From the Wild Wood

Mrs Gladys Slingsby - beloved matriarch

2010-12-15T16:27:00.000-08:00

Oh dear. My last post on this was over a year ago. I notice the mention of a Rosemary plant. Was it that long ago? It is flourishing.

There has been some new activity in the Wild Wood. More Chickens. They joined us a few months ago. Sadly we have not had the opportunity to get to know them very well since the weather has been so appalling and opportunities to sit in the garden fraternizing have been limited. One of our new charges is Mrs Gladys Slingsby. I should tell you how we name our hens. Almost every chicken has had a different name, with the exception of Sandra II, in honour of the original Sandra, one of my first. An honour indeed, for Sandra I was one of the cleverest and most sociable we ever had. Our first lady, stately as a gallion, was Mrs Slocombe. She was a Blue Brahma whose motherly ways and obvious position in the pecking order got her the honorific "Mrs". Since then, certain hens have been enobled thus.

Gladys is not quite ready for the title "Mrs". She came to us six or seven months ago, frightened, just a few months old and with low self esteem. She had come from a flock of dozens of Buff Orpingtons and for some reason they had taken against her and she had been pecked a lot and marginalised. Since then she has blossomed. Gladys is now a plump, fluffy Buff Orpington who has started laying eggs. All the Buffies we have had were talkative and Gladys is no exception. It seems that Buff Orps will give you a running commentary on their day. Tonight, as happens every night, I lowered the door on the hen house and said, "Good Night Chickens". Gladys' said, "Bob, Bob, Bob", even though the rest were fast asleep and she was a bit dozy. Gladys has a passive agressive relationship with us, probably because we have not spent too much time with her or picked her up. When she sees me she runs up and tells me about her day and asks for food but then steps back a few paces when she realises that I am within grabbing reach. She will, however, eat from my hand.


Gladys

These days Gladys has become one of the gang and in many ways is a bit of a leader. She is independent and does not suffer the pecking that she did when she first arrived. That may have something to do with her size - since our other chickens are bantams she tends to look impressively large, especially since Buff Orpingtons are large and fluffy. Gladys is happy and secure in our little world. She is respected by the flock and well, it all turned out nicely for her. My hope is that we shall have the pleasure of her company for some time to come and perhaps she will then become "Mrs Slingsby", beloved matriarch.

This photo was taken in August. Gladys is a lot bigger and a lot fluffier now.

Log on

2009-10-05T15:32:00.000-07:00

I am caught up in the tricky pursuit of sourcing logs. Those of us who embrace the good life and grow our own socks need them for our fancy Scandinavian stoves.

When I first started looking at buying some, I was appalled that top-grade kiln-dried hardwood could cost £90 for a bulk bag. After some research and some haggling, I got a supplier down to £60, and then £50. Still too much. Then my supplier disappeared and I found another one - £60 or £100 for two, delivered. Still too much I thought, and then my neighbour said he could get some for £37.50, delivered. So far, that's the cheapest, though not the best, which are fully dry, cut to size and burn long. At the moment, I eke the wood out with coal. Still, it's cheaper than LPG or Oil, and of course, it's all supposed to be from dead trees and normal forestry operations.

The Chickens are a pain. They are not laying eggs, they sometimes decide to sleep in the trees (very unnatural) and they get stuck in the netting I put up to stop them straying into danger. Still, they are getting used to me and don't run away now.

We planted our first new plant in our new home - a rosemary bush. Living without herbs is like living without salt and pepper.

We went walking along Gullane beach on Sunday in our wellies. The tide was well in and The Ice Cream Van was there, doing a roaring trade in the Sunshine. The para surfers were out, everyone's dogs were there, kids were getting wet and I looked out to sea and felt good. Really good.

(It's somebody else's photo. As usual I did not have a camera with me.)

Changes

2009-09-20T13:27:00.000-07:00

Since the last post on this blog, we have moved, lost many chickens, lost a lot of land (as in gone somewhere that is easier to maintain), and now, gained some fish and some chickens.

It wasn't long before chicken withdrawal set in. And so it was that today we collected four bantams - a black frizzel, two buff rocks and something else, called, Mahalia, Gretchen and Gretel, and Sandra.

