Moving on

Dear friends

I am migrating to Wordpress as of 1 January 2013

You can find the entire blog migrated in all its glory here:
http://kirbymisperton.wordpress.com/

Hopefully this means I will now be updating a little more often.

I look forward to seeing you there

Byland Abbey

It is a truth universally acknowledged that it has been a terrible summer in England. Worse than the average English summer, and with thankfully breaks in the clouds and rain, especially for most of the Olympics. However, the weather has been less than kind, and so it is with surprise I notice the trees already starting to turn their colours and faces to Autumn. Somehow it seems wrong when we have not really even finished a decent Spring; it feels like we are moving straight from winter to autumn with only a passing nod to other seasons between. It has been a Narnian year, always winter and never Christmas. 

So when the weather did set fair for a day and that day was a Saturday, it was only right and proper that we should take full and unrestricted advantage of the fact and go for an afternoon jaunt. So off to Byland Abbey, one of the “three shining lights” of North Yorkshire, we went. 

We are so fortunate in this part of the country to be surrounded by ruins. By fortunate, of course, I mean from a selfish point of view that I like poking about in ruined architecture. Presumably the monks and nuns of the 1530s did not feel in their hearts that the dissolution of the monasteries was tragic but at least there was a silver lining for students of antiquity in future generations. No doubt they did not feel that at all. 

My mother had a phrase for these particular remnants of history – they were places “Cromwell knocked about a bit”. As a child I was confused because I thought warty old Oliver might have quite liked religious places (although now I suspect he wouldn’t have approved of the great religious houses either); I didn’t hear about Thomas Cromwell, his forebear, until later. Once I had, it seemed a little unfair to blame him for Henry VIII’s obsessions, but I suppose that is the way of it – the ruling class like to have a minister or civil servant to blame.

Cromwell certainly knocked Byland Abbey about a bit. Established originally by the Savignac order in 1135, Byland was not settled until 1177, by which time the Savignacs had been subsumed into the rival Cistercian order. The Abbey lasted almost 400 years until its surrender to rapacious earthly powers in 1538. 

We visited on a beautiful day with the kind of October light that makes me click-happy on the camera; long shadows and golden reflections off the stonework, with hazy vistas of trees and hills, sheep and farms as a backdrop to the wistful remains of the formerly powerful and hopefully inspiring Abbey. Ruins are romantic in many respects, but in the autumn they are doubly so. 

The entrance to the church is huge, with the lower half of the incredible rose window forming a half-crescent above. As I tried to reconstruct the building in my mind’s eye I was amazed to think how much higher the entrance would have gone, completing that rose circle and adding on the finishing touches. Then I realised this was not even the tallest part of the structure. That was at the further end above the High Altar. I sat on a bench in what had been the lay brothers’ choir and added the roof and columns, painted the walls and excavated the floor (there are incredible mosaics there too). It was beautiful, and without doubt, rich. No wonder Thomas and ‘Enery wanted all that money for the Crown. When you have wars to fight, who wants masses of gold sitting with a bunch of monks chanting all day? Even in a superstitious age it would seem common sense to redirect that money to the coffers and let the monks chant in more basic accommodation, or else let them turn to more practical uses and worship the presence of God while they worked. 

It is a peaceful place still, in the quiet of the Yorkshire countryside, still a rural community surrounded by sheep and farms, hills and trees, the timeless accompaniment of English tradition.  The traumas of history have been subsumed by the greater sense of peace and devotion practised for centuries until they seeped into the earth. It is a privilege to be able to share that experience on a sunny October day.

Shadows

You might need to be sitting down for this. It’s a bit of a shock, and it made me feel quite queasy when I heard about it.

Did you know it might be the case that Yorkshire does not exist? Yes, I know, unthinkable. It may be that it exists only in the Platonic ideal, say, or as a perfect thought in the mind of God. God’s Own County, whose history can be traced back to within nano-seconds of the Big Bang, may be no more than a collective dream of something better than the humdrum of motley human existence.

