126. 18.05.2012 nasty gash

126. 18.05.2012 nasty gash

Welsh slate, as we all know, roofed the Empire on account of it being tolerant of extreme wet and cold and scorching heat.  From  the slave barracks of the paradise islands of the Caribbean to the convict holding  centres  of Australia  to the prisons in Victoria's jewel of the crown, slate was blasted mined and quarried  from the top left hand corner of Wales and transported around the world. It was fundamental in building the biggest empire the world has ever seen. At one point the British were imposing cricket, their warped Caucasian superior  morals and questionable high standards on a quarter of the world's population. No mean feat and something the Reagan and Bush administrations were only ever able to dream of achieving.

It also kept and keeps out the water in many a town and city across Europe and closer to home the back to backs and slums of our cities in which the underdogs, workers and scum were crammed in the six hours in the  day that they weren’t down t'pits, up t'mill or down  ont’ farm  maintaining the nouveau Lords of the Manor's extravagant  lifestyles.

The Welshmen (and the Irish immigrants) who quarried the slate weren’t much better off either.  The arrogant quarry owners, always English by the way, were prepared to see their minions starve to death rather than grant them any form of basic human rights. The lord of Penrhyn Castle perhaps being the worst of the lot of them. (google the Penrhyn  lockouts for one of the many truly appalling social chapter in our island’s history.)

These days the quarries are as good as silent and with the exception of the odd garden ornament, driveway chippings, coasters, placemats  or heart shaped souvenirs  from Wales not much is produced (with notable exceptions of the Welsh Assembly buildings at Llandudno Junction or the cafe at the top of Snowdon). Concrete roof tiles are cheaper and where slate is still used, for example on the un- vernacular  carbon copied clones of those  out of town Morrisons or Tescos , most of it comes from South America as its actually cheaper to quarry and ship it here than it is to produce it here.

When we looked into a slate floor, Brazilian slate was a third of the price of the stuff lying about just a few miles up the road. Anything with the tag ‘Brazilian’ whether it be covered in chocolate or a shaped bush fills me with horror.

In fact Penrhyn quarry is currently struggling and faces closure as it can't compete. Another example of the inability of this  Empireless island and in particular the resource rich corner of Wales to exploit her riches.

One of the bi-products of the Welsh slate trade was that the gashes (and I type  that word with a look of distain on my face) and holes in the hills have  been used for crappy sci-fi series. Just like all planets in Star Trek look like arid bits of Arizona, most British sci-fi episodes look like slate quarries. Hardly an episode of Dr Who between 1970 and 1985 wasn't filmed here and to this day strands of Tom Baker's scarf or one of John Pertwee's frills can be spotted  by the eagle eye observant. It was only the episodes with daleks in that weren’t filmed here. Daleks don't like roughly blasted surfaces you see. They much prefer smooth studio floors like the Blue Peter studio.  Meanwhile Blake and his seven visited a never ending number of planets with a hint of an abandoned Welsh quarry about them and not even the red or yellow filters on the camera made them look remotely alien.

But still they come. Scenes in  The Clash of the Titans and the dreadful Lana Croft franchises also have the look of a damp quarry on a Tuesday look about them.

This is the quarry at Llanberris, no longer worked and nature is slowly taking over again although it might be a good few years, possibly even more before the terraces and levels are smoothed down.

The water of Llyn Peris in front of Dinorwic quarry  really is this colour and when the sun shines  it does actually look like  Avon,Villa or Cally might be crouched behind a rock firing a superimposed phaser gun at a member of the Federation.

Right, the 15:50 USS Arrivaprise  is about to trundle in to Colwyn Bay and there are cling ons on everywhere. Damn this All Bran challenge. Beam me up Scotty.

125. 17.05.2012 For Johnnie and John

17.05.2012 For Johnnie and John

Today my thoughts are with a friend who this morning lost the most important and special person in his life. His husband.

John, there is nothing that words can say to ease your pain.
... Johnnie, it was a pleasure to have met you and heard you laugh and chuckle.

Perhaps the clouds will be your pillow amongst the birds you so loved until the day that John will be with you once again.

124. 16.05.2012 Purple pineapples

124. 16.05.2012 Purple pineapples

Obviously they’re not really pineapples. Pineapples aren’t purple.  And pineapples are bigger. And they don’t grow on plants but come in rings in tins.

Throughout history, wherever there’s been an old lady, there’s been lavender. In fact, when God  had that spare week on his hands in which he created the world,  after creating Adam He stopped to eat  an apple and went on to create Eve, but being a wise old bean, He realised  that Eve would one day become an old lady.  So  He created lavender because, to be brutally frank, the thought of wee wee knocked him sick. Concerned that lavender might not be enough, He created highly scented roses,  and lilly of the valley spray scents. It’s also  a little known fact that  He also created highly scented roses and a little known fact is that He is also the patent owner of Tena Lady, although you have to read between the lines in the Bible to interpret that little fact. Not that anyone actually interprets the Bible to suit their own causes though.