The feeling of being "home" has always been a strange one for me. Sometimes I think I shall never be "home" until I return to South Lincolnshire/North Norfolk where my family have lived for generations, at least since the 17th Century.

But, be that as it may, I am here in Scotland and our little house is fine, with it's wood stove and aquarium and the new chickens in the garden. I rubbed some Danish Oil into the pine table in the kitchen, and wondered how long the table will outlive me. I gazed over into the Firth of Forth and saw the calm sea, with the sun glistening on it. The other day, for the first time in about 30 years, I bought a two pairs of pajamas. I am comfortable in them, toasting my feet in front of the fire and listening to the silence of the night. I suppose I am home.

Spring peaks out from under the duvet

2009-04-14T15:31:00.000-07:00

I can see it everywhere now; the green house exhibits tender shoots. The chickens are going broody. The skies are kind to the day's washing and it now has a chance of picking up the fragrance of an outdoor airing.

We planted hydrangeas, goldenrod, tansy, buddleaias, and many others. I fight my battles with ground elder and it clings on to life with such tenacity, it makes one believe it will be the last thing left on this planet when everything else passes.

Today I picked the first mint of the season.

ALL the Flowers of the Spring
Meet to perfume our burying :
These have but their growing prime,
And man does flourish but his time.
Survey our progresse from our birth,
We are set, we grow, we turne to earth.
Courts adieu, and all delights,
All bewitching appetites ;
Sweetest Breath, and clearest eye,
Like perfumes goe out and dye ;
And consequently this is done,
As shadowes wait upon the Sunne.
Vaine the ambition of Kings,
Who seeke by trophies and dead things,
To leave a living name behind,
And weave but nets to catch the wind.

John Webster (c1580 - c1625)

Feverfew

2009-04-06T16:36:00.000-07:00

It grows everywhere in our garden. So far I have not used it medicinally, but I may try rubbing some on my tired hands.

Rescue

2009-04-06T16:30:00.000-07:00

We were rung up by the Scottish SSPCA and asked if we had room for another chicken. How could we refuse? This one is CJ, a Sebright. She is a true bantam - that is to say they don't come any bigger and she is about the size of a dove. It can be a problem at bed time, since there is a daily jockeying for the best bit of the perch, but she is determined and clever. Super...CJ

New additions

2009-03-04T10:55:00.000-08:00

We just got four new chickens. Two Light Sussex and two Wheaten Marans. They don't stay still long enough to get them all.

Stronger Stuff

2009-02-19T08:01:00.000-08:00

The Weasel is reading a wonderful book: The Easdale Doctor - The life and times of Patrick H Gillies.

Patrick's father was something of a local hero. In the dead of night, he set off with a helper in a rowing boat, to attend to the last moments of a dying man who lived on nearby Luing (pronounced Ling). It was November, 1879. Not yet recovered, Hugh Gillies made the dangerous journey with a storm brewing. Hugh worked through the night to ease his patient's last hours. The next morning they rowed back, whereupon Hugh, already weakened by influenza, staggered onto the shore and collapsed. As a result of the hours spent in chilling winds and icy seas, Gillies senior developed pneumonia and later died. He was 44.

The Easdale Doctor was written by Mary Withall, and is published by www.birlinn.co.uk

Slow Down

2009-02-15T07:17:00.000-08:00

This is a special movie for me because the hero is my son, Richard. It is about a walk through England and Wales. He's the one who keeps going.

Slow Down from Thomas Edwards on Vimeo.

2009-02-14T06:14:00.000-08:00

Friends at the back door

2009-02-13T15:21:00.000-08:00

Every morning there is a scurrying and a chuntering and a round of calling for me. Darcy and the girls are always there, always hoping. Did you know, chickens love bananas? In fact, they go bananas for them. Sharon Maran flies at the back door window when she sees me. And promptly biffs herself and has to make an emergency landing. Having a dozen small creatures casually pooing on your doorstep can be frustrating, but I wouldn't change it....for the world.

If of life, you should sicken, go and get yourself a chicken!

Winter Solstice 21st December

2006-12-20T04:51:00.000-08:00

This year the Weasel will dance in the garden at midnight, to celebrate the Winter Solstice.