The proposal for this thesis arose as a result of thinking about government boundary changes, an exciting field for fertile rational debate and a regular subject of passionate and informed conversation across the nation. But take, for example, this anomaly: that until it became a Unitary Authority in 1996, the city of York (happy 800^th, by the way) was part of North Yorkshire County. This immediately raises questions about the status of West and South Yorkshire, since the capital had originally been found at the meeting point of the three Ridings, at once within all and none.

Yorkshire owes much of its history to the Danish and Vikings, although before them it was part of the Kingdom of Deira. King Aelle was the first recorded Anglo-Saxon King in 559 AD before it merged with Bernicia to form the greater region of Northanhumber. The name, however, is derived from the British people who lived there before the invasion, generally transcribed as “Deywr”.  

The Romans had founded York (Eboracum) in 71 AD as the northern capital on the boundary of Brigantes’ territory, until their garrison was recalled to Rome around 412 AD. The Angles colonised and subjugated the area soon after and when Northanhumber was finally stabilised the capital was at Eoferwic, formerly Eboracum. Over time and through numerous bloody invasions, the name transformed to Yorvik, then York.

The Danish dominance and later the harrying of the North no doubt influenced the development of Yorkshire identity. Historic county boundaries were established by the Norman administration, and based largely on Anglo-Saxon shires, including Yorkshire (hence the infamous Norman role of Sherriff, or shire-reeve).

None of these entities are real, in that they are all ephemeral to the eye of History: but what we call “real” in these parts are the (North, East and West) Ridings and the Ainsty, long abolished but living on in the hopes and dreams of true-born Yorkshire men and women. I share their pain, being a native daughter of Middlesex which ancient desmesne suffered the same fate of abolition in 1974 and was parcelled out between Surrey and so-called “Greater” London. We know it still exists, in the shadows, biding its time. It still has a cricket club, as does Yorkshire, so it must be true.

The outside edge of Yorkshire remains more or less intact, beyond occasional boundary issues. How it is broken up internally is in the end an administrative matter reflecting but minimally on the soul of the shire. While it may no longer exist in its ancient form according to the clerks and scribes, I respectfully submit, in response to the controversial thesis proposed above, that Yorkshire is as real as any great idea, such as liberty, equality, peace or justice.

A Day in the Life

Today I went into Malton to carry out a few necessary transactions. Usually I am only in town on a Saturday so I quite liked the idea of seeing it during the week. It made me feel like the heroine in Brief Encounter, off to town with her basket and list to buy some thread, eat lunch and watch a film, then fall madly in love with a stranger at the railway station.  The possibilities were endless, and more exciting than waiting for a bus and worrying about whether I’d still be able to get hold of the Radio Times or not.

I hadn’t been into Malton for a few weeks so I was looking forward to a leisurely wander around town, poking into charity shops for bargains and picking up items from my list. I thought I would try and go for a coffee half way through just in case there was a handsome stranger who needed some company with his caffeine; or at least I could rest my feet and pretend to read the paper while listening to other people’s conversations.  

It’s August, so of course it’s school holidays. On the plus side this meant I didn’t have to take school finishing time into account when deciding which bus to catch home. In term time if you catch the 4.30 it’s packed with lively teens, and you can end up getting quite grumpy with the incessant ring tones and shouting. It’s the same on pension day really.  On the down side, I did worry I’d be wading through frenzied mobs of bored youths simmering in the heat and damp of a showery summer day. It was quite a shock, therefore, to discover how quiet things were in town.

On a Saturday there is usually a fair old bustle going on about Malton, and queues for the coffee shop, and for the post office, and at Butcher’s Corner where everyone waits to cross diagonally. People are chatting with neighbours and friends and hallooing across the street to one another, and generally giving every indication of a vibrant local community, if only to moan about the state of the Milton Rooms or the headline in the local paper.

