Stage 3 - if it's Thursday, this must be ...

Stratford. Via Leicester to spend the afternoon in the Public records Office. Which isn't as boring as it sounds. Husband had a number of documents he wanted to view for his family history research and they were so old I was surprised they allowed us to handle them, and they didn't even make us wear gloves.

From there it was off to Stratford, which wasn't what I expected at all. I mean I knew we were going to Stratford but the town wasn't as I had anticipated. Instead of an old market town, we found a normal small modern-day town. Admittedly it had a few old buildings - but not as many as Chester - but the main thoroughfare was lined with shops we have in Swansea: Next, WH Smith, M & S, and so on.

Of course what we don't have in Swansea is the house in which William Shakespeare was born.

Or the farm cottage that was the home of his wife-to-be, Anne Hathaway. Theirs was an unusual marriage in that he was 18 and she was 26 and three months pregnant when they wed. Men in those days were more likely to be in their late twenties when they married, having served a long apprenticeship to a craftsman first.

Nor do we have Nash House, the home of Shakespeare's grand-daughter, Elizabeth, until her death in 1616. She died childless, so Shakespeare's direct line ended with her.

As we'd only sorted out our trip a few weeks before going I hadn't booked for the theatre. It was sold out, of course, and the only option was to queue for returns.

For two hours I queued - and for one of those hours I was in a queue of one - and it was worth every second.

The main theatre is being rebuilt and the only play on was Macbeth, which was showing in the Swan Theatre, a fairly recent addition of a theatre in the round designed to reflect what it would have been like in Shakespeare's time. The auditorium was incredible. Talk about 'in your face'. I was hooked before the play even started.

The play. It was AMAZING! Dramatic, gripping, scary, powerful: everything Macbeth should be.

P.S. Looking for photos I saw a review in the Independent of this production: it was not so enthusiastic, but, hey, I'm a small town girl not a pretentious theatre critic. What do I know?

Stage 2 - we wandered lonely as two clouds

As we drove into the Lake District, Husband bemoaned the fact that,as he was driving, he couldn't look at the scenery properly. I replied that he wasn't missing much. 'It's just a lake.'

I think, if he hadn't been driving, he would have rolled his eyes.

But a lake is just a large flat body of water, unlike the sea, which I love for its ever-changing moods. No, it's not the lakes that make the Lake District beautiful as much as the mountains.

We were staying in an hotel on the edge of Windermere, which is England's largest lake at ten miles long and one mile wide at its widest, but it was the lakes slightly further north that were lovelier because of the more dramatic hills surrounding them.

We spent one afternoon walking around Lake Buttermere.

The Lake District is, of course, Wordworth and Beatrix Potter country. Wordsworth lived for some time in Dove Cottage in the village of Grasmere, with his sister and then later, with his wife and her sister as well. Plus several children. It's little wonder he preferred to spend his days walking the fells.

In Wordsworth's day, Dove Cottage was on the main road and he grumbled about the number of tourists passing his house. However that didn't stop him writing a guidebook to the area (still in print).

He was good friends with poets, De Quincy and Samuel Coleridge Taylor, and both visited him in the cottage. They were both also opium addicts, and, on display, in the cottage is the scales used for weighing out the opium. The guide didn't say if it was the host's duty to provide the drug for his guests.

'Morning, Samuel, here's your coffee and toast. Oh, and your daily opium ration. I hope it is to your liking. The supplier told me that it's a particularly fine blend from the Northern China hills.'

When Wordsworth was offered the post of Poet Laureate he refused saying that poetry should be inspired not written to order, but he must have been persuaded because, for the last six years of his life he was poet to the Queen. However he didn't write a single poem for Victoria in that time, making him the only poet in PL history to not write a dedicated poem to the monarch.

By the time we got to Miss Potter's house it was closed. At least the ticket office was closed and we couldn't work out exactly which house was hers. Apparently the National Trust, owners of the property, think it is being over-visited and try to limit numbers. Not signposting the house is one way of putting off tourists, I suppose.

There were hundreds of ducks and swans on Windermere, and, unlike the NT, they like visitors who feed them till they're bursting. They can be rather demanding though.

One thing Wordsworth would not have to have had put up with was low-flying jets. What effect they have on innocent civilians in Iraq I can't imagine but they frightened me to death. The pilot of this one gave us a wave!

xx

1001 miles

All the travelling he does stood Husband in good stead when he realised he had amassed enough points to take me away for 6 nights in 4-star hotels all for free.