Donne in sombre mood:

TIS the year's midnight, and it is the day's,
Lucy's, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks ;
The sun is spent, and now his flasks
Send forth light squibs, no constant rays ;
The world's whole sap is sunk

But there is cheer, from Mr Herrick:

"COME, bring with a noise,
My merry, merry boys,
The Christmas log to the firing ;
While my good dame, she
Bids ye all be free ;
And drink to your heart's desiring"

2006-12-18T17:29:00.000-08:00

Just another Chicken Picture.

Sandra, my favourite Hen. She is waiting on the back door step for a piece of cheese.

Just more chickens

2006-12-16T16:48:00.000-08:00

Taken a couple of months ago when the weather was finer.

Nigel (the dark one at the back) was not half his present size.

Le Temps retrouvé

2006-11-27T12:25:00.000-08:00

The door is closed and the fires are kindled. Summer's gone and we await the first frosts of winter, and, a little ray of hope as the Solstice approaches.

2006-06-21T07:07:00.000-07:00

This is the parish church at Tresham, Gloucestershire. See below for an explanation of why it is here!

Midsummer Night

2006-06-21T06:57:00.000-07:00

This is a detail from a signed stone lithograph, entitled Midsummer Night by the Scottish Artist, A S Hartrick. Hartrick was on friendly terms with many of the French Impressionists including Van Gogh and Gauguin, whom he painted. This is from my personal collection. What are these two doing? Is it some kind of ritual? The setting is Tresham Churchyard. I know this because Hartrick lived there for years and I have located a photograph of the building as it is today. It is such a mystical picture, so full of charm and anticipation. (The rendering of Tresham Church is reversed due to the printing technique)

St John's Eve or Midsummer.

2006-06-20T16:35:00.001-07:00

In many places it has been traditional to light a bonfire on St John's eve.

Don't forget to carry Rue in your pocket so as to avoid being led astray by pixies!

Midsummer

2006-06-20T16:31:00.000-07:00

Hush! On this eve there is but a thin veil twixt this world and the next. Tread softly in the garden. Is that the wind on your cheek or did you brush against an elfin wing?

St John's Wort

2006-06-20T16:25:00.000-07:00

St John's wort doth charm all witches away
if gathered at midnight on the saint's holy day
any devils and witches have no power to harm
those that gather the plant for a charm
rub the lintels with that red juicy flower
no thunder nor tempest will then have the power
to hurt or hinder your house; and bind
round your neck a charm of similar kind.

A Good Night

2006-06-20T06:10:00.000-07:00

Close now thine eyes and rest secure ;
Thy soul is safe enough, thy body sure ;
He that loves thee, he that keeps
And guards thee, never slumbers, never sleeps.
The smiling conscience in a sleeping breast
Has only peace, has only rest ;
The music and the mirth of kings
Are all but very discords, when she sings ;
Then close thine eyes and rest secure ;
No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.

Francis Quarles

The Principle of Threes

2006-06-18T14:54:00.000-07:00

Blessing Of The Three

Fend Thou my kin

And every sleeping thing within

From scathe, from sin.

Thy care our peace Through mid of night

To light's release.

Flowers in the Rain

2006-06-18T12:17:00.000-07:00

Drops of rain on the Rose and Foxglove - sweet scent for me and succour for the bumble bee

The Rock Pool

2006-06-18T03:32:00.000-07:00

A day at the sea is worth a shot of Eau de Vie.
We went rock pooling and sea-watching. Perhaps that was a puffin, flapping and flying above the water in its ungainly way.

Looking out to Bass Rock, there were thousands of gannets, some returning from a day's flight, possibly as far away as Norway, to tend their chicks.

The quiet of the evening beyond the Wild Wood

2006-06-13T15:59:00.000-07:00

Thanks for stopping by. Enjoy your stay.

2006-06-13T13:12:00.000-07:00

(picture by Carl Larsson)

I am not the centre of the universe

2006-06-13T13:00:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I fight with the seasons. I stand like Ozymandias, declaring my power before the wind or rain or heat, daring the weather to change my day, railing at the omnipotent flow of unstoppable cause and effect.

I can turn on an electric light and turn it off again, which is about as much environmental control as I have. Now I have to humble myself in the face of the mighty elements and reckon on the power of their creator, a prospect preferable to taking the morning train.

