Many months ago we made a plan to decorate the hallway in the Easter holidays. It is a big hall and I could bore the pants off everyone, talking about it but last night we reached a moment when the ground floor spindles were mostly painted and there was a moment when the stairs looked like a clever optical illusion.
We are replacing Nicotine Cream with a dark grey. The hallway links three floors, so getting nearly to the top of the first set is encouraging. Crouching on the stairs to paint is bone aching work but the call of the sea gave us an hour off yesterday.
Not only were we rewarded with a long cool swim but there were many after swim snacks to fuel the rest of the day’s painting.
Our bones felt very happy after an hour or so away from grey paint. The fiddly painting makes me clench my jaw but there were plenty of bobbers yesterday, to chatter to, which gave me all the jaw relaxing exercise I needed.
There is a lot to ponder, in this picture of warmly wrapped up swimmers. Some of us have been doing this together for two and a half years. What started as therapy for one bobber, who had been given a diagnosis of an immune system disease, quickly became exercise for the Covid years. Our numbers peaked at about fifteen for quite a while and are still under twenty. These occasional group photos link the missing bobbers with the active group of the day. The bobbers themselves link up on all sorts of dry land endeavours. Our lives have been enhanced, in unexpected ways, by this regular dip in cold water. All this for an activity which is officially discouraged.
Alliteration is everywhere in Social Media, blog writing, marketing and life. I believe a little alliteration goes a long way. My heart does not skip a beat at the thought of always having a W thought on a Wednesday or Thursday always being Thrown Back. I know that many people love it as a pattern for creativity. A blog writer that I follow always had a mid-week rest with Wordless Wednesdays. A beautiful or interesting picture is published instead of words. Having said that I only like to use alliteration sparingly, today turns out to be a rare example of a possible alliterative adventure. Wordy Wednesday. But in a twist the illustrations will just be out of my archive and left wordless. And so with all that waffle off we go.
Wordless Wedneday
A school friend and I have a love of all things wordy. Not that we knew that at school because hormones and teenage awkwardness spared us the problem of actually speaking to each other. Despite that we shared geographical proximity, an Oak tree and a friend called Fred.
Wordless Wednesday
Our recent correspondence has included nattering about a Literary Festival, nearish to his home. The Queenscliff Literary Festival. In all respects this festival has become something of a fantasy for me. Particularly because in a lucky past life there were two excellent literary festivals near here that were always fabulous to visit. Port Eliot Literary festival at St Germans and Ways With Words at Dartington. The first closed in 2019 and the latter last year.
Wordless Wednesday
Queenscliffe has a micro fiction competition open only to Australian citizens. A narrative expressed in only 50 words. Of course I had to have a go, what was the point. None really, but sometimes a gauntlet is thrown down and must be picked up. My International entry, not wanted or required follows.
Spring is definitely asserting itself now. A bright shaft of sunlight caught this blue bowl yesterday.
Ferries to all sorts of places have started their summer services. Great big passenger ferries travelling to France and Spain leave from in front of the house. Although there is a cliff between us and them, we can feel the gentle power of their engines and hear their public announcements. Things that would quietly excite me if I were a passenger.
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I have never actually caught a ferry from here which is why the name of the Ferry terminal was a big surprise to me while writing this blog. I had always assumed that it was just part of the Millbay dock complex. But actually the Ferry terminal is called the St George Terminal.
Not knowing the name of a Ferry port that I walk past every day is not as mad as it seems. From my side,the port is labelled Plymouth Port and it shares gates and staff areas with the Royal Marine Barracks. Like many places in Plymouth the outlook from my home was changed forever during World War II. Currently we overlook a school playing field beyond the field is the rocky outcrop that forms the small cliff that blocks the view of the port.
Before the war I would have looked out on two rows of Georgian houses, and tucked in amongst them a Primary School called St Georges. Further away there was also a Church called St Georges. The school, houses and church were all destroyed by German bombs and incendiary devices. The land was eventually cleared after the war and only the Primary school was rebuilt. It is very weird to think of the carnage that occurred a few steps from my front door. But beyond the rebuilt Primary School the name St Georges is not used in this area at all, so it is a huge surprise to discover the real name of the ferry terminal.