These ones aren’t the ones that they stuff into little muslin bags though and they’re not as scented as the ones old ladies prefer.  They’re French lavender. English lavender is the one that smells nice. I could make a comment about the French not smelling nice, but shall resist the temptation. It’s just a fact of life and one that  has been addressed elsewhere.

Lavender, alongside daffodils, is my favourite flower. In a previous life in Holland, I had a roof terrace that was planted entirely with them.  I used to sleep outside in the summer amongst it. Perhaps odd by most people’s way of thinking, but to fall asleep under the stars with the hazy sweet  smell of lavender is one of the unique joys in life.

It’s also tasty, especially with salmon, or a sprinkling of the flowers in a salad or  in cheese and chocolate. Try it!

123. 15.05.2012 the lonely buttercup

123. 15.05.2012 the lonely buttercup

Just a stone’s throw from the gloriously floral Bryn Pydew, the fields are green. Remarkably green. Nitrogen enriched green. The colour of Man Utd fans faces yesterday green ...you get the idea...green.

Buttercups. It’s how parents work out if their offspring prefer butter or the more healthy option of a vegetable  alternative like Flora or maybe an olive based spread that keeps old people in Italy young, vital and horny. Berlosconi swears by it and has an array of busty signore to apply it. All over. He never actually eats it though and  hates the taste by all accounts.

 The proper name for buttercup – that’s the one that serious horticulturists call them is ranuculus which is derived from Latin for little frog (rana = frog plus a diminutive) probably because a lot of species grow around ponds. 

But in the Germanic languages it has connections with butter, Boterbloem in Dutch, (boter = butter and bloem = bloom)  Butterblume in German and Lurpak-blomst in Danish, although Jakob Larsen will need to confirm that.

Despite it’s connections with butter, it’s toxic to cattle despite the fact that it’s toxic to cowsand tastes vile which is why there are lots of them in fields full of grazing cows.   

People in unenlightened times used to think that it was the yellow that made butter yellow because the cows ate them. The same people also used to think that if you held one up to your neck or smelt one on the night of a full moon you would turn insane, hence the name “crazyweed” which might be a warning because the acid in them  can be toxic to humans too.

Beggars were aware of this and would deliberately rub buttercup juice on their skins to arouse sympathy to blister the skin. A sort of mediaeval chemical peeling. Meanwhile enlightened fishermen used to pour buttercup tea on the ground which brought the worms to the surface.

So there you go, a fact filled post with only one made up fact. But which one?

122 14.05.2012 Blue Skies over Manchester

122. 14.05.2012 Blue skies over Manchester.

6pm on a Monday evening. Normally at this time of day the  city centre is thronging with buses cars,  commuters, impatient black cab drivers place is full of traffic and drab faced  and drab clad commuters going back to wherever they go back to.

But this evening Manchester was different. No traffic in the city centre.  Metrolink took full advantage of the situation and were delighted to  announce that there were delays on the system and advised that this would have a  knock on effect until... well until the Christmas lights go up.

Everywhere people thronging and lining the streets. Smiling, happy, flag waving. Families. Lots of children. People thronging, flag waving  and happy.  Blue being the colour.  Blue everywhere.  Blue skies, blue shirts, blue flags, blue banners,  blue scarves, blue silly hats and vendors selling blue candy floss and women of a certain age with blue veined legs in comfortable footwear.  Oh and blue faces on the other half of the city who wear red shirts.

Just a shame that the sullen other half are such bad losers. Today I’ve not seen this  many slumped bottom lips, sulking and bad tempers since junior  school when Mrs Ellis told us that Father Christmas wasn’t coming because we had all been noisy.

To be brutally frank, I can take or leave football.  If Wales are playing, I support them, if Holland are playing  I support them, if England or Scotland are playing I support them. If the Faroe islands are playing I support them. Basically I always support the underdogs.  

The noisy neighbours have done well. The balance of power appears to be swinging. Amazing what a bit of money can do.  It’s taken them 44 years to do it, but they have and well done to them. Come on you  mard arses... give them credit J  it is after all...only a game J

Right... let the comments flow forth...

119. 12.05.2012 Timotei – for body, shine and balance

119. 12.05.2012 Timotei – for body, shine and balance

We planned this meticulously. We’ve known Katy Garner nee Katy Hinderance for long enough to know that pride in personal appearance is fairly low down on her priority. In fact to be brutally frank, she just doesn’t care.

