Everything Else

On The Prime Meridian, Day Two

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Thoughts and Prayers

I woke early.

Sunrise over the Bluestone Ridge, Lincolnshire Wolds

As with our previous holiday, I enjoy observing the quirks of cottage, like the motion sensitive lights in Anglesey which I had to activate by waving broccoli at them. Here it is the noisiest fridge I have ever come across. Not that I am a seasoned fridge expert. It is almost constantly bubbling and whirring away to itself. Hang on. It’s just stopped. Like the death of the Martian call in Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds, the silence is unbearable.

On the way back from our top up shopping, the promise of a geocache leads us to the little Saxon church at Lusby. It is one of the joys of geocaching that many members place caches in interesting places. It is not all about the numbers. This being a case in point. Not finding the cache didn’t matter. The church was a joy to visit.

 

St Peter’s Church, Lusby, which has stonework dating from Saxon times.

There was a sign warning of ponies in the churchyard, but they were either elsewhere or very very tiny.

I imagine that if I lived nearby, this would be my refuge as and when I needed it.

On a related note, it is Open Churches Weekend in West Lindsey. Somewhere we had driven past on previous holidays but not visited is St Mary’s in Stow. The church pre-dates nearby Lincoln Cathedral, and boasts Viking graffiti, believed by some to be from the 12th century. Entering the church at the moment is like entering a building site, probably because it is one. The roof is undergoing repairs, costing in excess of £500,000. 

The fine stone in-laid vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows.

Above the ceiling is a void with a floor of jagged stone edges. It is said that if you can find the right one, removing it will cause that segment of the ceiling to fall to the floor below.

Someone must have used a step ladder to reach and polish this censer.

It is a majestic building in comparison to the many little chapels and churches in the surrounding villages, second in grandeur possibly only to the cathedral itself.  Lusby chapel would fit inside several times over and I would be inside that chapel.

We spent lunch in an elevated lay-by near RAF Scampton with some bikers, waiting for something that never happened. I can’t tell you what it was, because it never graced us with its presence.

Later we make a random choice of b-road and we are presented with a turning signposted Wickenby Aerodrome and RAF memorial. Wickenby was a base for Lancasters in the second World War and a maintenance unit was based here long after. There is a small memorial, sadly devoid of commemorative panels (stolen) and statue (stored in fear of theft). It declares the price paid for our freedom.  A freedom that some have chosen to use to deface the memory of the fallen.

Just inside the aerodrome perimeter is a memorial walk. Trees planted and dedicated to individuals and or crews. It is very moving. The words “an uncle never known” are too painful for me to consider dry-eyed.

We continue our walk to the end of one runway and pause a while.

Looking along one of the runways at Wickenby Aerodrome

We are again a little early to return, and head for afternoon coffee in a favourite lay-by near Burgh On Bain. Last time we visited, Si grabbed the cache here before I had got the car door open. We check that it is still present before we leave.

Before dinner, we stroll along the lane and grab a couple of caches, taking in the gentle beauty surrounding us.

View from Clay Lane, Little London, Tetford

It’s a pleasant end to a thoughtful day.

MinG

On The Prime Meridian, Day One

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And we’re off.

The journey from west to meridian takes about three and half hours. We leave at 0715 and, knowing that our residence for the week wll not be available until after 1600, we will have time to kill. Himself has concerns, I have plans.

I take the wheel for the first leg of the journey, which is grey, wet and windy. We skirt Manchester and head over the Woodhead Pass. A pleasure in good weather, a slow grind today in a long train behind the obligatory petrol tanker.

Stop One is a quick changeover near, well, nowhere in particular. Himself takes the wheel and I start to relax, which is not good because I’m supposed to be navigating. Only one minor diversion. Usually I can hide my errors (he has no sense of direction), but the even if the sun hadn’t been so low, he would have spotted the complete about-turn at the next roundabout. Maybe I should have asked him to drive around it a few times to disorientate him.

Usual exchange:
“This looks familiar.”
“I thought so too, that must be a feature round these parts.”

Soon we are at Roche Abbey for Stop Two. Last visited two years ago and still ruinously splendid. The light wasn’t very good, so I’ve applied a little snapseed magic:

It was a Cistercian abbey, dissolved like so many in Henry VIIIs reign. The locals assisted in its physical collapse, and one wonders what pleasure they took in finding fine building materials at the expense of The Church. You might think of monks as pious individuals, praying constantly, healing the sick and feeding the hungry, but there is evidence that many in England did not live such a Godly life.

