More Remembering.

For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years contemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Binyon

 

 

 

Remember re-bloody-member.

I HATE fireworks.  I’ve never particularly liked loud bangs, standing around in the cold or the idea that millions of pounds go up in smoke every year.  I also refuse to believe that little packages of gunpowder which can potentially kill or maim should be on sale to the general public. These days, however, what upsets me most is the way they make my pets behave.  Penny, our dog, trembles like a drunk the morning after the night before virtually every evening from mid October to Guy  Fawkes Night, and we’ve had, two years in a row, our usually clean cat deciding that there’s NO way he can go outside to the loo.  As I write this, The Bloke is cleaning up after the cat, there are lights in the sky, pops, squeals and bangs every few minutes and the marshmallows I dipped in chocolate are sitting heavy in my stomach making me feel rather sick.  What’s the Bonfire Night equivalent of ‘Bah Humbug’?

Pembrokeshire

We returned from a week in Pembrokeshire yesterday.  We stayed in the caravan at Little Dumpledale Farm which is between Haverfordwest and Pembroke.  The proprietors are Carol and Trevor, and they are just about the best hosts one could hope for on a self catering holiday; knowledgeable about the area, enthusiastic and friendly.  They are also animal lovers and share their home with a large number (is it 7, Carol?) of dogs, mostly sighthounds.  The leader of the pack is the handsome Waljan, a 7/8 deerhound. Because of their own dogs, Carol and Trevor make visitors’ dogs extremely welcome at Dumpledale, and our lurcher, Penny, adores it there.

Pembrokeshire is a very beautiful county. The coastline is rugged and characterised by many little bays and coves; it’s a place crying out for exploration.  The seaside town of Tenby is a popular destination but other places such as the tiny city of  Saint David’s, with its magnificent cathedral; and Pembroke itself, with its quirky shops and its castle are also worth visiting.  We decided to make this holiday one where we visited many places, and managed to fit in two or three on most days.  Despite how much we packed in, we never once felt rushed, harassed or stressed; driving from place to place, even when the roads are long and winding, is a pleasure in Pembrokeshire.

I may come back to this blog entry at a later date and add some more detail about the places we visited, but in the meantime you might like to have a look at my holiday snaps!

Click image for more photos.

Plenty to be thankful for.

It’s been a hard week.  Actually, it’s been a hard six weeks; the school I work at is in an Ofsted category and we’re being very closely scrutinised by the local authority.  We also have an impending HMI visit, and the pressure’s really on.  I’m getting to work earlier and leaving later than I have ever done before, and it’s plain from colleagues’ responses to various situations that everyone’s feeling stressed: even the most laid-back amongst us have occasionally snapped.  Add to this a broken email system which is making me anxious about communication I’ve missed (I’ve already had a couple of people say ‘have you done…?’ and I’ve known nothing about it) and which shows no sign of being fixed.

But, I have to look on the bright side.  I have absolutely brilliant classes this year.  Not all of them are the world’s brightest sparks, but they are willing to have a go.  They are, for the most part, co-operative and pleasant.  When I’ve had to tell them off about something no grudges have been held, and we’ve had fresh starts in the following lesson.

Also, I work with AMAZING people.  Truly talented teachers, who are passionate about their subject and wholly dedicated to the kids.  I am proud to belong to the department I work with. Some of them are also very dear friends, and people who’ll step up to help out when needed; not only in a work sense either, as has been proved this week.

My home life is great.  The Bloke has accepted that I’m giving an extra few percent at work and has picked up the baton here.  He’s proving to be more than adequate in the kitchen and he’s definitely doing what my Mom asked him to do; he’s looking after me.

Add to that the fact that the weather’s lovely.  It’s cold, and we’ve had some wet days, but outside there’s that gorgeous spicy Autumn smell and when we were out with the dog today the sun was warm.  The light quality is beautiful and you can’t fail to feel a sense of well-being when you stop and take it all in.

On top of all that, I have five more get-ups and then I’m on holiday for a week; we’re off to beautiful Pembrokeshire and I’m excited about it. I’ll take some work with me, but that’s okay because I’ll be able to do it in a gorgeous environment, and when I’ve finished that I have a huge pile of new books to read. What more could I ask for? If I don’t have plenty to be thankful for, I don’t know who has!

Autumn Leaves.

