A Winter's Day

Withering and keen the winter comes

While comfort flyes to close shut rooms

And sees the snow in feathers pass

Winnowing by the window glass...

from 'The Shepherd's Calendar' John Clare

But Winter hasn't really come, or at least it paid a fleeting visit last Monday but declined to stay.

I took these pictures of snow over Ambleside, just to prove to myself that we have managed a couple of wintry days, so far.

Off by heart

Scenes from Boarding School Life - 4

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come let me clutch thee:
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet in form as palpable
As this which now I draw

At school we had a system of black-marks (called ‘untidies’) which were meted out by senior girls who inspected common-rooms and cloakrooms daily just before tea. At the end of tea a senior would read out the list of miscreants - and their misdemeanours: a scarf left on the cloakroom floor, a writing-case left on the common-room table, a hockey-boot - not put away in a cloakroom locker.

These were to be reported to Group-leaders next lunchtime. (we had Groups rather than Houses - they had the embarrassingly twee names, Balmoral, Buckingham, Sandringham and Windsor.)

I usually managed two or three Untidies each term.

Oh dear, yet another. I mounted the stairs to the mezzanine where the mysterious pine-clad prefects’ study was, to report to a Buckingham Group Leader - we weren’t allowed to ask for specific people; one took pot luck This time I got the severest prefect, Carol M.

‘I’ve come to report an Untidy’ . I stood on the steps, trying to catch a glimpse of the inner sanctum.

‘Again? Which Shakespeare play are you studying in class? Macbeth? Right, bring your book to me after games..

Later I returned with ‘Macbeth’

She leafed through the book.

‘Right. I want you to learn this short passage off by heart. From ‘Is this a dagger…’ to ‘…this which now I draw’. By Wednesday.’

On Wednesday I made my way to the Study. …art thou not fatal vision.. bounded up the stairs ..or art thou but a dagger of the mind…and knocked on the door…the heat-oppressed brain..

I confronted Carol M. and handed her the book, opened at the marked page.
I took a deep breath:

‘IsthisadaggerwhichIseebeforemethehandletowardsmyhandcomeletmeclutchtheeIhavetheenotandyetIseetheestill.’

I closed my eyes to block out any distractions , and carried on, heady with my own success. I could see the end in sight:

‘…orartthoubutadaggerofthemindafalsecreationproceedingfromtheheat-oppressedbrain…proceedingfromtheheat-oppressedbrain….theheat-oppressed brain..’

But nothing more proceeded from my heat-oppressed brain. Nothing. Time seemed to stand still. I hardly knew where I was any more.

‘You may have another day - come back tomorrow.’

My brain melted with gratitude. I almost liked Carol M. now; after all, if she had chosen to she could have given me a completely new passage to learn.

I started down the stairs.

Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain. I see thee yet in form as palpable as that which now I….I'd got it. I'd got it.

I turned to go back, but the Study door was firmly closed. But I knew that tomorrow I would be OK.

I remember those words 50 years later. And the many other poems and prose passages that I learnt ‘off by heart’ . I enjoy letting those words swim around in my head.

And I am grateful for that civilised ‘punishment’.

Post-Christmas Slump, or 'The cure for this ill'

This is the time of year when I unaccountably slide downwards into a mildly negative mood. Perhaps it is because the (excessive) purposefulness of Christmas preparations has gone, and there is nothing yet to replace it.

This morning was overcast, dull, windy, drizzly and utterly gloomy weather-wise. Could I stand going into town - again? During this nothing-will-please-me-today-no-matter-what mood, the several usually pleasant routes into town all seemed uninviting.

What was needed was Action!

‘The cure for this ill
is not to sit still
Or frowst with a book by the fire;
But to take a large hoe
And a shovel also
And dig till you gently perspire’

(not Kipling’s best - but nevertheless wise advice)

In this weather, digging was not an option, so we decided on a vigorous walk. We drove the 9 miles to Windermere, and parked in the village of Bowness. This is perhaps more a small town than a village and in the Summer it can be as crowded as Blackpool. Nevertheless, its situation reminds me faintly of those little towns on the Swiss lakes - an English spin on Vevey.

Today there were only a few locals and hardy visitors around. We had our coffee and a slice of the best lemon meringue pie in Cumbria at ‘Bowness Kitchen’ then did a circuit of Helm Road and Biskey Howe Road, a loop which takes you up to the Biskey Howe viewpoint - a huge reward for minimal effort. (although it doesn’t feel like that for the first quarter of a mile - it’s a bit of a stagger whichever end of the loop you start from)

A pile of twigs in a garden: Biskey Howe Road. I like the range of winter colours:

And above, a mysterious gate leads - where?

The path up to the viewpoint

The rocky outcrop looks like a mountain range from this angle



The viewpoint summit, with a misty Windermere, looking north towards Ambleside:

The summit looking south, towards Newby Bridge:

We rejoin the road...

... down to the village

And back to Bowness and human company again. And although it was raining by now - that typical Lake District rain which is blown in all directions at once, and an umbrella is a liability - our mood was lifted, the endorphins were released, and the ill most definitely cured!

Twelfth Night

There is some disagreement as to whether Twelfth Night is the 5th January - the eve of Twelfth Day, or on the 6th January - the evening of the Twelfth Day. Either way it has come and gone.

So, all the Christmas decorations are down; the tree dismantled, the wreath taken from the front door, the cards read once more then placed into the recylcing box. Why is it such a mournful task?
I'm relieved in one way - they all seem so irrelevant once the Day itself is over. But is it sad because perhaps Christmas once again has not quite lived up to expectations? Am I trying in vain to recapture the magic I felt as a child?

Dad took this photo of my sister and I sitting in front of the fire in our basket chairs c.1952, and accidentally superimposed another picture of us singing carols. But the result was rather nice.

17th Century Twelfth Night merriment.
Now Christmas is past,
Twelfth Night is the last
To the Old Year adieu,
Great joy to the new

'On Christmas Day in the Morning'

The weather this Christmas has been unseasonably mild. We still had a few brave roses nodding doubtfully, and little sprigs of campanula poscharskyana still clinging to life in the front tubs.

I lit the fire on Christmas Day, not because we needed it, but just because Christmas without a fire seems all wrong. So we sat round feeling uncomfortably warm!


Francis Kilvert, a young curate lodging at Ashbrook House, Clyro, during the 19th century, was not so lucky.

Rev. Francis Kilvert

This is his diary entry for Christmas Day 1870:


'Sunday, Christmas Day

As I lay awake praying in the early morning I thought I heard a sound of distant bells. It was an intense frost.

I sat down in my bath upon a sheet of thick ice which broke in the middle into large pieces whilst sharp points and jagged edges stuck all round the sides of the tub like chevaux de frise, [spiked defensive structures] not particularly comforting to the naked thighs and loins, for the keen ice cut like broken glass. The ice water stung and scorched like fire. I had to collect the floating pieces of ice and pile them on a chair before I could use the sponge in my hands for it was a mass of ice.

The morning was most brilliant. Walked to the Sunday School with Gibbins and the road sparkled with millions of rainbows, the seven colours gleaming in every glittering point of hoar frost. The Church was very cold in spite of two roaring stove fires.'

Read more about Francis Kilvert and his Diary here: http://www.smr.herefordshire.gov.uk/guest_authors/Francis%20Kilvert