There is a strange tie in with all this and our Easter activity. We are painting our hallway, it is a big job and my task is the bannister and spindles of the staircase. The bannister shows a huge scar where something must have fallen during the bombing. Some of the spindles also show signs of damage and repairs. We will need to do more repairs just to give the staircase a bit more rigidity too. The rest of the house though is as solid as the rock it is built of and on. Luckier than its neighbours.
It is amazing what plaids can be made with some painted spindles. Time spent when I should actually have been painting spindles!
If you could have something named after you, what would it be?
The simple answer is that I have never given the matter much thought as an individual. Another answer would be that if my surname were to be used there would be no point. There was a minor male saint of the same name who has a church named after him in Cornwall and Greece, and within that Cornish churchyard a rare daffodil has been given the same name.
Then there is an actual ancestor, male, who founded an American University and there are towns of the same name. The female diminutive form of my name, Ju, does not really work and I stopped using that name many years ago when working in a predominantly Jewish area. In the early days of my employment I was asked what I would like to be called, when I offered my abbreviated name I was told.
“If we shout that in a crowded room, everyone will come running”
So I adopted the male diminutive, Jules and we have come full circle. No point naming anything after me. A man got there before me.
I am also rather coy about signing my artwork. Coy is not a word I would use to describe a woman who over shares her mundane life in a daily blog. But I have the core of an introvert who wears the big flamboyant cloak of an extrovert. This week will be all about framing and yes, signing artwork. In teeny tiny writing that can barely be seen. I picked up this seasons basic prints yesterday and got a quote for some Giclee prints.
I made a start on framing and signing too.
There are two more paintings to be finished by the end of the month too.
So in answer to the question above, I need nothing named after me. One day I will slip the extroverts cloak and the introvert core will be no more, the autographs will fade and for a while, I will be a memory until those memories fade too and there will be anonymous space for others to fill in whichever way they choose.
A day with no plans started in the pink and then as these days do, it filled in unexpected ways. Chores were done, the winter coats were bagged up and put up in the roof. We moved stuff into the garage in the sunshine, the smell of cooking food and intriguing music wafted from the nearby monthly food market. In winter months the market is held indoors and the sounds and smells don’t reach us. But today the market is out on the green and the smells are too good to miss.
Blue skies and only slightly wet grass made the market a lovely interlude between some very odd jobs. Including admin.
I am 48 hours late for a deadline for an art exhibition. I am not sure where the hours have gone this weekend. I was properly duped by a friend for April fools day. Thinking a friend was in a pickle and without a phone signal I was busy researching for her…
Time when I should have been applying for the art exhibition…
Totally hoodwinked, my hat is off, never have I been so gullible on April 1st. Next year I will be more alert. But for 2023, the joking world is her oyster.
This particular friend has given me a wonderful way to respond to righteous disagreements. So I forgive her and applaud her success
The sort of disagreement where someone has reached an impasse or stalemate in negotiations.
“Oh well” people will often say ” the ball is in their court”
Which suggests that one side has handed the power of resolution to the other side.
Gills’, under the breath, response to that, which I have now used a couple of times in meetings, is-
” Oh yes, but the bat is up my arse”
Immediately grabbing the, hidden, power back in one deft sentence.
Onwards into another week, closer to Spring or Autumn, depending on your hemisphere.
I’m not sure when I last had an actual ticket for anything. Yesterday was no different. We were off to the ballet with an E ticket but we were directed to the box office to collect an actual ticket.
We were off for an afternoon of Contemporary Ballet. With seats as close to the stage as possible. One of the great pleasures of ballet is seeing fit health bodies working at peak performance. We didn’t bother to read reviews, I am pleased about that, as the review above was hardly glowing. My experience was completely different. Peaky Blinders by the Rambert company on a Saturday afternoon, on the first day of April,was a blast of dark energy that will keep me smiling and thinking for weeks.Something almost Pagan, using up the dark forces of winter to leave a blank canvas for Spring. Link below to video.
I was an avid viewer of the TV series and can perfectly see why someone would think the theme and storyline could be translated into Contemporary Dance. I don’t believe it was at all necessary to have seen TV ‘s Peaky Blinders to enjoy Ramberts Peaky Blinders.
I am beginning to wonder if my enjoyment of Contemporary Ballet has completely trumped Classical Ballet.