What a joy.  I love Autumn; I love the colours, the chill in the air, soups and hot potatoes and the promise of a half term holiday.  And tonight, I recalled the autumns of my childhood.

Or something like that – I think those are the words. It’s been 30+ years since infant school, and the memory fades.

I wanted to get an Autumnal shot like this but didn’t really fancy getting down on my belly for it – not a pretty sight, my backside up in the air in the woods, I thought I might scare off the wildlife. But tonight I thought ‘to hell with it; I CAN get down on the ground and I stand a fairly good chance of getting back up again; I’m hefty, but I’m fit enough to do that, even if I do feel like an old crock sometimes.’

It’s too easy to take good health for granted, and there are planty of those who don’t have the opportunity.

World Arthritis Day has been celebrated 1996 by ARI (Arthritis Rheumatism International) first. It is being celebrated each year on October 12th.

Now, people with arthritis from around the world join together to make their voices heard on this day. You can join in and raise this voice also!

The aims of World Arthritis Day are:

To raise awareness of arthritis in all its forms among the medical community, people with arthritis and the general public
To influence public policy by making decision-makers aware of the burden of arthritis and the steps which can be taken to ease it
To ensure all people with arthritis and their caregivers are aware of the vast support network available to them.
More info here
www.worldarthritisday.org/eular.php
Arthritis cant kill you but it can take your life..

For Carey x

It’s all about yew.

Update on last week’s entry.  It’s taken till today for me to go and photograph the yew tree at Sarehole, but here it is:

Easy Like Sunday Morning.

I am a self-confessed lazy sod, and it’s not unusual for me to sleep right through Sunday morning or to spend it slumming around in my pyjamas, having a bath in the afternoon and getting straight into clean nightwear.  However, this week The Bloke (who is one of those weird ‘morning people’) and I had planned to go walking, to pick up a hobby we’ve both enjoyed in the past but have allowed to lapse.  We lay in bed at about half seven this morning planning where we’d go; I had certain criteria to fulfil: three and a half miles, flat, woodland and a yew tree.  We settled on a walk that begins only a mile or two from home; part of the ‘Tolkien Trail’ which starts at Sarehole Mill in Hall Green, near where the author lived as a boy.

The light was beautiful as we started our walk; dappled autumn sunlight, glare diffused by trees and sunflare reflecting off water.  The yew tree was unfortunately inaccessible as the museum there doesn’t open till mid-day, but that gives me a good excuse for going back in the week.  I could see that the tree has masses of berries and it will produce a fabulous image I’m sure.

The walk took us along a wooded path, across the River Cole, then through The Dingles, where there are some fabulous Tolkien-inspired sculptures and up to Trittiford Millpool Park.  There are hundreds of Canadian geese at the pool at the moment but the park was peaceful and somehow looked better than it sometimes does.  The grass has been tidied up, so it is neater, but I put the improvement in ambiance down to the sunshine.

We did a circuit of the pool and returned the way we had come although the return journey takes in the opposite side of The Dingles.   As we left to return home, I told the Bloke to remind me how much I’d enjoyed Sunday morning, and gave him permission to discourage me from being such a slob next week.

Contraband Cup-cakes.

Last night I did the grocery shopping.  I did not purchase baking ingredients.  I did not purchase baking ingredients as I had forbidden all forms of baking in my kitchen this week – I MUST lose some weight.

Today, The Bloke made a cup of tea.  The Bloke made a cup of tea so we wanted cake.  I went to the corner shop but they had only the kind of cardboard, crummy cakes that are supposed to stay fresh for months but never actually taste fresh, so I bought (overpriced) baking ingredients instead.  Within 40 minutes, we had cake.  So much for willpower.

Anyway, I’m going to try the ‘everything in moderation’ approach this week, and see how it goes.  I can have cake that way, can’t I?

Macmillan

Fifteen years ago or thereabouts, my Mom found a lump in her breast.  Tests showed that the lump itself was nothing to worry about, but there were breast cancer cells in her lymph nodes.  It took several months for the tiny cancer to grow into something big enough to be detected, then Mom went through the lumpectomy, radiotherapy and chemotherapy which to all intents and purposes cured her.  It was an awful time for her and for all of us, but she took great comfort from the kindness and care of the Macmillan Team.  Mom’s story is not one I want to tell here in any more detail, at least not now, but I do want to thank those people again for everything they did. Sadly, having fought the cancer she died of a stroke, but when I have the opportunity to raise money for Macmillan I do it in her memory, and in honour of all those other women who have battled this awful disease including my cousin whose treatment has been within the last year.

