A Bit of a Cold Fish

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Do you fancy cold fish? No, neither do I. Actually, I didn’t know what it was when I took it out of the freezer; it was something white and shrivelled, with a touch of grey for good measure. It could have been chicken breast – a very old chicken breast that had languished in the freezer unnoticed for several years – but, as it began to thaw, it seemed more fishy than chicken-like. The other plastic bag plucked from the lowest drawer in the freezer at the same time definitely looked more like chicken. Before deciding what to cook for dinner last night I held up the ‘lucky dip’ bags of thawing frozen animal parts and plumped for chicken on the basis that, although rather small for a dinner for two, at least it didn’t smell fishy.

So I sliced the small portion of chicken breast into four slivers (to make them look less identifiable, aswell as more plentiful) and popped them into the griddle pan (that gives those attractive barbecue-style stripes) along with sweet chili peppers, onions and tomatoes. Done that way the chicken “goujons”, as I called them, were quite nice (for two dieters) and in my mind’s eye I already had the idea of cooking the fish in the same manner for a light lunch today.

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“It would have been better deep fried,” I said two hours ago. At the time I was putting the plate on the table before Chris.

Chris eyed the fish suspiciously. Being bereft of batter or breadcrumbs, the fish appeared to be rather naked, white and unappetizing.

“Would you like some toast with it?” I asked, as if toast was a perfectly normal thing to accompany barbecued fish strips.

“No thanks,” he answered, so I didn’t feel able to have any either.

“At least it doesn’t smell too bad,” Chris held the plate up to his nose for inspection.

“No, it can’t be that old.” (Earlier Chris had suggested that it was two years old.)

“It must be the cod we put in the freezer a few months ago. It’s funny how nice it looked before it was consigned to the freezer,” Chris’s mouth turned down at the corners.

“Isn’t it?” I agreed and we both nodded.

At last, after the chit-chat and prevarication, we each took up a knife and fork, and I waited a moment longer to watch Chris cut into one of his pallid goujons and bring it to his mouth. Seeing as he didn’t spit it out I decided to do likewise.

“Does it taste right to you?” I asked after swallowing my first small mouthful.

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“Oh, no, certainly not. My attempt at Chinese cookery – without using a recipe – was much worse; and my beetroot soup was the foulest thing I’ve ever tasted! My cakes without sugar weren’t very nice either,” I concurred.

“But it’s one of the nastiest fish dishes I’ve ever seen,” admitted Chris as he pushed a water-logged ashen flake of nude fish with his fork.

“Let’s not eat it then, if we don’t want too…” I said perkily.

“And we don’t want to,” my husband was already closing the knife and fork together on his plate.

“How about a nice piece of toast?” I rallied.

“But not on this plate please,” Chris laughed.

So Chris had toast and lemon curd from a clean plate and I had toast and honey. The cooked cod goujons went into a bag and back in the freezer, just for a short spell longer… until I go to the farm again. I wonder if Rosie’s dogs will like a bit of a cold fish? Think I’ll bring along a tin of tuna, too, just in case!

 

A Case of the Blues

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“Oops!” I said aloud, although there was no-one around to hear me (Chris was inside, up in his workroom, and he is a tad deaf anyway). Now if I’d had a bucket of water handy I would not have had to think twice – I would have put my foot in it straight away – but I didn’t… All I had was an old paint rag. I didn’t even have my mobile phone on me so I couldn’t take a shot of it (and it would have been a beauty of a photo).

To be honest with you, it was the second time today that I’d had a mishap with the blue paint, and rather thin and runny paint that outdoor wood paint is… In the morning it was just the paintbrush that fell, fully laden with runny blue paint, from the top of the landing by the bridge, down the magnolia-white garden wall, over the Diana statue and into the fuchsias; of course, on it’s way down the paint splattered everywhere. That time I acted swiftly by running down to the bottom immediately and grabbing the hose; with the water pressure on high I aimed the hose at the top of the wall and brought it down over all that had been zapped with blue, which was pretty much everything. And whilst I was about it I hosed the stones, the white garden table and chairs and the conservatory glass door, all of which had been dumb recipients of the drips of blue paint that had seeped through the gaps in the wooden planks of the bridge.

Ah, no lasting harm done except for a few spots of blue paint that had dripped through those same planks onto my back while I was hosing. My favourite white top went into bleach and my orange shorts into detergent; my apron was okay because the paint caught me only on my back (should have worn my apron around the wrong way!).