Roche might have been different. There is an extensive infirmary. That said, we are only too aware in the twenty-first century of the effects of a diet of excess, so maybe this was for residents use only.

Stop Three is a cute little windmill at Tuxford. It is National Mills weekend and the entrance fee has been waived. As usual, I climb up all available stairs and himself keeps feet on terra firma. There are five floors (it doesn’t look that tall from the ground), and they are milling today in a fine breeze.  The change in the turning speed of the stones as the strength of the breeze rises and falls takes me by surprise. I keep fingers and clothing well away.

 

We purchase flour and muesli but, because of some obscure health and safety rule, we are refused cake. Hrumph.

After a lunch break in a non-scenic lay-by and a stop for provisions at our 2013  holiday base in Doddington we are on the last leg of our journey. Except that we are too early to collect the cottage keys and must kill time at a local garden centre where cake is not refused and we head to local land mark, the Belmont  Mast.

This 1154 foot tall structure is television transmission station. In 2010 was shortened  by roughly 100 feet. Prior to this it was considered the tallest structure of its kind in the world.

We park up with a good view and good cake (at last). Stop Five is also the setting for our first geocache find of this holiday. We exchange a very shiny plastic key for a plastic soldier, who I name Lincolnshire Tommy.  Si points out that he should really be an airman to be from Lincolnshire, but he is quite clearly a soldier and the name sticks.

We set off too soon and have to make Stop Six. Where there isn’t a geocache or cake, just a lay-by overlooking the mast (if you look over your shoulder).

Soon we are the cottage. It is as pretty as as I remember it from seven years ago.

After unpacking, unwinding and dining, we take a brief stroll into the adjoining village. It is a warm Saturday evening and young men stand outside the inn. We take a tour of the churchyard, then head back to the cottage, bagging a cache on the way.

It has been a good start to the week.

MinG

On The Prime Meridian, Nearly

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And breathe. The out of office is set, Min the cat is in her holiday home, and the car is just about packed.

The title refers to our position relative to acknowledged time lines. Tomorrow we will be holidaying in Lincolnshire, an undervalued county in our opinion, but we’ll not complain. We would not want everyone to descend upon our peace.

Our base for the week will be a hamlet called Little London. There are several other Little Londons in the UK. They are on the Greenwich Time Line, giving their connection to our capital city, hence the name. The similarities just about stop there.

I thought that I would look a little into how and why Greenwich became recognised as longtitude zero, otherwise know as the Prime Meridian and I give you a Wikipedia fuelled nutshell:

– The Greek Eratosthenes developed the notion of longtitude;

– Ptolemy developed this further suggesting a Prime Meridian running approximately through The Canaries;

– Increased long distance sea travel and the development of the naval chronometer demanded a more accurate method of mapping and the agreement of the line of longitude zero.

– In 1884, the International Meridian Conference held in Washington, D.C. voted to adopt the Sir George Airy’s Greenwich  meridian as the prime meridian.

– The French wanted a neutral line, abstained and continued to use the Paris meridian until 1911.

– Many Prime Meridians are listed by Wikipedia, surely a contradiction in terms?

– The Airy Meridian is at GPS   0° 00′ 05.3101″ W.

As far as I am concerned, for the coming week, we got ‘tude zero!

MinG

Click-Clack-Thwack

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He could smell the wool, almost taste it. Even from several feet away.

Alison put her arm around him.

“Don’t fret my love. I know that it’s hard for you, but you did the right thing. No-one could have expected you to carry on by yourself. It wasn’t possible.”

Less than twelve months ago, Gavin Hughes had been a fourth generation mill owner. His forefathers had passed down the tradition through the years, instilling the love of the fibres, bestowing upon him the skills and secrets learnt over scores of years, until it all ended. With one son running a successful construction business in Australia, and the other studying a PhD in Genomics at Cambridge, there was no-one to take on the heritage. No-one to be the fifth generation. No-one.

Alison would tell him that it was not his fault that neither child had seen a future in wool, that other factors left the business untenable, but Gavin had a strong belief in “where there’s a will, there’s a way”. He knew that he hadn’t done enough to encourage Mathew, whose love of anything mechanical was ideal for keeping the Victorian machinery working. But the boy was more interested in fast cars and local girls, and too many heated exchanges had burned that bridge. Owen was too bright to be tied to the Teifi Valley. That was clear from an early age.

