Passing By.

A Harvest Moon Rises Above the Trees
in October

Welcome sightings from my windows.

October Again and a Magnificent Rainbow Lights the Sky

A Hot Air Balloon Sails Past in Spring

Dogs, Large and Small.

In a week when television has been full of programmes about animals and particularly about small dogs in designer clothes, I feel thankful that our family dog is a solid Shar Pei who would object strongly to being arrayed in special clothes, or any clothes at all.

Latest Shar Pei photograph.

One programme was beyond belief as an elderly couple organised a wedding for their two Norfolk terriers - lively little dogs who'd lived together happily for years. They were dressed as bride and groom with a bridesmaid and various doggy guests, all similarly attired and very well behaved. There was music and flowers and petals thrown over them and even a wedding service! I wonder if they will live together even more happily than before or if there'll be a doggy divorce some day.

Chaos.

Who would have thought that a dripping shower in the bathroom could cause such chaos in the kitchen?

There was no dramatic flood or really obvious damage to the ceiling; only a small bulge that I might have ignored except for a sugar basin that had mysteriously filled with water.  And it all went wrong from there.

What seemed like a small repair job snowballed into a major operation when the artexed kitchen ceiling was found to contain asbestos.  ASBESTOS? Wasn’t that something to do with factories and industry and chest problems? Certainly not with my nice little house in a pleasant cul-de-sac

Nevertheless a few days later a convoy of white vans arrived; men in space suits and helmets sealed off every kitchen door and cupboard with what looked like black lino;  two ceiling-high tents blocked the way into the hall.

In the middle of the operation the apprentice fell off the back of the van and for a few minutes it seemed as though an ambulance would be added to the chaos, however a bag of frozen peas and a pain killer worked wonders and the operation continued. A notice pinned to the front door ordered “All Waste Materials This Way."                         

and the back door had weird pipes leading outside.  However, the whole operation was completed before lunch-time and I was left with rafters and wires and a promise that a new ceiling would be put up next day.

But somebody forgot to arrange that and I had to wait till the end of the week.

As for the shower – it is half mended and no longer drips but six weeks on, I'm hoping the job will be finished soon!!

August

Another month of unbelievable sunshine and restless nights when the temperatures refused to drop.

My own month has been a mixture of magical drives across the moors with the sun shimmering on distant horizons and heather beginning to turn purple at each side of the road; or to the sea, glorious blue skies over sea and sands, seen against golden cornfields creating a scene to remember when the days shorten and the temperatures drop.

Then there was that sudden impulse that sent me to the Edinburgh Festival and the Book Fair to absorb the special atmosphere of books and book-lovers; to have lunch in the Charlotte Bronte marquee and share a table with ladies who were ready to discuss their favourite authors. And afterwards to enjoy the street entertainers of the Fringe Festival; the gymnasts and the jugglers and the man who stood on his head to earn a living but that head was in a bucket!

On a wider scene there has been the 50^th anniversary of Dr Martin Luther King’s

“I have a Dream” speech. Radio 4 interviewed a lady who’d been present that day as a 12 year old child.  She remembered being taken to the Lincoln Memorial in Washington by her mother who was a domestic worker for wealthy white families and often took the little girl with her.  She told how she was allowed to play with the children of those families but their dolls were white. Hers were black! Since then she’s felt that people ought to be known for what they are and not for the colour of their skin.

On August 30th came the unexpected death of Seamus Heaney, aged 74.  He was a Nobel prize-winner and said to be ‘The greatest Irish poet since W.B.Yeats. A giant of the literary world.’  ‘A poet to be grateful for; a generous and gentle person who wore his wisdom very lightly.’

And yesterday, September 1^st , veteran broadcaster Sir David Frost died suddenly from a heart attack whilst holidaying on a cruise ship. He was also 74.

They were wonderful people who will be greatly missed. 

Middleton-in-Teesdale

Middleton-in-Teesdale on the eve of its 50th Annual Carnival.
And the sun shone all weekend.
 

Wear Valley Writers Go Walking.