Later on, when I went up to admire our newly painted blue bridge, I noticed that some splashes of water from the hose had caused the paint to dry oddly. “That won’t take me long,” I thought to myself. I put on my still clean apron again and, armed with a rag and a small bucket half-filled with the left-over paint from earlier, went back up to the bridge a brush; the bucket used to contain yogurt and was just the right size for small paint jobs. Unfortunately, the yogurt bucket is made of quite thin plastic with precious little substance and the lid was on tightly, and when I managed eventually to pull the lid off… well, you can imagine…

What would you have done with half a yogurt bucket of runny blue paint landed on your foot? And no water in sight, just a paint rag? I dipped the brush on my blue covered foot and painted the bridge; then I put the rag around my foot and hot-footed it down the steps to the hose…

It’s funny how blue pigment is so difficult to remove. The worst of it came off. It came off my thong sandals and it almost came off the quarry tiles; it came off my skin, although three toe nails are still sky-blue (who needs nail varnish?); I fear it will never come out of my favourite orange pants but I’ll like them nonetheless as a painting outfit.

Now I’m done with painting for the day. I’ve had two showers (as have the walls, plants and the statue of Diana) and I’m not risking any more accidents. Am I feeling a bit blue? Not really, the bridge looks lovely and I’ve had a bit of fun recounting the tale to you.

The photos below were taken after second hosing down.

 

Apple Pie Etiquette?

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“Can I do anything to help?” Chris asked. (I expect he thought I would say no because I was making an apple pie at the time!)

“Would you like to peel the apples while I core and slice them?” I responded.

Rather surprised, but unable to retract his offer, Chris set to peeling the apples. I cut out the cores and put them to one side to go in the organic bin, and the peelings went into a plastic bag which contained other peelings and scraps that I had been saving for Rosie’s goats. Those lucky goats, in that bag were all sorts of delicacies awaiting them… like potato peelings, carrot skins, butternut pumpkin skin (I made pumpkin soup a few days ago), stale bread, and – best of all – quite a lot of porridge that I couldn’t face for breakfast three days running (back on the Dukan Diet).

“What shall I do with the skins?” Chris inquired at the end of his task, “Do you want them for the goats?”

“Yes please,” I said, “they can go in the big plastic bag for the goats, not the other one. I had to de-core the apples because the seeds are poisonous, so I’m keeping those separate.”

“I suppose the goats like to eat with some decorum!” Chris quipped.

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An hour or two later we joined Rosie’s family and friends at the farm for a lovely roast lamb dinner.

“Is this one of your sheep?” I asked as I looked at the lamb on my plate (I’m a wee bit squeamish about eating animals I have known, however briefly.)

“Yes…” Rosie answered tentatively (catching my drift), “but I don’t think you knew it.”

“It’s not the little old one that had its eye pecked by the birds and I helped nurse back to health – is it?”

“No, that one’s still alive. You didn’t meet this one,” Rosie assured me.

Secure in that knowledge, I stopped picturing the sheep with the bad eye and I tucked in to the tender and delicious lamb. As we left the goats were about to be fed – I hope they like porridge better than I do; on a whole I’d rather eat pumpkin skins… or apple pie… Well, I had to have just a little, after all I was the one who de-cored ’em.

 

 

 

A Paler Shade of Blue

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I was trying to think of a nice title for the lovely photos I took as I was walking home from my Mum’s house today, and “A Paler Shade of Blue” came into my mind. It somehow seemed fitting, given that the sky and sea were so blue and enticing for an artist with a camera phone in her hand. For a moment the old song “A Whiter Shade of Pale” played inside my head and I had to wrack my brains to come up with the correct title. Then I had the brilliant idea of checking out “A Paler Shade of Blue” in Google…

One should never feel too surprised when searching the Internet – of course, other people, too, had thought the words, “A Paler Shade of Blue” had a nice ring to it. Not only is there a 1992 movie of that title but also a beautiful song written by singer/songwriter/musician Michael Armstrong. I liked it so much that I copied and pasted for you. And here my photos of a paler shade of blue, not that they are especially pale – just very blue!

MICHAEL ARMSTRONG – ‘PALER SHADE OF BLUE’ PROMO VIDEO …

www.youtube.com/watch?v=_T0IiE4a1qw
12 May 2012 – Uploaded by Michael Armstrong

Shot on one camera, it echoes the lyrics of his debut single, ‘Paler Shade of Blue‘, which bemoans a failed …

 

Three More Paintings Finished

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At last, after a lot of interruptions, the panels are finished! This is the order in which they will be placed into the six panels under a window sill.

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Sunset Skies and a Surprise Meeting on the River Beach

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“Oh, Sally, the sky is a beautiful pink!” said my dear old mum who is nearly blind. We were chatting on the phone at the time, a little earlier this evening. She must have been looking out of the window from her chair by the phone in her kitchen. Mum knew that after our call was finished I would go out onto our balcony to see the same sunset pink clouds.

