Archive for August, 2010

Aug
20
2010

The Great Escape

wood mouse

If I wait long enough and stand as still as a statue, the tiny wood mouse creeps out to steal the chicken’s feed when I scatter it around the chicken run. Darting from one place of cover to another, he ventures further and further until he reaches the food, stuffs it in his cheeks and dives back into the undergrowth beyond the mesh fencing. I can tell it’s the same one as he has a bright ginger streak on his back and that’s what I call him. “Morning, Ginger”, I say in a whisper as he goes about his daily duty.
Not so this morning though, as I can tell something is not quite right before I even get to the chicken’s enclosure – there is a tiny bit of a commotion going on, judging by the clucking. Normally the chicks make a noise like a rusty old squeaking bike but this is a noise of distress.
Between the mesh fencing and the hedge, in the deep undergrowth, I see that one of the bantam chicks has managed to get free but he is not happy about it and wants me to be reunited with his Mum. I’m not sure whether, he’s somehow managed to get under the fence or flown out, as he roosts high in the elder tree, but either way he knows he has gone beyond his limits. When he sees me he throws himself at the fence in a desperate attempt to get back with his friends and I am scared that he might hurt himself. Any attempts to scoop him up in my protective arms send him deeper into the undergrowth, no doubt to the annoyance of Ginger the mouse.
Not a lot to do about it but have some patience. Bide my time while the opportunity is right. Once I am out of site, he perambulates around the fence perimeter with his clucking Mum and brother shadowing his every move. When he’s on the near side, I see my chance. There is no cover here and with a quick run I can grab him before he makes the other side. Stealing like a cat, I make my way around the potager, then bursting at a sprint through the rhubarb I’ve got him and launch him over the fence in a flurry of feathers back into the bosom of his family. His mother gives me a filthy look as if this is all my fault. That’s gratitude for you.
Anyhow, she has two boys so I can’t keep them together for too long as they will fight so I will have to find a home for one of them soon. If anyone can give a good home to a blue bantam cock, just let me know.
As my holiday is nearing its end, I reflect on how privileged we are to own somewhere like this. It’s an idyllic spot at any time of day, in any weather. Last night, at dusk, I was fascinated by the areal combat of the bats as they swoop around to feed on the moths. There were so many bats it was like watching a Battle of Britain dog fight. Earlier in the day I was impressed by the carpet of butterflies that rise every time I walk past the herb garden, where they busily feed on the flowers of mint and oregano.

My friend came to stay with us for a few days, en-route to southern France. His children, Fyodor, Nikkita and Daksha had a wonderful time playing hide and seek in the garden and walking in the woods, casting poo-sticks in the stately river Charentonne and then disturbing its tranquil flow by throwing progressively larger stones until the exploding droplets of water drenched us all. This place was meant for children and I can still hear their laughter ringing out now, days after they have gone.
Back to work on Monday. It seems ages since we arrived but all good things must come to an end as someone once said – bloomin’ spoilsport, whoever he was :-( So, like the little bantam, I’ve had my moment of freedom but I think I can safely say that I enjoyed my Great Escape better than he did his.

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Aug
08
2010

The Taming of the Shrew

shrew

I should have known I was headed for trouble when I went to feed the chickens – always the first job when we decamp for holiday on the farm. Whilst I was throwing stale pitta bread crumbs for my chooks, two fat voles emerged from the ivy, bold as you please and helped themselves to the chicken feed in the trough. Scolded by me, they made a temporary retreat, only to return again to grab a morsel of bread.
So, maybe this was a premonition of what was to come later when I sat down for a well earned mug of Yorkshire tea (special variety to accommodate hard French water).
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny critter emerge from under the front door post and set off with purposeful intent, scuttering across the tiled floor for the dining room. His gait (I think it was a he) reminded me of a marine commando, squeezing under the barbed wire and crawling on all fours to avoid the gun barrage.
A well aimed shoe (I suppose this was mortar fire to him), made him change his direction and dive for safety under the umbrella stand.
All this cussing and commotion attracted the attention of ‘Er Indoors, who does not have a good track record with shrews, as you will later see. Pulling faces worthy of Dame Edna Everage, she listened to my plan for a trouble free eviction of our unwanted visitor.
Open the front door to give a wide target for egress, lift the brolly stand and the critter would make its way outside. ‘Er indoors was to stand guard with a dastardly WWI bayonet in case it got through my defences. More grimacing and downturned corners of the mouth.
My plan worked though. Simple. A bit of DIY with some flint and woodfiller and the point of enemy ingress was sealed. ‘Er indoors was not happy though and with a hangdog expression, I set some traps on the front doorstep, just in case he had not got the message.
We have had our fair share of unwanted guests – rats in the henhouse, a bat in the A’letage and a dormouse in the P’tit Maison. Not your cute Alice in Wonderland dormouse but a gurt big creature the size of a rat, with a long nose, a white belly and hob-nail boots judging by the amount of stuff he knocked off the shelves and the rafters.
Shrews though, they are the nemesis of ‘Er Indoors as I said before. Here is a little ditty I penned about an encounter one Christmas. It’s hardly Wordsworth – more like Pam Ayers, but it always makes our family smile.

A fine lady, her husband and youngest son,
Went to spend Christmas at Broglie, on the Charentonne.
The house was called La Chaumiere
Away from the city and drizzly night air.

The spot was indeed in la France Profonde,
The grass stood to attention on the frozen ground.
But no fear, for very soon a fire was lit
And roared to life after blowing a bit.

Quite soon the lady, her name was Sue
Desperately needed to call on the loo.
For wine, in good measure she had quaffed
While her attendants stood waiting with their caps doffed.

