No, not sausage dogs on a hot day! Sorry about my Franglais, but well, when in France with only a bit of schoolgirl-French… Here are the dogs of my day.
Welcome to Le Conquet in Brittany
A walk after lunch. Not the sunniest of days but still beautiful…
A Painting is Finished
All last week I was working on a painting of Exeter Canal, but that is not the painting I have just finished; the new painting depicts the sun going down over a Brittany beach and a little French boy running with his pail to the water’s edge. This painting is a birthday present for my brother-in-law, with whom Chris and I will be staying very soon. The beach is one we know quite well as it is around the corner from Glyn’s house in Le Conquet. I hope the birthday boy will like the painting – it is rather a big one to hide away from view if he doesn’t…
The Boat
It came as a bit of a shock to arrive at Cockwood Harbour and find that it wasn’t there, even though for the last year or more we had witnessed the slow decline, and maybe the demise, of a small boat. The boat always used to remind me of a gondola; long, slim and dark, but without the high curved ends at the back and front. Perhaps it had begun its life as a rowing boat – the long vessel looked as though it would slice through the water at great speed, not latterly, of course. For ages the boat held water, increasing amounts; at length we marvelled that the boat was filled to the brim with water and yet still managed to keep afloat. At last, perhaps only a week ago, Chris and I noticed that the boat no longer floated when the tide was in; nevertheless, when the tide was out, the boat resting on the mud still brought a touch of elegance and glamour to the harbour.
Now the boat has disappeared and has been usurped by a newer, more serviceable but less attractive replacement. I wonder if the graceful gondola will ever reappear. Perhaps at this very moment she is being loving restored in the owner’s carport or a boat repair yard. I hope so. We shall miss her.
Bloomin’ Weather
Nearly a week of grey skies, cold winds and rain has not been conducive to daily cycle rides – we poked our noses out a few times and thought better of it – however, in spite of the poor weather, and whilst we were feeling miserable and cosseting ourselves inside, Mother Nature continued her work in the hedgerows.
Encouraged by some large gaps in the clouds this morning, Chris and I took to our bikes. In the intervening days since last we were on our local bridle path a transformation has taken place; the formerly plain, green heads on the plentiful cow parsley, lining the cliff path all the way down to the sea, have blossomed into frothy bundles of tiny white flowers; they are the perfect backdrop to the pretty pink campion flowers that, seemingly, have stretched upwards, with great will, before blooming, in order that they may look their best against a background of white and blue (and grey).
Incidentally, the skies have clouded over again… Bloomin’ English weather!
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Gunga Din
Reg loved Rudyard Kipling’s famous poem, “Gunga Din”; he could recite it word for word, and sometimes did (when urged), much to the amusement of his friends and neighbours. Reg was a great character, which is why Chris and I still speak of him quite often even though he passed away about ten years ago.
Only this morning I said something (so unmemorable that I can’t remember) to Chris and he responded with a Reg quote. It took me back to a time before Chris and I were married…Â It was perhaps the first occasion that Chris was coming to see me in the role of lover.
In those days I used to rent the upper half of this house and Reg regularly popped over from next door for a chat in my kitchen. I can see him in my mind’s eye now; he had twinkling blue eyes and rather long hair for an old man – it was white and unkempt, and matched his beard. We were sat at the big gate-leg table that I had painted white; the walls were painted lemon yellow; and the afternoon sunshine came in through the window. I had been telling Reg that I was in love (with Chris, of course). Suddenly, I realised that Chris would be at the front door in twenty minutes…
“Oh, oh, do I look alright?” I asked.
Reg nodded his approval and grinned (he always thought I looked alright).
“Oh, and what about the house? Do you think I should run the Hoover over the carpet? Is it tidy enough? What do you think?”
“Sally,” Reg stood up to go, “if you can’t keep it up for the next thirty years, don’t bother!”
Seventeen years later we are still saying it. And whenever we say it we think of Reg and his “Gunga Din”.
Gunga Din
BYÂ RUDYARD KIPLING
You may talk o’ gin and beer
When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din,
      He was ‘Din! Din! Din!
   ‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
      ‘Hi! Slippy hitherao
      ‘Water, get it! Panee lao,
   ‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’
The uniform ’e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
We shouted ‘Harry By!’
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.
      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
   ‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?