If you feel like donating, you can do so here. Thank you x

Church and stuff

Hmmm… controversial?  Some of the things I say here may be, but I don’t intend to offend or upset.  This is a rambling in the truest sense; I’m starting without knowing exactly where it’s going.

Background first.  I was, like many, Christened when I was a baby.  My parents weren’t regular Church-goers but it was important to them that I took this rite of passage, and besides, they intended me to go to the local Church school, because it was the best, in their opinion, in the area.  This came to pass and I spent four happy years at St James The Great C of E Junior School, attending Church most Sundays and going on to become a Sunday School leader.  I liked the Vicar, Father Whelan, and he liked kids; his services reflected that and youngsters were made welcome.  I attended confirmation classes and took Holy Communion in what was in many ways a traditional Church, with many of the rituals that my Roman Catholic friends think belong to them and them alone. I believed, because I’d been told this, that the Church was not the building we worshipped in, but the people who went there to share in worship.  I felt special.

By the time I reached secondary school church-going was a habit, and if I’m honest, it was routine rather than belief that kept me going.  The ethos of the services was changing and Father Whelan moved on, and my visits became less and less regular as I discovered boys and makeup and shoes and alcohol.  If I was an important member of the Church, why was I ignored, not even worth a passing ‘hello’, by the older people I’d  worshipped alongside for the last six or seven years?  Why didn’t I have a role any more?  By the time I left secondary education, I think I’d pretty much stopped attending altogether.

At this time, I read a lot.  I read things which made me question the church and its attitudes.  I particularly questioned its attitude to me as a young woman, because while I’d been taught to believe that God loved me,  the Church’s history proved that there were times when women (and other groups of course) had been treated very cruelly in the name of Christianity. I began to feel (as I still do) that the face of Christianity in Britain was one with a significant amount of egg on; I felt embarrassed that beliefs much older than Christianity were being passed off as the teachings of Jesus and for me the rituals that were part of my life lost their significance when I realised how pagan ceremonies had been manipulated to fit what was by comparison the ‘new’ religion.  I could also see by looking at the news (Ireland, The Gulf, etc) that religion was the cause of much suffering, and I could not reconcile the beliefs of any crusading Christian with my understanding that all gods are in essence the same, only the names are changed.

Over the last five years I’ve described myself as an ‘interested sceptic’.  I’m fascinated by what makes people believe and I’m intrigued by religion.  I believe that a person can have morals without following a religion, and I don’t believe any loving, forgiving god would punish a person who’d lived a ‘good’ life because they had not followed a traditional belief system.  I have however felt slightly envious of the faith that some people have; it must be a remarkable comfort.

I think I have come to realise that it’s not God I don’t believe in, it’s religion.  Father Whelan, the vicar of my childhood at St James, told my mom, when she fretted about being busy on a Sunday and not attending worship, that if God wanted her, he knew to find her in her kitchen. That stayed with me.  I also believe in Jesus.  I believe he existed, that he was a teacher of remarkable skill, and that he was a loving and compassionate man whose example we should follow. Whether he was the Messiah, the promised Saviour, I don’t know, but I am confused as to how his tenet of forgiveness and patience can be in keeping of the angry God of the Old Testament.

Today, I attended the Christening of my friend Julie’s second child.  Julie would not mind me saying that she has had her share of troubles over the last few years, and she’s as taunted by demons as any Christian prophet doing penance in the desert, but today, God was with her and with her family. She was smiling and happy, and her little family unit was demonstrably a tight and loving one.   Jesus, my Jesus, the one I believe in, would have approved, and would have been proud of her strength.

He would also, I am sure, have approved of the service at the Church of Digbeth-in-the-Field, where we were made so welcome, and made to feel so comfortable.  The hymns were uplifting and greetings sincere.  The sermon didn’t beat around the bush; reflecting on the reading from Amos the Reverend reminded us that worship was futile if we didn’t live every day in the way Jesus wanted us to, and that being in Church for appearance sake or out of a sense of duty was not worthwhile.  But for the first time in about twenty years I shared in Holy Communion and felt as if I could, if I wanted to, be part of the community there.  While I consider whether that is what I want, I intend to try to be a little more patient and a little more forgiving.  Whatever the outcome, that can’t do any harm.