The local wool museum had offered apprentices, but Gavin’s stickling for tight timekeeping and short temper resulted in a high turnover in staff (unlike the sales) and the supply of willing volunteers ran dry.

As did the Teifi, several times a year. Perhaps those loony-leftie tree huggers had a point about global warming thought Gavin. A watermill cannot run without a water, and if there wasn’t a drought, there was a flood, overfilling the mill pond and spilling past the head race. Feast or famine. Drought or flood. Not biblical proportions, but enough to wonder if someone up there had it in for you.

As a child, Gavin had been fascinated by how shaggy fleeces had been turned into soft blankets of many colours. The willowing, turning the washed fleece into fine wisps like the hair of the angels. The fierce looking carding machines, aggressively drawing the wisps through an intricate route around their enormous drums. The click-clack-thwack as the shuttle shot across the loom, only to be returned with equal ferocity, then back again.

But now there was only silence. The fleeces were gone, the machines had been sold as scrap and the shell of the mill awaited the property developers. They said the conversion would be sympathetic to the history of the area. Gareth didn’t care. He had betrayed his ancestors and deserted his trade. He would live a comfortable but troubled retirement in Beaumaris, and never return to the Teifi.

MinG

Ref: Writing101, Day 9 Prompt: A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene.

Writing 101 Day 7 and 8: Night and Day

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Please take the time to read this beautiful spin on a recent writing 101 prompt.

Smiley in the Mirror's avatarSmiley in the Mirror

Night and Day met at dusk and exchanged their daily pleasantries

“I’m as warm as I’ve ever felt” said Night, in a husky voice. “I’m warm and cool and dry and moist, none sleep save those whom you exhausted.”

“I burned everyone foolish or unfortunate to step out under my power” Day rumbled, proud and full of himself.

“My light baked their land, their crops and their minds”

“Your cruelty and kindness are already known to all” said Night “Stop boasting!”

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Writing 101: Mind Unlocked

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“Today, take twenty minutes to free write. And don’t think about what you’ll write. Just write.”

Well, having read the instructions for the course, I’m not sure if I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. I’ve taken that plunge into the deep waters, without considering the middle depths that splits this place from the comforting pull of the shallow end.

I’ll confess right now that I am editing a little as I go along. Twenty minutes of heading off into Lord knows where without looking back over your shoulder isn’t my style. I’m used to rules, order, cross checks and validation. I’m typing this into word to upload later, but to be honest, I’m happier building something in excel.

So why write?

Well, I feel limited by my profession. It’s not that it isn’t satisfying within its own bounds, but I am more than its bounds allow. So I set up a “me” space on wordpress and I wrote. A little. Mainly when on holiday. In between the time when I sit in my own space and “do my thing” and the day job, there are flashes on inspiration. Some even when I am constructing the formula in cell C1. But how to turn those flashes into something readable? Something worthy. Not worthy, I don’t really like the word. It conjures up images of long full skirts with high elasticated-waistbands. And sensible shoes. Although I am a fan of the latter. I hope to produce something that someone out there will enjoy, and maybe be inspired by.

It isn’t helped by the lack of “life experience”. I was lucky enough to have a happy up-bringing with loving parents, a good education and I made the most of that. I have a husband who loves me and we live a simple but comfortable existence.

So am I saying that art has to be created from adversity? My favourite pieces are in a minor key.

But as I sit here typing my thoughts as they appear, with a backdrop of Eno’s Ambient 1 (track 1 – a good timer), I fear that I will experience what Kazuo Ishiguro recently related in an interview publicising his latest book. In his youth he attended a writing course run by Malcolm Bradbury. The students had given up a year of their life to develop their literary muscles. Many had self-funded. They knew that they had not been able to fulfil their dream of professional writing because of constraints. Constraints placed upon them by work, or family, lack of space. How heart breaking for them to discover that, when presented with the blank canvas and the time to fill it, they had nothing to say.

What if that is me?
Eno track 1 has completed which means that I must stop in two minutes. I will re-read. I’m not so brave to publish blind, yet…

MinG

The Answer Is Never

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Thank you Marneymae for reblogging. A powerful read and well worth sharing. At 11 I announced that I never wanted to get married. Presumably because I thought it was a stepping stone to motherhood. My friends thought I was odd. As I enter my late forties, I know that my decision not to have children has been right for me. I wince inwardly when people refer to my lack of maternal instinct. I can mother a child, cat or another adult without wanting a child. I am not lacking.