Aberlady Bay

2006-06-13T12:05:00.000-07:00

Aberlady

2006-06-13T11:54:00.000-07:00

Today we saw a Heron, Cormorants, Moorhens, Oyster Catchers, Stonechat and many others, but it was an extra treat to see a Kestrel. Somehow, all the cares of the world fade as you come upon the chance delight of a bird, flower or animal that you have never seen before.

Click on the picture and you might just be able to make out the Kestrel in the sky.

making plans for Nigel/Nigella

2006-06-13T11:50:00.000-07:00

Nigel/Nigella is still doing well. Buffy is teaching the chick to eat, and what to eat. They are taking little walks out on the grass. The other chickens have been very curious, but at this stage they must be kept apart for safety.

Life again today

2006-06-12T16:00:00.000-07:00

Our young chick survived another day. It's mother showed it how to drink and how to eat. It clings to life. We will it to live.

This morning

2006-06-11T15:04:00.000-07:00

This morning that little chick was alive and seemingly well. We live amongst life and death. We have to take both. We have no choice.

Im Abendrot

2006-06-10T15:11:00.000-07:00

In Twilight

We've gone together through joy and crisis
Together hand in hand
And now we rest from wandering
Above the silent land.

(Joseph von Eichendorff - lyrics from Richard Strauss, "four last songs")

Yesterday, the family of blue tits left their nest box for a world beyond the Wild Wood.

Today, in the morning were two young additions to the small world here; chicks, hatched in the early hours. Sadly one did not live. Throughout the day it had struggled to grasp hold of life, but looked weak alongside its sibling. I held this perfect little thing, its tiny features draped softly in the palm of my hand, its still, still-warm body reminding me of eternity.

There is one day-old chick. It hides within the ample-feathered coat of its mother, its heartbeat pumping life and hope.

I know what my first thought will be tomorrow.

midnight

2006-06-09T03:06:00.000-07:00

Here is the Wild Wood between ten o'clock and midnight. So calm.

Incredible

2006-06-08T03:13:00.000-07:00

click on the picture for an enlarged version

John Keats

2006-06-07T07:30:00.000-07:00

A bush of May flowers with the bees about them;
Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them;
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them Moist, cool and green;
and shade the violets, That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.

Last night I walked around the garden to the smell of Laburnum and Night Scented Stocks and many other modest little vendors of nectar and scent.

The chickens had gone to bed after a long day's activity.

Aching with my efforts; the day's planting, the chores and the warm weather, I bathed in the cool of the evening and watched as the sun sank lazily and without fanfare, below the horizon.

Emily Dickinson

2006-06-04T14:15:00.000-07:00

This is my letter to the world,
That never wrote to me,--
The simple news that Nature told,
With tender majesty.
Her message is committed
To hands I cannot see;
For love of her, sweet countrymen,
Judge tenderly of me!

(picture The Woman at the Window by Caspar David Friedrich)

A recipe for Damask Powder

2006-06-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

Take one pound of Orris, half a pound of Rose leaves, three ounces of Benjamin, the same quantity of Storax, a quarter pound of Lignum Rhodium, and of Lign Aloes two ounces, a quater of an ounce of Ambergris, of Musk and Civet, of each, twenty grains. Beat all these, except the Rose leaves to be put in afterwards. This is an excellent powder to lay among linen.

Lammermuirs

2006-06-03T03:13:00.000-07:00

We climbed high into the Lammermuirs on a warm day. All drank from a spring that trickled out of the rock and nobody got sick.

FEW have been in my secret while I was compiling these narratives, nor is it probable that they will ever become public during the life of their author. Even were that event to happen, I am not ambitious of the honoured distinction, digito monstrari. I confess that, were it safe to cherish such dreams at all, I should more enjoy the thought of remaining behind the curtain unseen, like the ingenious manager of Punch and his wife Joan, and enjoying the astonishment and conjectures of my audience.

(from The Bride of Lammermoor, by Sir Walter Scott)

Blue Tits

2006-06-03T03:03:00.000-07:00

We have Blue Tits who have decided that our nest box is a convenient place to start a family. They are very busy collecting worms, caterpillars and other tasty morsels for their noisy little chicks.