But while on the throne our intrepid Sue
Encountered, face-to-face, a tiny Shrew.
“Waaah she bellowed I’ve seen a mouse
Get the ruddy thing outa me ‘ouse”.

With trousers round her ankles flapping
She bolted from the loo and caught her attendants laughing.
“I’m in need of a ‘ero” she screamed and she bellowed
“And all I find is tha two useless fellows”.

Alas the poor shrew took fright and ran home to his Mum with,
“The people in that house, it’s a right carry on!
One of them screaming while doing ablutions
And definitely in need of some good elocution.”

Made amends by picking first of the season brussel sprouts to accompany her chicken dinner. Thoughts of the shrew are gone now and all is well with the world :-)

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Aug
01
2010

Funeral Rites of the Rose

Saxton Churchyard Rose 1
Roses have long been an iconic symbol. All medieval and later literature is full of the beauty and fragrance of the rose and the legend of white roses spotted with blood is not limited to the Towton Rose. An old Hellenic legend declares that the rose was originally white, till Eros, dancing among the gods, upset a goblet of nectar upon Venus’ flower, which thereupon became red. Christian legend, on the other hand, would have it that the Crown of Thorns was woven of the Briar-Rose, and how the drops that fell from the thorns became blood-hued blooms.
In medieval times the most common cultivar was Rosa Gallica, or the Apothecaries rose. Its red colour (deep pink) represented the blood of early Christian martyrs. The fragrant petals of this rose were dried and rolled into beads and strung into what became the rosary, from which the rosary got its name.
Sweet smelling roses were certainly highly prized. Shakespeare wrote:
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour, which doth in it live.
The canker blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly
When summer’s breath their maskèd buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show.
The canker blooms he refers to are Rosa Canina, the common hedgerow rose which has little or no scent and is derided as being showy. Scented roses, on the other hand, were of value because they were used in ceremonies for their sweet odour and for making rosewater. More interestingly, they were used at funerals with other plant material like box leaves, to line coffins. This has been verified by analysing pollen remains in graves. Mourners would throw roses and rose petals into the grave. Following this act, an old saying goes “and Death will at once be hungry for more of the rose-thrower.”
So, from the medieval perspective, the proliferation of roses on the site of Britain’s bloodiest battle cannot have gone amiss. Peter Boyd, the worldwide expert on Rosa spinosissima, said to be the Towton Rose, is of the opinion that it would be sweet scented. The fact that roses were symbolic, had valuable commercial properties and were used for funerary purposes is indeed tantalising and leads to some justifiable speculation.
We know that there was a garden, with a viewing mound no less, at the medieval village of Lead. The chantry and later chapel at Towton would quite possibly have a garden – there are accounts in 1460 of a chantry at Bridport, submitting expenses for a “scythe to cut the weeds in the orchard, and the penny paid for mending the wheel-barrow.” So, we have the possibility of there being both cultivated roses and scented wild roses at Towton and Saxton, which would have been of great value to the monks.
As we all know from Edward IV’s attainder list, some important families lost their loved ones at Towton and this in age when religion was foremost in the mind. Detailed attention was given to observing funerary rites – wills were not made solely to bequeath wealth but also to dictate how the funeral and remembrance services should be conducted. Imagine the wrench when someone is killed in battle and thrown into an unmarked mass grave, when he had previously planned and paid 40 shillings or more for candles, mourners, incense and such for his burial ceremony. What would happen to his soul? Surely it would spend longer in purgatory if these rites had not been conducted. One can imagine grieving relatives visiting Towton in an effort to learn of the final resting place of their loved ones. Even if they could not determine precisely where they had fallen, they would still want to have masses said for them, have their names read out on the bederoll and perhaps plant roses to commemorate the passing of their life on this earth.
In later years, Robert Herrick, born in 1591, wrote a poem called The Funeral Rites of the Rose.
THE rose was sick, and smiling died;
And, being to be sanctified,
About the bed there sighing stood
The sweet and flowery sisterhood.
Some hung the head, while some did bring,
To wash her, water from the spring.
Some laid her forth, while other wept,
But all a solemn fast there kept.
The holy sisters, some among,
The sacred dirge and trentall sung.
But ah ! what sweet smelly everywhere,
As heaven had spent all perfumed there.
At last, when prayers for the dead
And rites were all accomplished,
They, weeping, spread a lawny loom
And clos’d her up, as in a tomb.
So given this background, it was interesting to discover as a result of the Radio York appeal, that of all the roses we have identified as being removed from the battlefield, these were the same species – the Rosa Mundi. There is the possibility, of course, that they were planted there as a hoax. We know that enterprising Saxton villagers sold souvenir rose plants for half a crown at the turn of the last century. This does not necessarily explain why these Rosa Mundi’s were still found there in the 1940’s. This is a striking rose with beautiful colouring and a heady perfume – you would not plant it out in the middle of as field for fear of someone taking it, if you were so commercially minded. The writer, a romantic soul at heart, prefers to think of them being planted out by generations of descendants of those fallen on the field. It is surely no coincidence that the Rosa Mundi is also known as the York & Lancaster rose and it is bred from that most ancient of roses, Rosa Gallica. Perhaps even more tantalising is the fact that Rosa Mundi was named after the Fair Rosamund, an ancestor of John Clifford who died so spectacularly at Dintingdale. If you ever get the chance to visit the private garden at Skipton Castle there are no prizes for guessing what variety of roses are planted out in the old walled garden there.
The search for the legendary Towton rose, or the Battle rose still continues and I am ever hopeful that the leads will keep coming in. Most of the reference material I can find for the Towton Rose is of the Victorian period but we cannot rule out the possibility of earlier documents being found and, if anyone has anything to add to the archives, either anecdotal or factual, I would certainly be glad to hear from you.

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