'Time-honoured Lancaster'

I visited Lancaster today, and came across this horseshoe set into the pavement. It represents the place where John of Gaunt’s horse was said to have shed a shoe.

‘Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster’ (opening line of Shakespeare’s ‘Richard II’)

John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster (called after his birthplace, Ghent) was born in 1340, and was the third surviving son of King Edward III (He died in 1399)

Although Shakespeare has one of the witches in ‘Macbeth’ telling Banquo, ‘Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none’ - this could just as easily apply to John of Gaunt. His son was Henry 1V, his grandson Henry V and his great-grandson Henry VI. His illegitimate descendants (who became legitimate after his marriage to his former mistress Katherine Swynford) were known as the Beauforts, and one of them, Margaret, married Edmund Tudor; their son became Henry VII - and so the descent carried on, to Henry VIII and beyond!

John of Gaunt's Gateway at Lancaster Castle

(pity about the caravan!)

John of Gaunt is fortunate to have these famous words (about his country) put into his mouth by Shakespeare (in ‘Richard II’)

This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by Nature for herself
Against infection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,


John of Gaunt - at Lancaster Castle

Late Winter or Early Spring?

Some photos taken yesterday:

Snow-capped Langdale Pikes above Windermere

Todd Crag from Ambleside

Daffodils, heathers and (left) corkscrew hazel (corylus avellana 'contorta')

Daffodils

Dora's field, Rydal. photo: Tony Richards

'....all at once I saw a crowd
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze '

From a Georgian Farmhouse- 3



‘I fancy a drift of daffodils at the near end of the orchard’, said Mum.

Her friend Margaret, who ran the Bellgarth Nurseries in Carlise gave her a large selection of daffodil and narcissus bulbs.


‘I’ll get Old Ernie to plant them on Saturday,’ said Mum (There were two Ernies - Ernie the Blacksmith, and Old Ernie who came to do the garden.)


Old Ernie was a gardener of the ‘Municipal’ type; he liked things ‘just so’. Mum’s front borders were planted with neat and even rows of alternating allysum and lobelia, with scarlet salvias lined up behind them. Patriotic and oh so formal.


‘Mmm…something a bit less...well... regimented would be nice,’ murmured Mum. But Old Ernie was in charge.


Mum explained what she wanted for the daffs, and Old Ernie planted them.




‘Oh, no!’ said Mum when the green blades pushed through the orchard grass in the Spring. ‘O, no! Just look at my daffs,’

There they stood, in three immaculately straight lines along the edge of the orchard lawn - like serried ranks of soldiers on parade.

It took Mum several years of surreptitious planting to soften the rows of Old Ernie’s planting scheme. And the result was never quite the ‘drift’ that she had envisaged - but the flowers were pretty all the same.

‘and then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils’
Wordsworth.

Dog About Town

Spotted this young Dog About Town outside our local supermarket.

A Dog's Life

A Cottage by the Sea - 2. 'A dog's life'

We are cycling hell-for-leather down a country road. Energetically. Not the usual slow meander. But as though our lives depended on it. My mother, my sister, a couple of our friends and me. We don’t speak. Our heads are down. We grip the handlebars tightly with grim determination.

We do not notice the scenery. But we are aware we are riding along strange roads which we have never seen before. Alien villages are passed through without us even noting their names. The buildings look different, almost sinister; the road cold and hostile. The sky is overcast, although it is quite warm. Subdued. To match our mood.

Bru and me

Bruno (also known as Bru or Bruey) was our only pet dog. Afterwards we had a string of border collies, but they were working dogs. (although they inevitably came to be treated as members of the household) But Bru was our childhood pet - our very own. Bru was a little character. My mother would open the door for him in the morning and he would scamper out to visit the neighbours (we were allowed to let dogs off the lead then). And so Bru would have several extra snacks a day. When he had distemper, my mother sewed him into an old ‘liberty bodice’ and he trotted around happily, unaware of the mirth he provoked in onlookers.

He was part of the regular decampment to Allonby. And that summer as usual he ‘ran wild’ around the village.

One day as we were eating our lunch, the window suddenly darkened and the rangy shape of Old Joe from next door blocked the light. He was knocking at the window and mouthing something. ‘It’s Bruno. Bruno.‘ Mum jumped up, ready to fend off the impending bad news. ‘Oh dear,‘ she said. She opened the door. ‘Bruno’s been run over’ said Joe, gesturing towards the road. ‘He was chasing a cat,‘ he said ‘ran straight over the bridge and into the road looking neither right nor left'

Mum tried to prevent us from hearing this, or from seeing anything, but it was too late. ‘What’s happened to Bru?‘ We peered out of the window, then ran to the door just in time to see Lenny Jackson, the idolised riding instructor pick our little Bru up by the tail - a shocking and undignified sight - and place him in a sack.

After lunch, my mother took us all on our strenuous, supposedly diverting cycle ride.
And later that afternoon, Lenny buried Bru in the sand behind The Hill.

The village seemed to be a foreign place that day as we struggled to come to terms with the first bereavement we had encountered. The world would never again be a wholly pleasant place.

Mum and Bru at Allonby

Change of Address

I have changed my address to one more in keeping with the name of my blog.

Hope you have found me!

Regards,

anno domini

Borough Market, Southwark

Visited Borough Market in Southwark, London last weekend. The medieval market was originally a wholesale fruit and vegetable outlet, and moved to its present site beneath the railway tracks in 1756. Now it sells gourmet foods from all over Britian and Europe.




Let them eat cake

Cheeses piled high.

I read recently that the more brightly coloured fruit and vegetables were full of antioxidents. This seems a good place to start shopping for your healthy diet.