Lemon Balm

2006-05-28T16:37:00.000-07:00

The juice of Balm glueth together greene wounds (Gerard)

The fresh leaves make better tea than the dry (A Modern Herbal, 1931, Mrs M Grieve)

Gloaming

2006-05-28T16:23:00.000-07:00

Gloaming - by Lady Lindsay (from "lyrics")

2006-05-28T16:14:00.000-07:00

The setting sun has dropt below the sandy reach:
the laggard rooks come home, belated from the beach:
Here in the garden-beds the flowers close their eyes,
And twilight's soft wan mist across the woodland lies.

O is not this most sweet of any time or hour,
After the garish day, and ere the niight-clouds lower?
'Tis as though Nature's self should pause upon her way,
Grey-clad and pilgrim-like, to meditate and pray.

by Katherine Mann

2006-05-28T15:53:00.000-07:00

O happy garden, in may air
With lawns and wilding arbours fair
And alleys pleached of quick and yew
To cloister those from curious view
Who tread their paths of springing green;
And, save of nesting birds unseen,
Listen and tell of love as they
While youth is youth and May is May

Things to come

2006-05-27T17:30:00.000-07:00

Soon, the garden will break into a run.

picture by Carl Larrson

The days now were occupied in field work and more field work; he cleared new
bits of ground, getting out roots and stones; ploughing, manuring, harrowing,
working with pick and spade, breaking lumps of soil and crumbling them with hand
and heel; a tiller of the ground always, laying out fields like velvet carpets.
He waited a couple of days longer — there was a look of rain about — and then he
sowed his corn.

(from The Growth of the Soil, by Knut Hamsun)

Sunset

2006-05-27T16:39:00.001-07:00

Robert Herrick

2006-05-24T17:18:00.000-07:00

I SING of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers ;
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides and of their bridal-cakes
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness ;
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris ;
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white ;
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The court of Mab, and of the fairy king ;
I write of Hell ; I sing (and ever shall)
Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.

Catch him if you can

2006-05-24T15:33:00.000-07:00

Rupert the Bear - Nutwood scenes

2006-05-24T15:19:00.000-07:00

Caught!

2006-05-24T10:43:00.000-07:00

We are the Fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

In the garden today

2006-05-24T10:13:00.000-07:00

Be still. And watch and wait..

A fragment from John Clare

2006-05-24T09:02:00.001-07:00

The rich brown-umber blue the oaks unfold
when spring's young sunshine bathes their trunks in gold
So rich, so beautiful, so past the power
of words to paint- my heart aches for the dower
The pencil gives to soften and infuse
The brown luxurience of unfolding hues
The living luscious tinting woodlands give
Into a landscape that might breathe and live
And this old gate that claps against the tree
The entrance of spring's paradise should be

Somewhere in Time

2006-05-23T17:25:00.000-07:00

And I have never been able to forget the fearul and sweet sensation which flowed through my soul as the blissful cool of those marble lips touched my mouth.

from "Florentine Nights" by Heinrich Heine

The Lyke Wake Dirge

2006-05-23T17:13:00.000-07:00

This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.

for the full text, and a useful modern translation, go to this link

We are losing the Wild Wood

2006-05-23T16:37:00.000-07:00

We are losing the Wild Wood. It is becoming a vanishing point. This year, where deer once sought refuge, another ploughed field has come. This is nothing new. John Clare saw the gradual erosion of the common lands in his time and observed:-

How oft I’ve sighed at alterations made:
To see the woodsman’s cruel axe employed,
A tree beheaded or a bush destroyed

picture by WW

picture by Arthur Rackham. Words by Leigh Hunt

2006-05-23T16:08:00.000-07:00

We are the Fairies, blithe and antic,
Of dimensions not gigantic,
Though the moonshine mostly keep us
Oft in orchards frisk and peep us.

shelter From the Wild Wood

2006-05-23T14:59:00.000-07:00

Welcome. You have fortuitously stumbled upon this Journal of a Jack-in-the-Green.

It will be an observation of all things that grow.

And songs and rounds to cheer you
Old wisdom found, to steer you
Of lore and lief
and sides of beef.

And homage to the seasons.
Rest awhile, sojourner
and let the daisies tickle your toes

(ww)