good morning

There are hollyhocks outside the window, old and straggley but stubborn geraniums on the window sill, and cape violets on the table. With the sun pouring in, it is a cheering sight first thing in the morning.
It is also my daughter's birthday.

essex girls

Today we went over to Essex to put my Rosie Ladies in an exhibition there. I did wonder what kind of reception they would get, but the organiser seemed quite cheery about them, so I hope they will enjoy their stay.
Spent several hours in the afternoon fighting bureaucracy trying to find out how to get grandson a British passport to add to his American one, finally it seems the wheels may have started turning, but slowly, very slowly.

words not pics

It is pleasing to finally get some comments, I was struggling so much with the dreaded dongle when we were away, everything was so s-lo-w, but no-one was taking any notice anyway, a lonely voice on the moors crying Cathy..............
I don't really have the oomph to summon up more words now we are home about the holiday, so it was apposite that the videos downloaded easily and said it all much better than i could.
Not my technical expertise I confess, just RP's little tiny digital camera, push the video button and it all happens.
Ma is rarely excited by what i shove under her nose to admire, but when I sent her the videos she was entranced, and wants the Strid on a cassette loop so she can listen to it while going to sleep.
I could have done with it last night as yet again i couldn't sleep till about 4am. I don't know if it is a side effect of the statins, or just my pattern migraine trying to shove thru but it is intensely irritating. I used to find the radio sent me to sleep, but no more. So i tried the new Peter James book "Dead Tomorrow that M exchanged with me yesterday. In the end I had to get up and remove it from the bedroom, it is So Miserable, I didn't want to be infected any more. It was like he had chosen his Issues and then written the most negative, most distressing version he could, [organ transplants], it's a murder story, you can work out the plot as it was cliched from beginning to end,- which I didn't bother to reach.
I don't think he likes women either, do you ever get that feeling about an author? I also started Fay Weldon's Decameron [modern interpretation] so far I don't think she likes women much these days either.

Puffa train

The Strid

winning cups

Maybe this Spring should be remembered as Buttercup Spring, as they are so fine and so golden but most of all so prolific.
I have just taken Hattie the dog for her evening walk, and as we are a few hundred miles further North, the buttercups are still shining in great carpets across the fields.
We motored up into the Yorkshire Dales today, a fairly peaceful drive as most people are back at work. In an unexpected bolt of spontaneity [plans tend to get sticked to when RP is behind the wheel] we stopped off at the Strid. He remembered the name from a boy scout trip when he was about 11, so we turned round and explored.
It was the River Wharf where it crashes thru the limestone rocks, creating "white water" amongst the gorgeous golden brown tumbling peaty waters.
RP remembers it as much deeper and wilder, either he was more impressionable, or it was a different time of year, but it was still beautiful. Notices claimed it was 30' deep as it crashed through narrow gaps that one would think would be fun to jump. However the notices were in blood red and warned the Strid had taken lives before now, so we desisted.
We stopped for lunch at a pub that had a Crock barn [impressive beams] and a basket of little terry towelling flannels instead of paper towels, so it was very posh. However Yorkshire folk, well the ones on public show anyway, don't do posh, so it was friendly and welcoming.
As opposed to the last lunch where they wouldn't let Hatters in and had Victorian naked ladies in the loo. Creepy somehow.
The Crock barn had photos of female role models, and altho they included one shot of the naked calendar ladies, who live near by apparently, it somehow had a much more celebratory feel.
We drove back on the back roads, presumably mostly used by thin rabbits, a bit scary when meeting Landrovers head on.
I am making my rusty dyed calico vessels [with nails] and despairing of ever completing the Arches, and listening to success in the cricket and the tennis, so buttercups all round.

many pies - no pics

It is mind bendingly frustrating trying to up or is it download pics of the moors via this dongle thing. it just refuses to pick up enough revs whether I am within the metre thick walls of this cottage. or sitting in the sunshine outside in the little back yard. Fresh air means nothing to radio? waves it seems.
So you will have to take my word for it that it is sunny and gorgeous and the moors are glowing so brightly the grass is almost fluorescent.
Couple of nights ago Sheffield almost sunk to meet Atlantis in the down pour [that is definitely a down load] but we seem to be in some kind of "water shed" which i can remember Mr Davies my geography teacher rattling on about. being welsh he knew about rain, I think it rains first on Wales then takes deep breath, skids over what ever is in between and dumps the next lot on.......Sheffield.
We have all three walked, climbed and clambered to the top of the fells, and yesterday we drove over to lancashire, crossing Keighly Moor on a lovely twisty road defended from the sheep and cattle by rickety old dry stone walls. i did ask for pate for lunch, but the pub had none so I opted for black pudding fritters. Oh my lord, thank goodness for statins. I hope. they were delicious. Yorkshire food does come on the hearty side, very comforting after scrabbling down to refuel with clicking knee and aching back.
Not to exaggerate tho as I have also caught young Andy Murray winning thru during my afternoon recuperation on the big green couch.
I have just finished Wolf Hall by by Hilary Mantel, 650 pages of sheer pleasure about Thomas Cromwell. Started the Decameron by Fay Weldon, not as much bottom I suspect.
Stitching is fitting in the corners, and not happily as I am stuck and have to have them ready to show in3 weeks.
I have given up on Big Brother, a sad loss but I can't summon up any interest in the young things this year.

