Strandlife

“Think Broadband” speed test for our house this afternoon c. 3.00 pm. Still on Alexander Graham Bell copper wires here, so sign of or notification about fibre to the premises as yet. But, it works and is plenty for our needs.

Kirkcudbright waterfront. A photo by an unnamed contributor of Facebook this morning.

Dawn off the Foreland – the young flood making
Jumbled and short and steep –
Black in the hollows and bright where it’s breaking –
Awkward water to sweep.
“Mines reported in the fairway,
“Warn all traffic and detain.
” ‘Sent up Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden
Gain.”

Noon off the Foreland – the first ebb making
Lumpy and strong in the bight.
Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking
And the jackdaws wild with fright !
“Mines located in the fairway,
“Boats now working up the chain,
“Sweepers – Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden
Gain.”

Dusk off the Foreland – the last light going
And the traffic crowding through,
And five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing
Heading the whole review !
“Sweep completed in the fairway.
“No more mines remain.
” ‘Sent back Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden
Gain.”

Kipling, “Minesweepers”

When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius—a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: “What about that River-piece for layin’ in to hay?”

And the aged Hobden answered: “I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin’ bad.
An’ the more that you neeglect her the less you’ll get her clean.
Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d dreen.”

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style —
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat—well could Ogier wield his brand—
Much he knew of foaming waters—not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: “What about that River-piece; she doesn’t look no good ?”

And that aged Hobden answered “‘Tain’t for me to interfere.
But I’ve known that bit o’ meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but I’ve proved it time on ‘ time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!”

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours’ solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in’t—
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English—Anglo-Saxon was their name—
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
“Hob, what about that River-bit—the Brook’s got up no bounds ?”

And that aged Hobden answered: “‘Tain’t my business to advise,
But ye might ha’ known ‘twould happen from the way the valley lies.
Where ye can’t hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d spile!”

They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
And planks of elms behind ’em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.

Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
All sorts of powers and profits which—are neither mine nor theirs,

I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish—but Hobden tickles—I can shoot—but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o’er the track-betraying dew ?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew ?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment ? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard—thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher—’tain’t for me to interfere.

“Hob, what about that River-bit ?” I turn to him again,
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
“Hev it jest as you’ve a mind to, but”—and here he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus’ Hobden owns the land.

Kipling, “The Field”

Eddi, priest of St. Wilfrid
In his chapel at Manhood End,
Ordered a midnight service
For such as cared to attend.

But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,
And the night was stormy as well.
Nobody came to service,
Though Eddi rang the bell.

‘Wicked weather for walking,’
Said Eddi of Manhood End.
‘But I must go on with the service
For such as care to attend.

The altar-lamps were lighted, –
An old marsh-donkey came,
Bold as a guest invited,
And stared at the guttering flame.

The storm beat on at the windows,
The water splashed on the floor,
And a wet, yoke-weary bullock
Pushed in through the open door.

‘How do I know what is greatest,
How do I know what is least?
That is My Father’s business,’
Said Eddi, Wilfrid’s priest.

‘But – three are gathered together
Listen to me and attend.
I bring good news, my brethren!’
Said Eddi of Manhood End.

And he told the Ox of a Manger
And a Stall in Bethlehem,
And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider,
That rode to Jerusalem.

They steamed and dripped in the chancel,
They listened and never stirred,
While, just as though they were Bishops,
Eddi preached them The Word

Till the gale blew off on the marshes
And the windows showed the day
And the Ox and the Ass together
Wheeled and clattered away.

And when the Saxons mocked him,
Said Eddi of Manhood End,
‘I dare not shut His chapel
On such as care to attend.’

Kipling

“Oh, where are you going to, all you Big Steamers,
With England’s own coal, up and down the salt seas?”
“We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter,
Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples, and cheese.”

“And where will you fetch it from, all you Big Steamers,
And where shall I write you when you are away?”
“We fetch it from Melbourne, Quebec, and Vancouver.
Address us at Hobart, Hong Kong, and Bombay.”

“But if anything happened to all you Big Steamers,
And suppose you were wrecked up and down the salt sea?”
“Why, you’d have no coffee or bacon for breakfast,
And you’d have no muffins or toast for your tea.”

“Then I’ll pray for fine weather for all you Big Steamers,
For little blue billows and breezes so soft.”
“Oh, billows and breezes don’t bother Big Steamers:
We’re iron below and steel-rigging aloft.”

“Then I’ll build a new lighthouse for all you Big Steamers,
With plenty wise pilots to pilot you through.”
“Oh, the Channel’s as bright as a ball-room already,
And pilots are thicker than pilchards at Looe.”

“Then what can I do for you, all you Big Steamers,
Oh, what can I do for your comfort and good?”
“Send out your big warships to watch your big waters,
That no one may stop us from bringing you food.”

