Mid August and so far...

me and Lisa have picked 5 kilos of blackberries from the wild briar that lash and tumble over dry stone walls and down the vertiginous hillsides of West Yorkshire where we live. We baked those sweet dark berries beneath two crumbles and boiled the remaining into six jars of jam. There’s probably another fortnight of fruit yet to ripen before this year’s harvest is over.

Here's a poem by Seamus Heaney called Blackberry Picking.

Late August, given heavy rain and sun
For a full week, the blackberries would ripen.
At first, just one, a glossy purple clot
Among others, red, green, hard as a knot.
You ate that first one and it's flesh was sweet
Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it
Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for
Picking. Then red ones inked up and that hunger
Sent us out with milk cans, pea cans, jam pots
Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots.
Round hayfields, cornfields and potato drills
We trekked and picked until the cans were full,
Until the tinkling bottom had been covered
With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned
Like a plate of eyes. Our hands were peppered
With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre.
But when the bath was filled we found a fur,
A rat grey fungus, glutting our cache.
The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush
The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour.
I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair
That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot.
Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

I am retired. After 49 years of work. Free at last... free at last! And just in time for the hottest UK summer in many a long year. Below is a panoramic photo from the Oban to Castlebay ferry.

I'd recommend Barra Gin and Isle of Harris Gin to any aficionados who like the Atlantic wild and Scottish sea air rich. Both gins are Outer Hebridean brews heady with the salt and tang of westerly blusters roaring and ferocious. To be truthful both gins are subtle and delicious especially over ice with a good tonic to crisp them up. Lisa and me have polished off a bottle of the Harris Gin already. Lucky we bought two of each. Wey hey!

It’s time...

to restart the old blog. Dust the keyboard, arrange the pencils, tidy the desk, empty the bin, crack the knuckles, polish the worn leather swivel chair that creaks and groans. And we’re off...

The late afternoon...

winter sun infused with colour soothes the weary eye.

Above Heptonstall Moor on a cold Saturday in January.

A view from Sutton Bank, North Yorkshire...

                      A poem from Kelly Deschler.

                                     "Melting snows begin to fade.
                           As a newborn season arrives.
                              Refreshing our lives grown dull.
                                Cradled in green budding leaves,
                                    Hushed by the winds of spring."

Gravitational waves...

that stretch and contract the universal fabric have been discovered which proves once and for all that everything, including us stretch and contract with the cosmic chop. To paraphrase Prospero, "We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is boundless with toing and froing."

Dawn...

over La Gomera in the Canaries.

Pitcher plant in France eats only foreign...

hornets reports BBC. Evil Asian hornets with talons like Fu Manchu and a taste for the saintly European bee have finally met their match in the pitcher plant Sarracenia. "Asian hornets are a menace to beehives." Says an unnamed bee lover.

A spokesbug for the Ancient Order of Asian Hornets replying to the charge said, "We are a menace but we're also part of a growing movement to eat more insects. Call us a green menace if you must. Yes, yes I know we're really yellow and some other colour that's not black but you catch my drift." Asked to comment on being eaten themselves the spokesbug said, "With us it's a ying and yang thing. One day you eat the bear the next day the bear eats you. We're not remotely like your European bees, always whining, never happy. For us it's an honour to be eaten by Sarracenia. Know why it's called a pitcher plant? One whiff and you'll pitch into anything. Ha ha ha. That's a little hornet joke. No? Ah well, please yourselves. Any more questions, comments? "Good, because I'm late for a beehive party. Harry, fetch the car round."

OMD...

Souvenir  (link to crackly old vid on youtube but a great tune nevertheless)

Ancient Sperm...

found hidden in rock, shock. On seeing daylight the aged Sperm blinked and said. "I got lost, it was dark. Hey where are the guys? Billy, Trev, Arthur. We were swimming, down a long tunnel, it seemed long at the time. We were excited. We'd even practised... My God this place has changed. Last thing I remember was hitting my head. I hope the others are okay."