Today the shops were quiet. The usual cheerful service was missing; staff were more prone to gossiping than helping customers (I like it that in Malton shop staff are helpful and friendly and often remember you from the last time). The old Museum was behind scaffolding, although I admit this would also be true at the weekend, and lots and lots of shops were closed and empty and peeling their paint in a rather dismal and depressing fashion. When it’s busy the number of empty properties is less obvious; today a new charity shop had replaced the shoe shop, but was still half empty and rather dark and sinister.

I finished all my shopping so soon I got the bus back an hour before I had planned. Maybe everyone who was not at work had taken the chance to nip off to the coast because it was a lovely day. Maybe they will all be back next time I go into town. Maybe Monday in Malton is just like that.

In December it will be busy again. First of all there’s the fair. Then the Salvation Army starts playing in the square to raise money for charity, and the market is busier than ever and everyone is rushing about and cheerful and a little manic. There are the lights to look at as it gets darker, and window displays and sometimes it snows in a very picturesque way.  Everyone has to bundle up against the cold, and dashes about with clouds of breath steaming from their mouths, carrying parcels and presents and food. Malton is in its element in the depth of winter. I just don’t think summer suits it at all.

Home and away

Since I changed jobs some time ago (about 21 months in fact) I have been away from home on a regular basis. It has been less easy to find time to write posts for the blog, and I find myself missing the simple pleasure of taking the time to think about the things that matter to me: family; friends; the contentment and privilege of living in a place I love.

Long days and weeks spent in a hotel room or travelling to and from offices have been tiring, and the demands of the job have been significant. Don;t get me wrong, dear reader, I do love my job, and for that I am also grateful. I also love to come home, to our little village away from the noise and excitement of urban living, and to sit looking at the garden and listening to the birds while enjoying a cup of tea in my very English home.

What has struck me forcefully is that I need this quiet to recharge. In the modern era of electronic gadgetry, I can imagine a little icon above my head of a battery flashing as it drinks up mains power until eventually a message appears letting me know I can unplug myself and return to normal operating service.

Today is a day off. I am using it to catch up with housework and to soak up the peacefulness of my environment - often interrupted by farm traffic or children on their way to school, but peace is not the same as absence of noise after all. It's a sunny day of the October kind, with a chill in the air after last week's unseasonal excess, and I have work to do of the nourishing kind; tasks which feed the soul and warm the heart because they make our house a home.

And tonight is the Village Quiz which we need to finish writing, so no more time to chat for now.

Crazy apples

I was wondering why our apple tree was looking so laden this weekend - then I heard on the news that apple season is early this year due to the unusual weather. So it looks like I'll be knee-deep in Bramleys ahead of schedule.

I am looking forward to that!

The patter of tiny beaks

Hurrah! Baby swallows are now in full voice, feeding unceasingly throughout the day. The apparently empty nest erupts into a furious scramble for nourishment as one or another parent flies desperately in to feed the monstrous demands of their offspring. Near collisions are narrowly avoided as they dash back and forth, trying to keep their brood satisfied, come rain or shine (although not, I must say, gloom of night).

Meanwhile, we fond surrogate grandparents are trying not to disturb them too often and using a different door as much as possible, waiting to go in or out when the parent birds are away for a moment.

I am looking forward to the babies learning to fly soon; one of the greatest joys of a summer's day. Newly fledged swallows zipping and tumbling exuberantly across the sky is a simple pleasure which can burst the heart.

Shelter

The weather has been glorious in this part of the world for quite a while now; although we were all glad, I think, to have a little rain over the last couple of days. The BBC has been very exercised at the early flowering of a number species, especially down South. I think we have that story every year, except when things are disastrously late. Perhaps someone needs to explain to them how averages actually work. Did you know almost 50% of children are below average? Shocking!