On the last Sunday in June some of the Wear Valley Writers met at Harehope Quarry near Frosterley for a literary walk that would offer inspiration for our writing. We were led by one of our own group. 

(See  below.)

On Sunday July 28  at 2pm, another of our members will lead us round Vinovium, the Roman site on the outskirts of Bishop Auckland. He is a volunteer there and very knowledgeable about the site, so we look forward to an informative afternoon.

If you are a writer and interested in this idea you are welcome to join us.

The following report recorded my impressions of the day.

A tangled mass of leaves - every shade and every shape - hide the gurgling stream that is Bollihope Burn so very far below.  The narrow river, brown as the earth, ripples peacefully between ancient stones for all the world as though it wasn’t hidden deep, deep down below the level of the path.

There is no sound from the nearby caravan park and the sun is behind a cloud. We are in a separate world where green hills surround us with remote farmhouses dotting their sides, stone-built and strong against the Weardale weather.

And so we start to walk, glad of our collars to pull up against the cold wind – uphill at first on an easy tarmac path then turning to a narrow track.  Wild flowers are everywhere; pink and white Clover; Vetch; Ladies Fingers; Marguerites and grasses; Thistles and Star of Bethlehem. May blossom is in the hedges with the gentle hum of bees all round it.  Silent sheep move in one field and brown and white cattle graze in another.

But it all changes as we clamber down uneven steps to a gorge and a dry-stone riverbed where the burn flows underneath the surface, appearing only in the harshest of winters.  It is the result of weathering of the limestone. There are potholes and caves and resurgent streams – Karst scenery an information board explains.

As if to compensate for this harshness a square block of Frosterley Marble sits beyond the bridge, its fossil-rich limestone is 310 million years old.  Sprinkle water on to it and see the mass of fish and strange creatures that are trapped inside.

From there we walk on to the viewing post and look out at the Quarry where men toiled their lives away in all weathers.  We see the twenty layers of Rock they worked on, each one named; The Yard Post; the Whalley; Thick Cockle Beds; Thin Cockle Beds; Elsie; Dun Kits Bastard and so on. Nowadays there is peace and silence and we gaze out at the burn, framed by green trees and flowing to the distant hills.

As we clamber back to the footpath the breeze is lighter, the path downhill and the sun is warming the stone of the farmhouses high on the distant hills.

King's Cross Station

 King’s Cross station has been modernised.  It is awe-inspiring and splendid.  It has a spectacular roof structure; shops and cafes on two levels with an elaborate balcony where people can look down on to the melee below. There’s a taxi rank that is fast and efficient and an Underground station that will be shared with St. Pancras station when it is finally completed.

This Way to the Underground Station

But I feel so nostalgic for the old King’s Cross. Even when I was a little girl I looked forward to the thrill of arriving in that dark, cavernous station where engines hissed and snarled and crowds queued to board the trains for the long journey back to Newcastle and Edinburgh and Aberdeen.  There used to be a flower-stall – a bright splash of colour and a perfume to remind you of the country. A few steps further and you were in the area edged by shops with W.H.Smith always open and food stalls with their variety of sandwiches and drinks or exotic soups in cardboard containers to take onto the train with you.  There were wooden seats – never enough, but with luck you might find one while you stared at the old Departure Board to discover which platform your train would leave from.  It was never far away.  Even the toilets were accessible if not always hygienic. They were not in the remotest corner as they are now, forcing passengers to drag heavy luggage; dodge people’s feet and avoid the crowds; even skirting a queue of people waiting to be photographed by a blank wall marked Platform Nine and Three-quarters.The striped scarf passed from one to another evidently making it more authentic.

I’ve no doubt the old station provided a haven for the homeless and undesirables – the new one is locked as soon as the last train leaves.

Across the road St Pancras station is also huge and modern and wonderful, but it somehow creates a more friendly atmosphere.  I had to laugh at the sight of an upright piano standing between the shops and marked   PLAY ME. I’M YOURS.

I hoped somebody would accept the invitation, but nobody did.  They were all too involved in their own plans for the day ahead.