For the bread that you eat and the biscuits you nibble,
The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve,
They are brought to you daily by All Us Big Steamers
And if any one hinders our coming you’ll starve!”

Rudyard Kipling

Big container ships these days, and battleships are history. But we still live on an island so nothing has changed about our dependence on seaborne trade, and few people realise it, I suspect.

When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius—a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: “What about that River-piece for layin’ in to hay?”

And the aged Hobden answered: “I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin’ bad.
An’ the more that you neeglect her the less you’ll get her clean.
Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d dreen.”

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style —
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat—well could Ogier wield his brand—
Much he knew of foaming waters—not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: “What about that River-piece; she doesn’t look no good ?”

And that aged Hobden answered “‘Tain’t for me to interfere.
But I’ve known that bit o’ meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but I’ve proved it time on ‘ time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!”

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours’ solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in’t—
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English—Anglo-Saxon was their name—
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
“Hob, what about that River-bit—the Brook’s got up no bounds ?”

And that aged Hobden answered: “‘Tain’t my business to advise,
But ye might ha’ known ‘twould happen from the way the valley lies.
Where ye can’t hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d spile!”

They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
And planks of elms behind ’em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.

Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
All sorts of powers and profits which—are neither mine nor theirs,

I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish—but Hobden tickles—I can shoot—but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o’er the track-betraying dew ?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew ?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment ? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard—thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher—’tain’t for me to interfere.

“Hob, what about that River-bit ?” I turn to him again,
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
“Hev it jest as you’ve a mind to, but”—and here he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus’ Hobden owns the land.

Rudyard Kipling.

The first happening was and is the attempt by Microsoft to distribute an update for Windows. This evidently contained and error or errors and caused mayhem amongst the Windows using world. This did not directly affect this blog because it runs on Linux Mint, but for those trying to travel and relying on computer systems running on Windows it got difficult. One such was our son, who, taking advantage of a small window in his work schedule decided to pay us a (literally) flying visit from the western USA. He has actually arrived in UK now but crossing the American continent and then changing aircraft to cross the Atlantic was quite nerve wracking.

Meanwhile, we noticed that our neighbour who was out and about in her car on Friday morning had gone out int he afternoon leaving her garage door up as she usually does, and which remained up until we went to bed. It was still up this morning, Saturday, so we began to make a few enquiries to see if anyone knew what had happened to her. It transpires that she was in a road traffic accident somewhere between Castle Douglas and home yesterday and is currently in the Dumfries and Galloway Royal Infirmary. Her daughter from Galashiels came by and said her mother had had a blow to the chest and was being given morphine to combat the pain. But she also seemed tot think that her mother might be discharged later today.

A rainy day – there’s something new !

Our garden maintainer was outside pruning large lumps of shrub off the hedge opposite our house, which he then cut up and put in our black bin. Tomorrow is bin collection day, so later we went out to tie up the bin liner so that when the bin gets turned upside down by the refuse lorry the whole bag comes out. If we don’t do this the contents are liable to go into the wagon, but leave the now filthy liner still in the wheelie bin.

The Postie brought large A4 envelopes in the new all paper, glued together style. The best way to open these is to cut one end or edge right off with scissors and the extract the contents, some of which will be attached to the inside of the envelope by the aforesaid gluing process. Such is progress, all in the name of being green.

Clifford the Tesco man arrived on time at midday and delivered our weekly food supply. Getting it from his boxes into our bags and then into the kitchen and the fridge and cupboards is surprisingly exhausting for Oldies like us, so it merits and sit down and a snooze afterwards.

We hurled ourselves out of our respective beds at the ungodly hour of 8.00 am (I was a hero and did my hurling at 7.30 am and got washed and dressed there and then). The reason for all this madness was that today our cleaning lady was due and we feel we’ve got to be up and doing when she comes, and the house not too untidy. Cleaning up for the cleaning lady may seem a bit counterintuitive, but, there you go. She duly arrived on her electric bike and gave us our two hour’s worth. She has applied for a job, and got one, at a local food preparation firm so we don’t quite know how she is going to combine her factory work with her domestic jobs.

Then it was my turn to set forth to the Health Centre for my monthly blood test which is done by the Health Care Assistant. I noticed on her computer screen that it is classed as a “full blood test”. The results usually take about a week to come back so this time next week we will be ringing up to see where my haemoglobin has got to. It goes down a bit every month and they have set a figure of 80 as the lowest they will permit and if and when it reaches this I am to go and have a blood transfusion.

We then went down into the town and stopped at the baker’s and stocked up with goodies and things for lunch. My “thing” was a bridie – they do very good bridies, well packed with meaty filling and one bridie is a good lunch – as no doubt it was meant to be when eaten by the worker or farm labourer.