Longreads's avatarLongreads

Sabine Heinlein | Longreads | April 2015 | 16 minutes (3,886 words)

One time, when I was in my early twenties, I shared a hospital room with a mother of many. I had a skin infection that wouldn’t respond to oral medication, and the 50-something-year-old woman had severe, inexplicable hives. Our main topic of conversation revolved around neither of our ailments. It was about my not wanting to have children. She was insistent, which seemed ironic considering her hives flared up whenever her family visited her on Sundays. I eventually compromised with the woman. Okay, I said, I will put off my decision until I reach my thirties. “You are starry-eyed,” she huffed. “You young women want it all. But you can’t have it all!” Maybe, I thought, some of us don’t want it all.

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60k On The Clock

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In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Ephemeral.”

60k

I make no apology for the quality of the image. This was taken when I was a passenger in my husband’s car, and the milometer had just done that magical thing and moved on from 59999 to 60000. Not everyone gets so excited about that moment but we did. We patted the dash and said something like “Good old Dave, 60k and still running well”. All our cars have had names. At least since I decided they should. Now that is a whole new thread….

Reading the title of the photo challenge, my mind was initially pulled towards clouds, sunsets, magical views glimpsed by chance. I then started to consider the definition:

 Lasting for a very short time

And I thought about our place on earth. We each last a very short time, relatively speaking. As I trawled through old photos, looking for a moody graveyard shot, I came across this, and I thought “Ahh, yes.”

It’s a pretty poor example of digital photography (I think that I used my then phone, the trusty HTC Radar), but it captured that moment. Actually, it didn’t. A single shot couldn’t capture the exact moment that 60k showed up. You would need two shots, before and after. Better still, a short video clip.

But why did I bother? Why were we so hung up on capturing that moment? It was meaningless. Just a number. Made less significant by the fact that we didn’t buy the car from new. So this didn’t mark 60,000 miles together. We were on our way back from a short holiday. It seemed appropriate at the time that our automotive buddy had hit the Big Six-O on a journey home. Why? I honestly have no idea.

On a related note, the break had been postponed because we had been caring for our sick cat when first planned. He wasn’t well enough to stay in a cattery, so the holiday company let us reschedule. Said cat died the following new year.  After a good innings, but relatively ephemeral existence. We are accustomed to marking significant anniversaries. Birthdays, weddings, important events in history. I understand that.

What I don’t understand is my need to sigh wistfully at about ten past six on a Sunday evening, and think about that cat.

I might raise a glass, or mug of tea, sometimes, “To our dear lost friend. Never forgotten”. The time varies, I can’t even get that right because at on the original Sunday evening, I was more consumed by the sadness of the situation to take note of the exact time of departure. Why the ritual?

I can only assume that I, like many others, do this to not forget. It’s a practice that was instilled in many of us at a young age. Remembrance Day, St George’s Day, Christmas. Each on their own set day of the year. Why should we be forced to feel grateful, patriotic or celebratory at these times? I can be paralysed with grief over the loss of the cat at the unlikeliest of moments. I can also be minded of his traits and I will smile. I won’t forget. The Sunday ritual only serves to keep the wound fresh and do I really need that?

As I write this post, it is the first Sunday of British Summer Time (yes it’s all ours folks!) The clocks have been moved forward.

What could more ephemeral than an hour taken before it has started.

I wonder at what time I should raise the glass?

MinG

Blue Smiles Today

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Short, sweet and insightful. Heading home soon to put some air in my tyres….

Mother Hen's avatarIn Other Words and Pictures

DSCN3890

Stephanie over at Life With a Yellow Bike inspired me to put air in Blue’s tires and go for a ride. The sun was out all day. The sky held a few wispy clouds and there was a slight breeze. Yellow bike has had a lot of adventures and Stephanie offers plenty of good reading about their outings. I highly recommend a visit, when you have some time. It has been brought to my attention that there are people here at WordPress that have needs. I won’t be specific but there are hurting hearts, there is illness and then there are needs that animals have too.. Sometimes I wonder how different our world would be if people truly looked out for one another.. May the  season of winter not be a forecast of what is in your heart, may there be plenty of sunshine and laughter to get you through…

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Tuppence For My Thoughts : 1998

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Found in the box of coins.

Found in the box of coins.

This is a slightly late response to the Daily Post entitled Buffalo Nickel:

“Dig through your couch cushions, your purse, or the floor of your car and look at the year printed on the first coin you find. What were you doing that year?”