Anyway, the adventure this weekend has been the construction of a tiny greenhouse, in which I hope to grow tomatoes and peppers. While the courgettes and pumpkins are generally butch enough to flourish in our unpredictable climate, I find tomatoes and peppers still yearn for a more Mediterranean state of affairs than North Yorkshire can realistically provide. So a greenhouse seemed the very thing.

It was all going so well. The man of the house constructed the frame yesterday afternoon with consummate ease, and we looked forward to loading the glass today. Then it got windy. I swear the ash trees in the garden are bendier than a bus in York.

It did not seem a wise move to start heaving panes of glass about. So we have indulged in other activities instead, such as demolishing the wonderful Victoria Sponge bought at the Malton Food Fair yesterday. It's a hard life.

Cheerful bulbs

The snowdrops put in their appearance a few weeks ago, displaying their glowing brilliance in the shade of the lilac tree. It lifts the spirits to see them poking through the winter earth and know at a visceral level that spring is on her way back again. This year I have been especially cheered by the way they gleam in the shadows on those days when the clouds block out the feeble returning sun and the world is grey and cold and damp.
Today I noticed that we now have a golden crocus among the snowdrops. A rich buttery yellow, it adds some real presence tot he garden. The snowdrops announce the end of winter; the croci herald the more imminent arrival of warmer days and new life.
Already the world is lighter earlier in the morning and I hear the mutterings of birds in the branches outside the window. Soon I will be complaining about the racket, but for now it is a joy.
Our village has kept going through the snow and cold and dark; we continue to hold events and spend time with neighbours, fund-raising for our village hall and for wider concerns such as Youth Diabetes. or celebrating birthdays and other triumphs.
It is a privilege to live in a warm community, and if it is sometimes difficult to find the time or energy to contribute, then we each know that eventually the effort will seem easier and the energy will return.

New year, new project

Christmas survived, New Year begun. So tradition dictates that now I decide on a new project.

Recently I have started a course in Old English, which is proving really interesting and I am enjoying immensely. But what to do with it after I have finished? Much as I would probably enjoy getting together with people of similar interests, most of the meetings of which I am aware are held in the south or midlands (unsurprisingly). This part of the world was known in the period as Northanhymbre ("North of the Humber") and had a fairly separate development path to the southern half of the country following the migration of various Germanic people to this island. The geography of the country also made it difficult to unify it in the way that was achieved by various kings of Wessex or Mercia or Kent, although there were times when Northern kings played their part on a larger stage.

The spread of Christianity in the region also was at odds with the southern part of the country. Augustine arrived in Canterbury from Pope Gregory to convert the heathens; meanwhile Irish monks were working in the north, with St Aidan leading much of the missionary effort. This resulted in the disputes about the calculation of Easter, which provided a useful metaphor of the differences between the two traditions, and was only resolved in a synod at Whitby in 663, where Hilda was abbess.

However, it is important to put the period into context. The Roman occupation ended in the 5th century and the Old English period ended in 1066 after a period of about 600 years. In the north, the Vikings had a greater influence than in the south and many Old English references have been lost (although those that have survived have been incredibly important eg Bede's writings).

So Old English churches are rare, and those with stone foundations rarer, and those in the north rarer still(I believe). So it is with great interest that I look at our very own St Lawrence's church with Saxon stone foundations. And it occurs to me I want to know more about the life of people around this village in the period pre-dating the Domesday Book.

So that is what I shall try to find out more about.

Postcard from a snowy world

Well, it's no surprise at this time of year to see snow. We have seen more than usual although less than some parts of the world. In general services have continued to run with little delay (for which an immense thank you, especially to Yorkshire Coastliner).The worst aspect of the snow was the avalanche last weekend when all the snow on the roof fell off in one enormous, thundering crash, burying the newly cleared path, but fortunately not hitting anyone who migth have been at the door and therfore underneath the considerable quantity of debris.

