Mutton Cove.
Mutton Cove.
I have no idea when or how it got its name but I think it is safe to assume that Sheep were involved.
The first Ice Cream of the season was enjoyed in the comfort of our car.
Right now we are prepping for an Easter Egg hunt. Like all events this weekend, warm coats will be required.
So much tied up in overthinking for those of us who really dislike plastic flowers.
” Am I being snobby”
” They are the things of horrific thoughts”
” If they were put on my grave I would be turning in it for eternity”
I can only really take a deep dive into my own thoughts.
I am almost certainly judgemental and snobby about plastic flowers. While absolutely accepting that in some circumstances artificial plants have their place.
Instagram is responsible for a lot of grim plastic fakery.
My response to plastic flowers is somewhat physical . Seeing them, particularly, if they are faded or dusty gives me the shivers. In the same way chalk squeaked on a blackboard used to.
Love is a beautiful pebble.Dappled with shade.
Putting them on graves seems more disrespectful than nothing at all. A simple beautiful pebble* shows so much more thought.
Natural flowers are not a prickly subject.
And just like that another rant is born. Whoever decided that painting pebbles with Acrylic paint was a sustainable and environmentally acceptable art form, especially for children. Adults should know better. Acrylic paint is plastic, yes it will wear off over time. But that paint has to go somewhere as a microplastic.
Pebble ‘painted’ by dappled shade.
Ranting over, I hope. Although that depends on how many more plastic flower haters there are out there this Easter, or indeed those who loathe a painted pebble.
Happy Easter
Chocolate eggs on the other hand are an entirely acceptable form of fakery. I am both snobby and shallow.
As long as I can remember I have been fascinated by religious buildings and religious art. Never really the subject matter but the endeavour and embellishment. The colour palates and at times the curious juxtapositions of immense wealth and poverty just inches apart*. Our Easter Bob at Tranquility Bay was blessed by the greigiest day you could imagine.
Bobbers Bobbing on Good Friday
The conversation though was as colourful and wide ranging as ever. Dog harnesses to Kylie Minogues Nipple covers were touched on in some depth whilst clothes were fumbled on and hot drinks revived chilly women.
The day was certainly greige but the bobbing occasion was not so I borrowed the colours and drama of classical religious paintings to illustrate Tranquility Bay at Easter.
I used a variety of image manipulation Apps and a little bit of analogue Medical Imaging know-how to create our little swimming bay in Easter Colours,when in real life she was in a proper greige sulk.
A line of bobbers stretched out from shore to buoy.
Beyond this point is a rant, please feel free to leave the blog early if a rant might offend.
Plastic flowers in churches or indeed on graves are the Devils work. Especially the unnatural colour ones that always fade to a murky mauve colour and attract grubby dust. Nobody ever needs to be remembered by a plastic flower.
There is a point to my plastic flower rant and Tranquility Bay.
Lots of people have their ashes scattered here. Lots of friends and family like to overlook the bay, some like to toss flowers in the water all lovely things to do. But sometimes the Devil does his work in the hands of the foolish. Tossing plastic flowers in the sea is about as stupid as it gets.
Blogging and pondering with the occasional rant are deeply satisfying when I am forced to research. Today I learned the delightful phrase ‘aesthetic lifespan’. Possibly the only joy a plastic flower has ever bought me.
I cannot wait to use that one in conversation…
My apologies, the inner bitch was out and proud this morning.
A month ago the Tennis Club gardeners saved an exhausted Queen Bee. The last month has not been particularly kind to her as Spring has not quite hit the accelerator pedal with any reliability.
Yesterday might just have tipped the balance. A day of almost constant sunshine.
Pollen was popping out all over.
I was out and about in the sunshine a lot yesterday. The Tennis Club was buzzing with builders and allotment holders. But as yet no more buzzy bees.
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