The one catch was that we could only spend two nights in any hotel. (We could have stayed for longer but would have had to pay. Lots.) But that wasn't a problem: Husband planned an itinerary to include a number of places of literary and family history interest.

First stop was Chester, which had neither literary not family history connection but was close enough to the North Wales to allow us to spend a day visiting places we'd never been before.

Now if you're in Britain or if you've heard any news, you'll know that this has been the worst June weather week for - well, probably ever. Fortunately, for us at least, most of the worst flooding was on the east side of England, and apart from one day we managed to miss the rain.

But that one day ...

Clockwise from top (but can you tell the difference?)

Prestatyn

Rhyl

Llandudno

I'm back!

The last thing I said to Harvey before we set off for our hols last Saturday was, 'Now, don't be ill while we're away!' And what is the first thing he does?

Sunday evening we were trying to decide whether we should go home after a phone call from Younger Son saying that Harvs hadn't got up for 36 hours. Daughter offered to travel up from Devon and look after Harvey while Younger Son was in work. They said he was alert and eating just not able to stand. We suspected that he'd fallen and had got stuck and lost his confidence. And that seems to have been the case.

We were supposed to be finishing our holiday by going to Devon today until Monday but we came straight home instead. Harvey is ... all right. Yes, he's - okay. He can walk when helped up and can even manage to get himself up if the temptation - left-over steak - is enough. He's not in pain and he's happy, so we'll just wait and see.

So, the holiday. Remember what I said in the last post?

Normal service will be resumed ...

when we get back from our jolly jaunt around England.

We've been forecast traditional British summer weather so we're thinking of stopping en route to buy a thermos so we can sit in the car, drinking tea, looking at the view through the rain-splattered windscreen.

I'll be back a week Tuesday, so I hope to see you then. Have a good week.

Saturday Photohunt - Shiny

Come Sunday, this shiny object will have been on my finger for 29 years, without ever coming off.

I'm afraid I'm not gong to be able to do much visiting this Photohunt as we're off on holiday tomorrow and I'm a little behind. (Well, I've a big behind actually.) I'll miss next week's but I'll be back for the following Photohunt. See you then.

Rainy days and Fridays

It's a wet grey day here today reminding me of what was probably the most depressing wedding I ever attended.

It was wet summer's day then, and the wedding ceremony was held in an open-sided tent on the lawn of an hotel. In my sleeveless summer dress, with the wind whipping through the tent, my goose-pimples had goose-pimples.

The couple had written their own vows, which included the promise to try and stay friends should they split up. Not a hopeful way to start married life.

But the best bit (or worst) came in the reception. That was indoors in a small dark room that, with the rain outside and the crowd inside, was humid and muggy. The waiter, who was serving the main course of chicken in a sauce, was just putting mine on my plate when a drip of sweat rolled down his nose and dripped off the end, right into the serving dish of chicken.
I don't think anyone else noticed and - as I'd had mine! - and I was worried that he might get sacked, I didn't say anything. Do you think I should have done?!

My classification is ...

Thanks to Jams for this link.

Fellow bloggers ...

have a lot to answer for!

I saw a youtube video on Welshcakes's blog and that reminded me that I wanted to look for a Victoria Wood video. I couldn't find the bit I wanted but came across the one below and that made me laugh so there it is.

Then I went to Serena's blog and found the 'What will your famous last words be?' quiz and was so amused by the result, I had to blog it here. On the plus side, I didn't start doing every quiz listed in the sidebar, which is what usually happens when I go there.

I just have to find out what colour my inner child is, what my Simpson's character is, what song I should strip to, and which great artist should have painted my portrait. I mean, you've just got to know these things, haven't you?

What will your last words be?

Your Famous Last Words Will Be:

"Nice doggy."

What Will Your Famous Last Words Be?

Victoria Wood and Julie Walters

On the town

Husband is away and I have a date tonight!

Husband is okay about it: he is says he is now owed a date with a floozie.

I'm going to the theatre with Derek, my crazy writing buddy, to the Play-offs. Local writers submit short plays and some are performed at the Play-offs, where the audience get to vote for their favourite (who then goes to the finals later in the year).

Derek and I have been planning a joint play-writing project for months so maybe this will help get us moving.

I hope there'll be chocolate on sale as I'll be going straight from circuits again. After the now-traditional wipe-down with a wet lettuce.

June is bursting out

The view from our kitchen side window: the mock orange is in full bloom.

When I was a little girl my mum planted a mock orange bush in our then garden. She said, 'You can carry that when you get married.'