Just before the Covid years I went to a classical ballet that was in a modern setting. I had no idea of the storyline and was happy to let the dance tell me the story. I broke all my own rules in the interval. Googling fiercely to try and make sense of what I had just seen. I read a synopsis and reviews and along with my gin and tonic I returned for the second half enlightened and encouraged. Enlightenment did not do the trick, the second half was as bleakly opaque as the first. Enlightenment created tiny chunks of understanding but I came away baffled and bemused. I realised I had not for one moment enjoyed the physicality of the dance, not once appreciated peak of perfection musculature.
As someone who studied ballet for 7 years and decidedly believed, for a while, that a five foot four inches, dumpy girl might one day be the Sugar Plum Fairy. I am a little sad that Classical Ballet is losing its allure for me but there is only so much ballet time in a normal humans life. Contemporary is the way to go for me.
Last week when I was working at the museum someone asked me what I “got’ out of being a gallery guide on a quiet day. Sometimes a lot more than I get on a busy day to be honest. The Museum going public are an easy to manage bunch on the whole. Busy days are spent directing people to toilets. Apologising that their favourite exhibit of fifty years ago is no longer on show. Listening to men, it is always men, who are expert on a very very small part of the museums collection and who wish to batter me with their superior knowledge as if we had mutually agreed on an intellectual battle. There are lovely two way conversations with interesting and interested people from all over the world. There are days, to be honest, when any museum, even in these more enlightened times, can feel overwhelmingly male. When the museum is quieter I often return to a collection of artifacts that were collected by a woman explorer. Currently she and one other woman, Elizabeth the First, represent women in a gallery that is dedicated to exploration and exploitation. The men depicted in this gallery strike heroic poses with jutting chins and out of proportion genital areas. Some of them did very very bad things others just stole stuff and brought it back to fill their homes and now museums. Some conquered simply for the challenge of conquering. Many dying while on the task. On quiet days I go and rest my mind with a woman called Gertrude whose collection of objects are not blood stained, stolen or ego boosting. But fairly traded or purchased.
Gertrude Benham was an English explorer and mountaineer who was born in London in 1867. She was the youngest of six children and began climbing mountains as a girl. She went on to climb mountains on almost every continent. Benham was also an intrepid hiker and walked from Valparaiso, Chile, to Buenos Aires, Argentina. She went on to hike across Kenya, and traverse Africa on foot.
Benham always traveled alone or with native guides, spending less than 250 British pounds a year. In 1916, she was named a fellow of the Royal Geographic Society. Throughout her life, she climbed more than 300 mountains. Notably, she was the first woman to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. Truda Peaks, one of the summits of Mount Rogers in Glacier National Park, in the Selkirk Mountains of British Columbia, Canada, is named in her honour.
She was the first woman to climb Mount Kilimanjaro.
She was also the first woman to climb the Matterhorn.
She traveled to over 60 countries and climbed mountains on almost every continent.
She was a prolific writer and artist, and her work is still admired today.
She was a pioneer in the field of mountaineering and exploration, and her accomplishments are truly inspiring.
I love her because she is unknown, the display could all be carefully folded and stored in a trunk. I realise there is much more in store. She had a good eye. She bought what she liked.
Her textile and craft purchases are inspirational and suggest that her home would have been both eclectic and welcoming. I have friends, mostly artists, whose homes could easily absorb some of Gertrudes collection and it would look contemporary and fabulous.
I love visiting Gertude because she makes me think.
I really won’t bore you all with my Gertrude inspired thoughts but here is one to ponder. The peak that has been named in her honour. In the Selkirk Mountains of Glacier National Park is called Truda Peak. An honour absolutely, but anonymising too. A diminutive firm of her first name. Had she been a man, who had achieved so much, the peak would almost certainly be named Benham Peak. There would be drawings of her standing astride pointy rocks. A steely look in her eye and some artistic licence around the knicker area suggesting a cavernous vulva. Instead and far more interestingly, we have a delightful black and white photograph of a fascinating woman’s face.
For your pleasure. Just give some thought to this.
The Cook Islands become Jim Islands.
United States of America becomes the United States of Rigo
Bobbing has not had many mentions in March. Today was my third dip of the month and the most photogenic by a very long way. The sea temperature has risen a bit to 9.4 after last week’s 8 degrees. Just a brisk there and back in the bay this morning followed by some excellent quality chatting and a Tim Hortons coffee to warm me up. I think I have cracked swimming year-round without a wet suit. Last year I gave up my wetsuit in April and made myself feel very poorly. I then went back to wearing the wet suit and didn’t get out of it until late May. Anxious not to go down a similar path again, I have cut down on my time in the water but stayed just in a swimsuit since last May. There have been two dippings without the swimsuit and I decided a skinny dip a month is the new target for 2023. These events may not make it into the blog.