Her hygiene regime usually consists of a quick run through at the BP carwash. Mark (that’s her husband) tethers  her to a pallet on the end of a length of rope and a couple of hefty lads  and a dray horse drag her from rinse to buffer to polish through to  blow.  There is usually a certain amount of uncalled for screaming  and high dramatics,  but no more than can be expected from someone from Lincolnshire.  Normally the promise of a bag of Sports Mixtures, a sherbert dib-dab  and a bottle of  fizzy Vimto from the BP Shop is enough to quieten her down.

Anyhow, when it was known that Katy was coming we decided that the falls at Abergwyngregyn (that’s Aber falls for the lazy) was the place Katy would be viewing. Closely.

Those of you of a certain age will remember the Timotei advert which featured the woman washing her locks under a waterfall. Well, Timotei wasn’t available but we did have a bottle of Stardrops under the sink. It’s good on limescale, grime and build ups. Just the thing.

An hour later, the new, sparkling Katy Garner appeared from the plunge pool looking like a picture of spring health. Miracles can happen.

Oddly enough as we walked up to the falls a chap, a rather shifty looking chap to be brutally frank  stopped John and pointed vaguely in my direction and said something about facebook. (John is unclear as to what exactly was said, and it’s like getting blood out of a stone) but the man in question had seen me first, not recognised me without my TV makeup, then spotted John and put one and one together. I didn’t have a pen for an autograph though.  Honestly, I don’t get a minute’s peace.

Pleased to have met you Nick J !!

Right, must dash, Katy needs a rub down with something..... happen  the old horse blanket in the back shed will do.

118. 11.05.2012 I can see clearly now

118. 11.05.2012 I can see clearly now

The man looked out of the window.

Beyond the leaded panes the world was dripping and dull and ashen and bleak.

Like a sulking diva, spring had decided to disappoint her adoring fans. Fans who had waited all through the winter for what was billed as a  gala performance. There was to be no glittering or sparkling performance. Not this year.

 Without the pageant of spring, the  valley  was bereft of colour and joy and slumbered half way between dormancy and despondence.

The mud came up to the  farmer's ankles and his dog patted about in the  week rotting shoots in the fields. It was, they said, in smug, faux jolly voices  “the  wettest spring since records began”. The farmer shook his head and for once  agreed with the hind sight speaking  forecasters in their nice suits in the city far away.

 A  blackbird sat quietly and morosely on her damp nest. She knew that her eggs should be the same colour as the sky. They weren’t.  She so wanted her home to be warm and cosy. She thought back to the days of her own childhood. Blue and fluffy skies,  sunny and full of hope. Not like this.  She hated this  spiny miserable place. She hated it so much she couldn't even be bothered singing in the morning.

 The hawthorns  cried quietly to themselves, but nobody could hear them above the wind. Done  up to the nines in their frothy blooms of white. Dressed to impress. But the bees stayed away and slumbered and dozed in their empty hives.

The sheep looked  to her twins. They should be jumping and bouncing. They weren’t. She too remembered the carefree days of her childhood.

Within the garden wall, the slates on the shed roof lay like fallen dominoes. Like the hawthorn, they've put on their best finery. They always do when it rains but nobody ever  appreciates the effort they go to. They sighed and shifted gently in a gust.  Nobody ever appreciated their  rich hues of green and turquoise and the rainbow of  grey.  Neither did the man behind the splashed panes. They did their best to shelter the  damp remnants of last winter's  coal that shuddered  in the darkest corner, but the angry rain drove the dampness through the gaps.

Like the sky,  and the valley and the world outside, the man's  face was ashen and grey.  And the clouds in his head hung  low and black.

For five days. Black and endless. A black and endless migraine. Take one twice a day. Do not exceed daily dose. If symptoms persist... If symptoms persist? Do what exactly?

An underlying headache with the power and sound of a fairground generator. Dull and never ending and without the screams and cries of delight or the promise of candy floss for the way home.

Somewhere behind the left eye, there are fireworks. Diamond jubilee fireworks and hand held sparklers all in full  display. The right eye doesn’t see them but isn’t missing out.  If there was a crowd they would be oohing and cooing with delight. But to be brutally frank, the only person to see them just wishes he could turn his back and gaze at the cold black clouds instead. 

And then, after a week, there's a break. The evening sun peeps out, the clouds turn to apricot and peach and custard and raspberry ripple ice cream, the blackbird feels a sudden urge to sing to her husband and to  her neighbours and to everyone else around. The  sheep casts an eye towards her bouncing offspring hoping that they don’t over do it on the first day  and the cowslips on the high meadows shake  off the droplets and shout with yellow joy.

Today's picture : a brief moment of spring on Bryn Pydew amongst the swathes of cowslip.