She died before I was married - three years before I even met Husband - but I had some of the blossom incorporated into my bouquet.

I just fell out of an airship!

My alter-ego has been to SL, to visit Last Ditch's mansion where the Blogpower award ceremony will be.

I was doing fine, until I started talking to Ruthie about Little C and shoes. Then I fell out of the airship.

But I'll be back. If I can work out how to get in again.
xx

Dogs and devils

Harvey is feeling a little better today and he thanks everyone for their kind wishes. Mum says he's certainly barking better.

Because of his back leg problems we've put bits of carpets all over our lovely wooden kitchen floor. The things we do for dogs.

Dog, n. A kind of additional or subsidiary Deity designed to catch the overflow and surplus of the world's worship. This Divine Being in some of his smaller and silkier incarnations, takes, in the affection of Woman, the place to which there is no human male aspirant.

From The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce.

I wouldn't argue with that except to except to query the specification of small and silky; in my experience dogs of every shape and degree of silkiness hold the highest place in Woman's regard.

P.S. I read about the Devil's Dictionary on Russian Wolfhound's blog. I'd never heard of this exceptional little book before. It was first published in 1911, written by a man described as 'a Yankee Oscar Wilde'.

Alliance, n. In international politics, the union of two thieves who have their hands so deeply inserted in each other's pocket that they cannot separately plunder a third.

Immigrant, n. An unenlightened person who thinks one country better than another.

Father's food

As Younger Son was away all weekend, and the other two live far away, it fell to me to look after Husband on father's Day. For dinner he had smoked salmon and cream cheese roll-type things, followed by crown roast of lamb with apricot stuffing, new potatoes roasted in olive oil and sprinkled with salt, broccoli and carrots. And very nice it was even if I say so myself.

There was red fruit salad for pudding but he was too full (especially as he'd eaten half a box of Lindt truffles). (But I enjoyed some with strawberry cheesecake ice cream.)

Diet begins again today. Definitely.

Happy Father's day!

Husband - probably the best dad in the world - and his dad.

Father's Day

Last Sunday I was part of the team taking the services in prison. In the run-up to Father's Day we were looking at difficult father-child relationships.

A few years ago I was asked to write something for the Father's day service in church. Now I never knew my father so I wasn't really the best person to ask, but i wrote something that reflected that. I read it in prison last week, and thought it would be good to publish here as well. I shall probably get our old friend, Anonymous, accusing me of being a 'miserable so'n'so' again but I hope others will view it more positively.


I can call him Lord, God, faithful one, saviour, creator, anything, except Father. I can’t call him that.

I never knew my father. He disappeared before I was born. I can only assume he didn't think I’d be good enough to make hanging around worthwhile.
When you’ve never known a father, it’s hard to accept a father’s love. When all you have is an empty space how can you relate to one others call father?
All the parables, all the stories in the world, don’t make it real, can’t fill a void, make known the unknown. You can say, ‘Our father, who art in heaven,’ without feeling a word of it.
And yet.

Most of my life, I’ve lived a half life. But now, I is becoming me. I’m learning how to uncover the person I was created to be.
Through my words, written and read, I’m discovering who I am. My writing is an extension of me, it makes me whole
Through it my thoughts are given shape and substance. I have something worth saying, something worth hearing.
Through my writing I can view myself as valuable, worthy, not because I write or because of what I write but, by its very being, my writing earths my existence. My words are as much part of me as my eyes or my toes. Before finding them, I was missing an element as vital to my well-being as calcium is to my bones.
Releasing them allows me to be me, wholly me.

And the key to that release has been meeting God, being accepted into his family.
So I live in that new life, no longer a fatherless child. Instead one whose family has demonstrated a father’s love and allowed me to experiment, learn, develop and build confidence without fear of being knocked back.

I used to think that growing up without a father was my loss but maybe it was his.
I still can’t call God Father but one day, when we meet, it’ll be the only word I’ll need.

In which Harvey is not happy

We took Harvey to the vet today. For the last 36 hours he's been alternately pacing the floor and sleeping, and he's not happy.

The vet wasn't very happy either. He didn't seem to think much of our description of the symptoms. But you just know when your dog's not happy.

He was a new vet who hasn't seen Harvey before so he just told us all the things we already knew about his condition; he didn't seem to think there was any extra problem.

When we left the vet I grumbled but Husband said it was he'd been expecting. He only agreed to the trip to placate me.

Well, we'll see how Harvs gets on.

Saturday Photohunt - Hair