Stratford

Here is the stadium, hope for the future. I feel like I am building it myself this dongle thing is so slow.

o

Went up to the right Royal Academy to see the Summer Show last week. These ladles are the courtyard contribution, not even very good for sliding or climbing. Inside lots of pedestrian pompous pics by RAs [entitled to a hanging] and then a pile of people's art [grudgingly displayed by the same RAs] piled up the walls of the two smallest rooms. Piles of people too, hot, sweaty and triumphant even if their offering is 15' up the wall, Pims abounds.
It was quite stimulating in some ways, so many versions of the artist's visions, made me feel - well why not just do it, just make all the dreams, see what happens...............no-one else can do it for you. What is the point of not trying. Nothing will be perfect, who dares wins, all that kind of stuff.
Went looking for Tracey Emin's new show but because we are too English to risk asking directions, we got lost and tired and irritable and just made the train home.
From the train you can see the Olympic Stadium, rising from the rubble of Stratford.
Doesn't look very big, but i guess it is when up close.

Goodness knows how big the Olympics will be, vision seems in small supply at the mo.

Haworth

It seems this fandangle dongle thingy will let me write words but draws the line at pictures, or doesn't draw the line................
I am sitting a cough and a spit from where young Charlotte wrote her words and she didn't complain. The cottage here has the obligatory three pictures of her, all neatly framed, available from the Bronte museum up the hill.
The cottage was built in the 1850s - thick walls and surprisingly large rooms so I guess she was scribbling away at about the same time when one of the mill workers moved his family and range in to here.
Being as it has a double, stone framed window at the front, I would think he was a supervisor or some such. I don't know if Jane Eyre was available in the village, I suppose there would have been a Board School but maybe young governesses falling in love with their employers would not have been deemed appropriate for young minds. One or some of the sisters may have helped out at the school, but adolescent females would already be working in the mill, having babies, finding out about real life in some ways that perhaps Charlotte could not.
Walking Hattie the dog up past the church onto the moor is one kind of sensation, the churchyard is dark and forbidding, crammed with tall gravestones that look like a funeral is permanently attended by stony mourners, blackened with age and disapproval.
Being here in the cottage is different. It has been gutted and refurbished in a very New Labour manner. All stripped and mahogany stained wood floors and fake beams, the kitchen walls artexed but painted dark red. A great big dark green leather couch and a fake fireplace under the granite lintel. Very comfortable tho!

home and away

Meetings are strange events. Even the most united families can sometimes find it difficult to sit down round a table and agree ..............on where to go on holiday, what to have for dinner, how much pocket money should be received................... people who grew up together, know each others likes and dislikes, can fall into argument when each individual strives to achieve their aim and more importantly, persuade others to agree.
So it is not surprising when a meeting of twenty plus mature, independent minded women, gathering together once a month with the aim of exhibiting their individual genius can fall into disruption and disarray.
Maybe it is the size of a group that is influential. I sat next to L at the textile group this week, [24 of us] wranglers were in short supply to hog tie the egos clashing on the floor, in the midst of our democratic circle.
Cliques have inevitably formed, and agendas clash. It is not surprising that British politics is in such a mess, if this is an example of co-operation to the greater good. I must admit if women claim they would make a better job of it than the men, this microcosm of agreeing a way forward does not bode well.
Obviously I don't keep my mouth shut either.
L sighed and said when half a dozen of this large group met away from this arena they were so cheering and supportive that she always returned home feeling more positive.
I had to agree. I also am part of a small group, six of us meet fortnightly. Often I wake and grumble, wondering do I want to trundle over and exchange pleasantries with my compatriot stitchers, nothing we say, or do, will change the world, much less each others understandings.
but invariably i drive home again smiling and comforted.
We are off to Yorkshire tomorrow to walk Hattie the dog on the moors [maybe one last time]. The British Summer collapsed two days ago so I am packing wellies and jumpers and a pile of books and stitching. Just like home really.