I made an eyes-closed dip into the box of coins which I keep in the den and drew the coin you see pictured above. The coin is a 1998 two pence piece, known as a “tuppence” in ye olde Englishe, is made of copper-plated steel, but is often just referred to as a copper coin.

I was slightly surprised to find something over 10 years old, but old coppers are hardy little chaps.

Anyway, back to 1998. This post has not only made me think about what we were doing, but what weren’t yet.

Home Sweet Home

We were both still in our thirties. This was the first full year that my much beloved and myself spent in the first (and only) property that we bought together. It was home and still is. We were having all the window frames replaced, although we had the original 1930s leaded lights re-fitted, and were facing up to the responsibility of a slightly larger than average sized garden. It was the garden that help sell the house.  We’re lucky to have good sized gardens to front and rear, giving privacy and space. I vividly remember us standing at the bottom of the garden looking back at the house in the previous summer. Despite a few issues with the house, we just knew it was right. Nearly 18 years on, we are still here. I think that we made the right choice.

In 1998, we hadn’t yet had the pleasure of tasty home grown produce. We’re still beginners on this front, but I’m always willing to learn.

 

On The Road

Automotively speaking, my pride and joy back then was an old Rover Mini Mayfair called Henry. Si  gave him the name when I had test driven Henry and another mini, a Mini Sprite. The Sprite was a more basic model and when we walked past the smart little Mayfair, Si said “He’s so posh. We would have to call him Henry”. Well, a car named is a car sold, so I extended my budget and the deal was done. Henry had a walnut dashboard. I bought him alloy wheels and a gear knob to match the dash. I sill have that knob somewhere.

Henry the Mini Mayfair

Henry the Mini Mayfair

Me and Henry visited local craft fairs, where I sold my hand-crafted jewellery and beads. It was no mean feat fitting two folding display boards, signs and stock into that little motor, but I did it and Henry and myself had a fun time on the road. I was sorry to sell the little chap, but he was getting a bit long in the tooth and felt rather small and slightly vulnerable on busy roads. In an old mini your body is the crumple zone. But he was great fun to drive, especially around roundabouts. Sometimes I would deliberately miss a junction just to go around one more time.

Much beloved drove  a blue BMW 328 with more grunt, but a lot less personality.

 

New Best Friend

1998 saw our first cat share our home. He was called Hughes and had a very calm personality. Hughes knew things, which he kept to himself.

The Very Thoughtful Hughes

 

We took Hughes in when a friend’s mother died and he needed a home. He was initially quite concerned about his change in abode and kept hiding, which is common for a cat facing upheaval.

On his second day with us, I had been left in charge, and settled down to watch television coverage of the Italian national football team in the World Cup in the room where Hughes  was currently hiding. Unfortunately for Hughes, just as he had mustered up enough courage to venture out from cover, the Azzuri scored. I expressed my pleasure at this by shouting “Yes!”, and Hughes scampered back into hiding, which sadly was the moment when I noticed him. Oops. Treats and soft words won his confidence and things improved between us after that!

 

Technologically Speaking

I should point out at this stage that we still have the same TV (bought in the mid to late 80s). Yes, our big fat Cathode Ray goggle box at the time of writing was displaying the Manchester City vs Barcelona game, which I was not watching, so our current cat slept undisturbed.

Talking of technology, which I wasn’t, things were quite different.Our PC  in 1998 ran Windows 95. Minesweeper was my preferred game and my mobile phone (Panasonic) was, like the TV, fat and clunky. Unlike the TV, I no longer have the phone! Our connection to the internet was on a 56k modem which made emitted a screaming binary chant (some of which I can still ‘sing’) as it formed a communication link to the outside world. There was no broadband.

In case you have never heard the sound of the modem dial up, or for those who would like a little trip down memory lane, click here.

 

That’s Entertainment

There was also no Geocaching, but the first recognised cache was only two years away. It took us another 12 years to join in…We hadn’t discovered the local network of footpaths.
Musically, amongst many others, we were listening to post-Marillion Fish and post-Fish Marillion. Much beloved prefers Fish-led Marillion but I prefer them separate. This Strange Engine was probably being played a lot, including the beautiful but haunting Estonia .

 

Physically we were both a little slimmer with less grey hair. Himself was still clean shaven and had shorter hair than me – that’s changed.  But we are still the same crazy, sarcastic, loved-up couple that we were then. Long may it last.

 

MinG