Our house faces south-east so we get wonderful sunrises over the sea but never sunsets. However, occasionally (like this evening) the sky is aglow with some of the colours of the sun setting gloriously in the west. The back beach at Teignmouth, just three miles away, is the best place around here for taking in the sunsets, which reminds me…

The last time I was at the river beach as the sun went down was about a month ago, when it was still summer (if a tad cold, even so); Chris and I went with a party of family and friends to have an alfresco dinner on the tables outside the “Ship Inn” before going on to see a play (“Beyond Expectations”, which really was beyond expectations!). Loads of holiday-makers aswell as locals were out enjoying the sunny evening and the bustle of life on the river beach. Just prior to leaving for the play I thought I’d take a photograph of the scene. I was holding out my mobile camera in an outstretched arm when I recognised a face on the screen…

“It’s Nigel – isn’t it?” I beamed.

“Hello Sally,” Nigel answered, just as pleased to see me as I was to see him.

“You haven’t changed a bit!” I thrilled (it’s always great to note that people haven’t changed drastically over the years!).

“Nor have you,” he was equally as enthusiastic.

“I can’t remember how long it’s been since last I saw you,” I said.

“Surely it’s not that long ago,” he replied, “but I’m often here in the evenings if you ever want to see me.”

A pal of his laughed and we all laughed.

“Well, I have to go – we have a play to see in about five minutes – it was so good to see you – can I take a photo of you before I go?”

So I took a photo of Nigel and we kissed and hugged goodbye (his mate smiled). I didn’t tell Nigel that it must have been at least twenty years, perhaps more, since we met last. It wasn’t a long conversation for such an exciting reunion, I realise, but everyone was waiting… and we weren’t that great friends at school.

 

 

Pesky Photographers

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Don’t you just hate going out for a walk with a photographer? He or she doesn’t even have to be a professional photographer either – the keen amateur is far worse – and nearly everyone these days is a keen amateur (just not in my circle of friends). Modern mobiles have such great camera capabilities now that many owners get rather carried away with the idea that everything in sight might be that special, one in a million, sensational shot (quite by accident, of course).

Most people have a particular style of walking in the countryside (or Fells in this instance). Some race on ahead of the others in a party – they are the natural leaders (and fitness experts); they assume the role of the pace-setter and carry on charging ahead to a point which they think would be a good resting place… perhaps by a gate or tree. They wait by the pretty spot and recover their breaths until the plodders arrive at the resting place, after which they instantly shoot off again to their favoured position fifty metres in front.

The plodders are the dreamers and altruists. They know full well that they could easily keep up with the leaders if they wished but they don’t wish to; for them the enjoyment of taking a walk in the countryside is considerably heightened by taking their time, and breathing in the beauty as they go along, rather than gasping by a gate or tree after a fast stretch. Another reason why the plodders walk at a leisurely pace is because they worry about the stragglers behind. A sense of concern and their empathy with the underdog suits them well in certain circumstances, such as walking in the countryside, because this gives them an excuse to go against the urging of the natural leaders – after all, the dreamers don’t want to be led, they simply want to amble around freely to look at butterflies, heather, gorse or even brown thistle stalks… if they fancy! Sometimes they take pleasure in applying guilt tactics to persuade the leaders to wait a few more seconds at the resting place, maybe holding the gate open, until the straggler catches up.

The keen photographer is both a straggler and a mountain goat. But the photographer does not lag behind intentionally to irritate; one’s love of every single minute detail of nature (not to mention the chance of that million-to-one brilliant shot) draws one off the path –  up a rock, under a bough, through a gap in a fence, crouching down to the height of a chicken, any and every angle possible (for that something special and unusual). And poor weather is no deterrent –  there is “drama” in the shadows and “magic” in the mist; an interested cow or a stoical goat on a hillside is a model of perfection worthy of its moment of fame behind the lens. Then, with a sureness of foot akin to a mountain goat, the lagging photographer runs over rocky terrain to catch up with the plodders who are passing through the gate held open by the leader…

Feeling rather fit and innervated by all the bursts of ambling and running, the photographer overtakes the leaders and at last manages to take some portrait shots… How irritating! Don’t you just hate walking with a pesky photographer?

 

 

 

Sunrise, Sunset, Swiftly Goes a Day (Or Two)

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A morning mist and a high tide produced a sunrise as pretty as a picture yesterday morning but we left our sea views at home in Dawlish and headed “t’north”, way up to the Lake District.

This evening, from Hill Top – the last home of famous author Arthur Ransome (who wrote ‘Swallows and Amazons’) and now the home of our friends Stephen and Janine – we watched the sun go down beautifully in a mist over the Fells.