Depressed chicken loses will to live...

reports the Renfrew Gazette. This sad tale of maltreatment by a nasty farmer might have achieved another ending but for the vet who then broke it's neck. Freed from a lifetime of shit the poor bird glimpsed salvation for the briefest moment cradled in the arms of a kindly grey haired gentleman with warm but firm hands. A little too firm as it turned out. Squawk!

I'm inspired by my friend...

Guyana Gyal to post a link to the marvellous Penguin Cafe Orchestra. I'll say no more, just follow the link for a tiny bit of joy.

Oldest man in Tokyo...

been dead for 30 years reports the BBC. Local officials became suspicious after not seeing Mr Sogen Kato for 30 years. "30 years may seem a long time to some," Said one official, "But we've been busy."

A spokesperson for the records office said, "Mr Kato has now been stripped of his title and sash though he can keep the sash because it's holding him together."

A further spokesperson told Associated Press. "When dealing with the dead it pays to be on your toes. In this case we failed but then again so did Mr Kato whose toes fell off some time ago."

La Grande Bellezza...

or, The Great Beauty is a blisteringly good film about an elegant 65 year old Roman journalist specialising in art, culture and the ocassional catty put down. Rome looks, well, ravishing if a little wrinkled at the edges not unlike Jep himself. An event from the past reaches out to shake Jep's urbane cool and we then follow this quizical comical man who likes to party but wearies of partying. A living saint arrives in Rome whom Jep has to interview but instead she sleeps on his floor. Sipping coffee on his balcony the following morning amidst a gathering of strutting and preening pink flamingoes this dessicated diva archly suggests to Jepp that what he might lack is roots. Watching in astonishment Jep wonders if she might be right.

October...

in West Yorkshire and a bit of Basho...





autumn colors
without a pot
of red-brown soup






"Autumn is marching on: even the scarecrows are wearing dead leaves." -  Otsuyu Nakagawa

Vatican doves...

in release horror reports the BBC. Pope Francis who likes to be known as Francis last weekend released two peace doves from his bedroom window that were promptly devoured by a seagull and a crow. Microphones recorded the following.

Dove one: "I'm free, I'm free. What the fuck!..."

Dove two: "My god they've got Bertie. Fucking hell... Arrrggghhhhh..."

A spokesdove told Associated Press, "No one saw that coming."

Falling into a Black Hole...

is like falling into the fire, or so reports The Belfast Telegraph.

Ruminating over astronauts tumbling into black holes some chap called Polchinski "hypothesised that instead of being gradually ripped apart by gravitational forces, the event horizon would be transformed into a 'highly energetic region', and anyone who fell in would hit a wall of fire and burn to death in an instant - violating Albert Einstein's theory of relativity."

Rather than ripped apart you're burned to death. Phew, and here's me worrying over ripped apart.

Glucose in tears to be...

measured by Google or so claims today's Observer. I understand they plan next to measure orphan's tears for viscosity as a fall back for when the oil runs out. From weeping orphans to fuel security the bastard Tories will salivate even more the moment they grasp the connection. Hmmm, wonder what might be mined from saliva? Quite a lot given the amount currently drooling from the ruling class's sagging jowels.

I don't feel better for writing that... and it's only day 19... grrrr...












 

507 year old clam...

killed on birthday, shock. Or so reports yesterday's Independent newspaper. Having spent the previous half a millennium scratching beneath the cold Atlantic waves off Iceland Ming the Clam died in a pan surrounded by his friends. Chief Scientist Bill Chowder told the waiting press, "Ming gave his life for the advancement of both science and a good lunch. Some think it cruel to eat such aged creatures but we know from previous experience that hot crusty bread and a robust Chardonnay deadens any guilt. And let's not forget that Ming died knowing how old he was. So, another plus there then. Thank you all for coming. There'll be time for further questions after the second course."