Just as the snow and compacted ice had nearly cleared and the black ice was running out of puddles to freeze, just as the snow melt from the moors was causing the Derwent to overflow its banks, just as the Ouse in York, frozen across its entire width at Lendal Bridge, started to flow again, just as all this happened, it started to snow again this afternoon.

Those cheery Christmas carols are wearing a bit thin. I have never been so stressed about getting ready for the the festivities. In KM Towers we do Christmas big. Birthdays, not so much. Christmas, huge. And this year the weather has conspired to prevent me from preparing adequately. The grocery deliveries failed two weeks running leaving me confused as to what food was in and what I still need to buy. As for shopping for presents, I have avoided doing on-line shopping for the most part due to the uncertainty of deliveries (currently anxiously awaiting the few mail-ordered presents but still hopeful, and relieved I didn't order more this way). Yesterday's trip into Malton ticked off most of the remaining stocking fillers. which was a huge relief; now for the final grocery delivery on Tuesday and then I can start baking. However, if it fails me I doubt I can manage to pick up everything in Malton (my arms are not strong enough to manage it all on the bus) so we might not get all the treats I had planned.

None of this represents the end of the world. So long as my family manage the journey home over the next few days, and we can be together, actually I don't really mind. I would prefer to have the gifts and the food and the treats, but they are the trimmings, after all.  And of that sounds unbearably twee, so be it. Ha[[y Christmas to you!

Fungi to have around

We went for a stroll or two in Dalby Forest yesterday, armed with camera and water-proofs. As it turned out the weather kept dry (unlike today) but gloomy. We are firm believers that taking an umbrella or mac means it is less likely to rain - and that if it does one can ackowledge the fact comfortably from within one's waterproof cocoon.

It's a little early yet to see the trees in their full autumnal glory - they are showing increasing signs of their annual wardrobe change, but are not quite ready yet. However, we did find some marvellous fungi; I know very little about mushrooms and toadstools, except I can recognise an inkcap when I see it! And here it is:

We found lots of other kinds too as we walked through the forest, although the Little People living in them politely declined to have their puctures taken. Here are a few samples.

Today the rain is raining and the wind is roaring so I doubt the trees will have so many leaves left; I'll upload pictures taken above ankle height in another post.

For now I am going back to sit by the fire.

The times they are a-changin'

Kirby Misperton is now in the grip of Autumn's soggy breath. The wind is bending the trees and the rain is pattering against the windows like tap dancing insects skittering down the panes. So the year's great cycle moves on, and the evenings darken sooner. The temperature is falling and the open bedroom window may soon need to be shut.

In the village however life gets more interesting. While the seasons slow and darken, we villagers are programmed to think of September as the start of a new year, based on the academic cycle. As a result our most recent quizzes have been achieving high turnouts and enthusiastic participation. We are all starting to look forward to Halloween - the early pumpkins are already appearing in the greengrocer's shop in Malton. The great migrations of birds are under way, and winter edges closer as every skein flies overhead.

This is my favourite time of year, when darker evenings create a warm intimacy at home while there are new openings everywhere - from TV on rainy nights, to evening classes and village activities. Our forebears celebrated Harvest and the blessings of the earth; today we can still be thankful for all that we have received over the summer months and look forward to the autumn harvest still.

Summer break

The hiatus over August was caused by family visits and summer holidays in the Lake District. Why is it called "The Lake District"? Who knows? Clearly there are several Lakes there, not just one. For examplle, you can see both Derwentwater and in the distance Bassenthwaite if you gasp and puff your unfit way to the top of Walla Crag and look back towards Keswick.

Anyway we stayed in a lovely little railway cottage on the outskirts of Keswick, meaning it took all of 5 or 10 minutes to walk into town. We did the usual things - walks, more walks and photos or painting, depending upon  personal preference. It was lovely. We had good weather and peacefulness.