A Good Wheeze

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“Jazzy’s breathing sounds bad, as if she has something in her throat, but I can’t imagine she has, because she hasn’t eaten anything weird (to my knowledge) except for a very dry crust of bread,” I messaged Rosie by Whatsapp. I thought I had better prepare Rosie for the worst before they arrived home from holiday.

This happened at around five o’clock on Tuesday, the last day of my five-day stint of farm-sitting, and Rosie and Slav were on their way home from the airport; I had just come back with the two younger dogs from a long and glorious walk on the top fields. I noticed Jazzy’s funny breathing as soon I entered the farmhouse kitchen. Jaz was lying in her usual spot on a double layer of dog mattresses. Her breathing was rapid and rasping… Her eyes looked at me sadly as if to say “I’m sorry, but I think I’m on the way out… I think I’m dying… I may not last until Rosie gets home.”

“Oh no,” I thought, “I’ve killed her!”

I will explain… Each morning, after all the animals had been fed, it had been my recent habit to take all four dogs, regardless of age, out for a short walk. In fact, the whole point of the short walk, taken at a leisurely pace, out in the fresh air and sunshine was that it should be beneficial to the health and longevity of Jaz and Sasha. Indeed, the older two had seemed very happy (especially with lots of encouragement and pats on the back) to be going up to the orchard, then taking a rest in the first field; tiny Sasha enjoyed her rides in the wheelbarrow – she loved playing at apple-guard-dog and, likewise, Jaz was happy pretending to be a puppy again by running a few steps downhill.

Listening to Jazzy’s laboured breathing it was hard to imagine that this was the same jolly dog who had been so invigorated by her excursion to the orchard several hours earlier. If anything, her breathing was getting worse. I went over to stroke her head and give her a bowl of water when I noticed that Jaz had wet and dirtied herself. “Poor dear Jaz”, I thought – this was another clear indication of her imminent demise. If only I hadn’t taken Jaz for her walk that morning… If only I had put her, and not Sasha, in the wheelbarrow… not that I would have been strong enough to lift her – and she wouldn’t have fitted anyway (she’s a big old girl – beautiful but big!) but it helped somehow to try and think of what I could have done differently.

At last there was a phone call from Rosie. She was on her way home – hurrah!

” – Yes, she is eating well – absolutely no loss of appetite – hold on, I’ll give her a biscuit…

– Still enjoying her food, Rosie. Still drinking water – had a whole bowlful earlier.

– Yes, she did have an accident – both departments – must have been when I was walking with Inca and Malchi. I’ve cleaned it up and the mattresses are outside.

–  No, really? She hyperventilates when she feels embarrassed and guilty? Give her a cuddle but don’t be too sympathetic or she’ll think she’s ill?

– Rosie, her breathing  has abated. She’s getting better… I’m so relieved.”

 

You’ll be pleased to learn that Jaz is alright, just old and a bit of a worrier. Old age  can be so humiliating, especially for a sensitive lady dog like Jaz. Bless her!

 

 

Something Strange on the Horizon

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Our bedroom is on the ground floor of our house – under the balcony – therefore ours is the closest room to the sea (hardly more than a skip, a jump and a hop, except that you’d have to skip down our steep garden, jump over the fence onto the railway lines and hop over the seawall!).

One of the wonderful things about living so close to the sea is that the view is ever changing; no sunrise is ever quite the same as another and every cloud and every wave is different. Sometimes I awaken and see a fishing boat chugging its way back to Cockwood Harbour, or there is a small boat by the buoys closer to shore – the fishermen are checking their nets and crab-pots; some mornings rowing boats are racing each other and quickly pass across our view, or perhaps a boat with a pretty white sail catches my eye before that boat, too, scuds off into another view to be seen from within someone else’s window frame. One day, years ago, I saw a lad in a kayak and I wanted to shout out, “Be careful of the sandbank and the rip by the river mouth”, but he was paddling too fast and was soon out of the frame…and out of earshot. Later that day he was in the frame, so to speak – there was a news report about a kayaker in trouble… I should have shouted…

My distance sight isn’t that great nowadays so when I rose from my bed and drew back the curtains a few days ago, and I looked out to sea and saw something looming on the horizon, I could hardly believe my eyes.

“It must be gigantic for me to be able to see it from this distance”, I thought.

But I couldn’t make out what it was – a trick of the light, surely, but no, there was something out there. What could be so huge? It appeared to be an oil rig though what an oil rig would be doing in Lyme Bay, Devon, I could not imagine. A short while later Chris took some photographs of the strange thing. Upon closer inspection Chris concluded that it was three enormous cranes on a barge, but they weren’t crossing the bay that day – they sat out in the bay for three days before disappearing. Strange! I guess that stranger things have happened at sea…