      ‘You put some juldee in it
      ‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute
   ‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’
’E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ’is mussick a on ’is back,
’E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made ‘Retire,’
An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
’E was white, clear white, inside
When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!
      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’
   With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
      When the cartridges ran out,
      You could hear the front-ranks shout,
   ‘Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!’
I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
’E lifted up my ’ead,
An’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
   ‘’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;
   ‘’E’s chawin’ up the ground,
      ‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:
   ‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’
’E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
’E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ’e died,
‘I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ’im later on
At the place where ’e is gone—
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.
’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
      Yes, Din! Din! Din!
   You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
   Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
      By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
   You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
Out of Africa?
These funny photographs of modern-day Africa came in by way of my brother, Robert – thanks Rob! (Hope you don’t mind that I censored a couple of them.)
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Yodel Eh, He – Who?
Over breakfast this morning Chris was talking excitedly about his plans, not only for new paintings (he’s an artist too), once the work has been finished on our house, but also for a new workroom/studio. At present Chris’s workroom is the inner room of our old bedroom on the sea-side of the top storey; several years ago we divided the large room into two equal-sized smaller rooms by erecting a stud partition in the middle, therefore, in order to enter the workroom one must walk through the first bedroom. Chris intends to take over the larger bedroom on the same level at the other, colder side of the house for his new studio, thereby freeing up the inner room for use as another bedroom.
“Do you think it will be alright to keep the door as it is or should I build a lobby to separate the rooms?” Chris asked.
“Well, it will be used mainly by the kids when they come home so I don’t think they would mind.”
Chris looked relieved because a lobby would require more building work from him (and he’s been working on the house for ten years already).
I thought about the thickness (or rather the thinness) of the partition wall, and the fact that all our children have partners, and I wondered… My mind went back to the days when I was a young woman living in Australia – to Parker street – and to the sleeping arrangements when my sister and her husband and children came to stay with us. Our combined four children occupied the far bedroom; Mary and Geoff had the middle bedroom and my boyfriend and I were in our usual bedroom next to their’s.
“Young people don’t mind thin walls. We didn’t mind thin walls when I was young,” I said, “At Parker Street the walls were thin and we didn’t worry about it. Of course, you could hear everything… but the men used to yodel and we all used to laugh about it.”
“Yes, people were very open back then, they used to practically make love at parties in those days,” added Chris, nostalgically.
“And when I think of the barn just down the road from the Football Club…” I said wistfully.
“But yodelling?” Chris asked, bringing his attention back to Parker Street.
I nodded.
“At the same time?”
“Yep!”
Chris pretended to be shocked and I laughed like Calamity Jane (for the second time this morning) as I walked out to my studio. And now I must return to my painting and listen to the American voice on my Kindle device read me the last few chapters of “Sons and Lovers”. How apt! No yodelling so far.
Opened the Fridge and What did I See?
“What’s this?” I asked, laughing. (I knew very well that it was the remnants of last night’s repast – just not the good bits – the broccoli was a tad water-logged and soft!)
“I would have thrown it away if it had just been for myself,” Chris explained, “But then I thought about how you complained that we don’t eat enough vegetables… especially when I do the cooking!”
I howled with laughter (not dissimilar to Calamity Jane when Wild Bill Hickok is dressed as an Indian squaw!).
“Well,” Chris continued, “I thought you might enjoy to finish them off for a nice little snack today.”
Incidentally, the appetizing looking brown stuff in the bowl next to the broccoli is the remnants of my breakfast of All Bran. Woe is me.
-
- How appetizing!
The Reader and My Painting
It will be bookclub this Sunday afternoon so, yesterday, I had the bright idea of listening to my Kindle reader whilst painting. What an excellent idea to kill two birds with one stone! Or so I thought… The only little problem these past two days of listening while working has been that my Kindle reader has the voice of an American high-school girl, and the book I have to read is D.H.Lawrence’s “Sons and Lovers”, which, as you may know, is rich in the dialogue of the Derbyshire dialect! Therefore my reader, though not entirely without inflection or intonation, has struggled to cope with missing letters, apostrophes, and “t'”s; so desperate has she become that now she spells the words out for me! And t’ say tha’ m’ mechanical reader ‘as nowt sense. Of course, she dost get a bit carried away w’it  – she even spells “S-H-E”. My reader may be suffering from dialexia…
And here are a couple of photographs of my progress with the painting…