Derwentwater is a beautiful lake. I prefer it to Coniston or Windermere as it is generally quieter and more serene. It was however suffering from an algae bloom, presumably the same as has recently affected Windermere and postponed the Gerat North Swim.

We visited Castlerigg Stone Circle one particularly lovely day. What a very special place that is! At the top of a hill removed from everything else, is the neolithic circle which was the equivalent to a medieval cathedral. It is surrounded by an even greater stone circle formed by the mountains, and roofed by a bowl of clear bright sky. When the tourists all stop jabbering there is no sound except the wind and the birds.

We spent a blessed afternoon there, sitting on the grass painting and reading and breathing in the matchless air.

A couple of days later, towards the end of our week, we went to see Ashness Bridge, an altogether more modern stone construction, but still very beautiful. This was a scene of greater activity and exuberance, with the nosiy water crashing down in its headlong flight to the lake below.

Unfortunately for me it wasn't only the water that crashed and fell among the rocks and I ended up being taken down form the hillside by ambulance with a nasty head wound. Still, nothing was seriously dmaaged beyond pride, and at least it was the day before we came home. All praise to Cumbria Emergency Services and the kindly folk at Keswick Hospital who patched me up with good humour.

Sweet Adieu

Hopefully the final word on the subject (although with moles you never know).

We caught out little visitor this  morning after a night of havoc on the lawn and in the herb bed. I have to say I am very disappointed with the local feline cohort - some sniffing and watching, but no serious action.
 
Anyway, you will be pleased, I hope, to know that we have taken the little fellow to some farmland a mile or so out of the village as part of our Relocation Programme. I hope it flourishes there, and bothers no more gardens.

Here is a picture of it in its luxury 5 star transport, with some soil and a nice fresh juicy earthworm for the journey.

The velvet coated gentleman

and here it is - the very same little beastie, now tunnelled under my herb bed. Perhaps if he goes deeper we shall reach an accommodation...

There is all the difference between passing through and moving in!

The moles are back in town

OK, so while I was writing that last entry, Mr KM was cutting the grass outside. It seemed a bit uneven and he realised it was mole hills. He duly flattened them and as he started putting the mower away he could see the earth being moved up again by a familiar little fellow just beneath the surface.

This might just about have been the initial decalration of hostilities.

I am going to have to have a hcat with some neighbours for remedies.

Wren watch

A baby wren fell out of the nest the other day. The parents were going mad trying to get it to fly. I'm not sure if they eventually managed it or whether one of the local cats resolved the problem in a more final way.

It's a joy having the youngsters around but so hard watching them try ot leave the nest, and sometimes not maing it.

We haven't seen any more moles either, and again this could be either good or bad news for the mole community. Who knows?

The world is uncertain, but life itself continues with individulas either surviving or feeding others.

How very morbid I am today! I think I will go and sit in the sun for a while.

Moley moley

So we had a second mole-sighting this week, late one evening. Either it was the same mole as last time, and it has decided to move in behind our shed rather than go to the trouble of digging a nice snug tunnel, or it was another mole with disturbingly similar behavioural trends.

If the first scenario is true then we have a very disturbed animal on the loose in our back garden. This unnatural beast no longer is attracted to its usual subterranean habitat, but prefers to live the good life above ground. Where will it end? Are our children safe from this corruption to the natural order? Will moles start demanding equal rights with shrews and voles? Is a new kind of animal emerging - some kind of above-ground omnivore capable of withstanding the light of day (would that mean moles are turning into armadillos or something?)...

The second sceanrio is even more troubling. A whole army of unnatural omnivorous mammals poised to over-run the world, crunching of woodlice in full daylight and demonstrating a casual disregard for shed permimeters.

Others have suggested that they are two moles from the same nest, but I prefer to remain on the alert. They are more likely Sappers in the War on Terror. When they reveal their true purpose I shall be ready!

Why did the Owl 'owl?

Because the Woodpecker would peck 'er!

I thank you very much!