The sunshine today is gorgeous, as demonstrated by the plant convalescence corner in our dining room.
I’m not sure these plants will ever move to other places in the house. They exude happiness from every leaf and frond.
Happiness also exuded from the dogs when their afternoon adventure took them to just the other side of the water from home, for a walk, and they got Mount Wise park to themselves and could do chasing and wild running on a grassy hillside, unbothered or interrupted by any other dogs or humans.
Their human companions were not so lively. Our morning swim was fabulous but sometimes swimming in these cold temperatures produces severe lethargy a few hours later. Even caffeine in the afternoon didn’t give us the required fizz to do anything more than a circuit of the park with a few stops to admire the view. It was important to make the most of the day though, the weather forecast for the rest of the week is dire.These blue skies and blue seas are unlikely to be back until April.
This blog is 3 years late and could have been another year in the Procrastination Pile. I had arranged to attend a Daffodil Festival with a friend in 2020. The festival was cancelled in the early weeks of Covid Restrictions and this is the first time it has been held since. The extra year of procrastination could easily have been added to, by my poor choice of clothes yesterday.
As you can see from the header picture things were a bit wet! I had had a perfectly tolerable dog walk without a coat and in Birkenstocks while at home in the morning. The further I drove into the Tamar Valley the wetter it got.
The lanes were running with brown rainwater pouring off the fields. I phoned my friend and suggested a different outing. A snug pub with warm food and no drips.
Her response was to bring me warm socks and wellies and feed me a scone and a cup of coffee.
And with that we were off! Some daffodil varieties were being shown indoors. Definitely an easier environment to appreciate them, were it not for steamed up glasses and rivulets of cold water tracking down my neck.
Daffodils and Pewter in the Great Hall.
I started recording the names of the Daffodils but honestly I think I am going to get into a pickle with that, so these beauties are enigmatically anonymous.
Outside nothing had improved despite making the absolute most of sitting with a scone and coffee. We hadn’t even managed to put the world right.
The outside locations were not overrun with visitors, the cafe on the other hand was heaving with wet humans. There is a point in every adventure when enough is enough, even for a woman in borrowed, vivid, socks and wellies. I love these socks!
Below is an experiment, I don’t know if this QR code will work,but if you can,give it a try.
Readers, it works! The audio clip Seagulls and Sunrise is lovely and tells the history of Daffodils and the Tamar Valley.
We had an accidental weekend of nostalgia. The high point of yesterday was going to see the recently released film Rye Lane. Just about every location had been part of our South London home life. From the very first London Park, Brockwell, where Hugo took his first small, off-the-lead puppy steps in, to Brixton Market where we bought the most amazing fruit and veg, and ate Street Food from around the world. The film cleverly never fully crossed the Thames to the better known and more Iconic north shores. The film was both a rom-com and a love letter to a part of London that, only infrequently, gets a joyful spotlight on its many different faces. I will admit that my eyes stung with a little moistness of the eyes when the film went to places that I had spent time with my family and friends from all over the world. We are now dispersed but South London was where the good times rolled.
Nostalgia of a different sort on Saturday when we caught up with the first race of the Gig Rowing season in Saltash. 85 wooden boats, crewed by 6 rowers and a cox, took part in The Three Rivers Race. I was always on the heavy side for a rower but that is exactly what is needed to keep the back of the gig in the water.
The nostalgia on this occasion took the shape of appreciating that rowing was the only team sport I ever actually loved and thrived in. My eyes stung a little with the memory of fracturing and dislocating my jaw at the back end of this gig when my paddle hit a buoy that was, unusually, made of concrete and did not move in the way that plastic ones do. Unsurprisingly the buoy came out of the encounter better than I did.
These paddles are 13 feet long and weigh just under 6 kg. A quick bang on my chops when paddle and buoy collided silenced me, a bit,for a few days but the race was both continued and lost. The true nature of the injury not realized until the swelling went down many days later.
Sometimes revisiting past pleasures is absolutely the best way to spend a weekend.
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