Charm

Preamble: With royalty commanding so much media attention in the last few days, I thought I'd write my Saturday blog about Henry VIII, considered back in Tudor times to be a man of great charm, certainly in his younger days, and a bit of a favourite. You may draw some oblique historical parallels if you wish. Henry was also believed to be possessed of 'thaumaturgic' powers, (that's my word of the week), the ability to heal the sick by the laying on of hands, a demonstration of his divinity known as the 'royal touch '. But to begin at the beginning...

Part One (Up): Prince Henry, as he was formerly known, was born at the Palace of the Placenta in Greenwich village in 1491, although his mother was not American. (President Trump was wrong about that one.) Henry never expected to be king, because he had an elder brother Arthur. So his upbringing was entitled and carefree. Henry was tutored by Ladies and became versed in the arts, music and poetry, though he was also a good horse-rider and fluent in French and Latin and Particle Physics.

Unfortunately for Henry, brother Arthur went and died when he was fifteen and Henry was only ten. Henry's dad, the King, then wanted young Henry to marry Arthur's widow, Catherine the Arrogant, but Henry refused because he was still a lad and having a good time, though smoking hadn't been invented yet.

Henry VIII as a charming young man with healing hands (circa 1509)

Part Two (Down): When his dad, the King, eventually died, young Henry was obliged to ascended the throne of England, aged just seventeen. The nation (i.e. London, some things never change) took him to their hearts, delighted by this charming and charismatic young monarch, tired as they had become of his grumpy old papa. There was much merriment and partying and Henry's new single 'Greensleeves' was number one for weeks. 

His closet advisor, Wolsey, urged the young king to prove himself a man by marrying Catherine the Arrogant anyway, as she was available, road tested and still only twenty-three. The next day Henry said to his courtiers "Gentlemen, last night I was in Spain." Charming.

Disclaimer: By the way, everything I'm telling you I've gleaned from Sir Mandeville de Karma*, the leading historical scholar and TV presenter who has written tomes about the life and reign of this most famous Tudor king, including two blockbuster best-sellers, 'The Disillusion of the Monsters' and 'The Sex Lives of Henry VIII '. The latter has been turned into a six-part Netflix mini-series starring Quark Phoenix as Henry the charmer and Sir Mandeville's own youngest daughter Lemony de Karma as all six of Henry's wives. Rotten Tomatoes website has described the series as 'a tour de farce '. 

Interlude: Greensleeves as performed by another Baleine girl, Karliene. (Click on the song title to fire up the YouTube rendition.)

Part Three (Charm): Meanwhile, young King Henry's closet advisor, the weasley Wolsey, set up his own hosiery company and used the profits to build a magnificent house on the banks of the Thames at Richmond, where he entertained the rich and powerful of the time. Henry was a frequent visitor and used to enjoy the company there of several very young ladies, away from the prying eyes of his Queen. These included one or both of the sisters of the Duke of Buckingham, Anne and Elizbeth Stafford, in addition to courtiers Elizabeth Carew, only 15 at the time, and Elizabeth Blount, who was 17 when she fathered Henry's bastard son, Henry Fitzroy. Apparently Catherine the Arrogant didn't mind the affairs so much as the fact that Henry now had the son (albeit illegitimate) she had been unable to provide for him.

Part Four (Strange): Given that failure of his wife to produce a male heir, he decided to divorce her and marry somebody else he'd been having a whale of a time with, 15 year old Mary Baleine. Apparently she too eventually bore him a child, but later when his divorce from Catherine was eventually resolved, he'd taken a shine instead to Mary's sister Anne Baleine. Catherine and Henry being Catholics (as everybody was at that point in history), the Pope refused to grant their divorce. So Henry ousted Wolsey and seized Hampton Court for himself. The first thing he did was add on a magnificent ballroom. He also appointed Thomas Cromwell as his new top advisor. 

Cromwell's top advice was for Henry to break with Rome, the obstructive Pope and the idolatrous Catholic church, and to create the Church of England with himself by Divine Right of Kings as its earthly head and Defender of the Faith, so that he could divorce Catherine and marry Anne of a Thousand Days, at the end of which time he had her head chopped off because a) she too failed to bear him a son, b) she was adulterous, c) she laughed at him in bed.

Henry VIII exercising his divine rights

Part Five (Top): Never mind, transparent Henry already had Jane Seemore, one of Anne's ladies in waiting, in the wings ready to be wife number three. She certainly showed him. Jane finally produced the legitimate son and heir Henry had been longing for. There were more celebrations throughout the land (well, In London at least) but sadly Jane died within weeks of the birth, citing post-natal complications, an honourable way out for her. She was rather old, after all, nearly 30. At least young Edward would continue the Tudor dynasty in due course.

Part Six (Bottom): Not wishing to be a widower and having grown somewhat lardy and lecherous in his middle age, Henry was persuaded to make a diplomatic marriage of Allianz to some hot continental totty, Anne of Cloves. The theory was she would keep him sweet in bed, be good for his toothache and help prevent an invasion of the country by dodgy foreigners. It was the first time he'd wedded someone he hadn't bedded first - big mistake. He decided he didn't like her in that way and the marriage was annulled within months on the grounds of 'non-consummation'. She was allowed to keep her head, but Cromwell, whose last top advice it had been, lost his. Henry also made a generous financial settlement on Anne of Cloves who was henceforth known as 'the King's Beloved Sister'.

Henry's predilection was for much younger flesh and he was soon smitten by milky 17 year old Catherine Cowherd, whose father had secured her a place at court as lady-in-waiting to Anne of Cloves. Catherine was described in contemporary chronicles as "pretty and vivacious, small in stature but full of frame." She was a shoo-in as wife number five. Unfortunately Henry couldn't keep up and she took to dallying where the grass was greener. One can only imagine what her father felt like when his darling daughter was beheaded, aged just 19, on the grounds that she had committed adultery with her cousin. Such was the price of royal patronage.

Henry's last marriage was to the first woman in England to publish a work under her own name in English. In fact she wrote three books and had been involved in the education of two of Henry's children, Elizabeth and Edward, with whom she continued to enjoy a close relationship after their father's death. By this time he was no longer a charming man, and she outlived him. Catherine Parricide is remembered as the wife who survived the 'royal touch' relatively unscathed. She bore him no children, didn't get divorced or beheaded or otherwise deaded. Henry was her third husband, and she even remarried after his death.

Postamble: You didn't think I'd let you go without a poem did you? Here's one by the charming man himself. 

Lusty Youth Should Us Ensue

Lusty Youth should us ensue,
His merry heart shall sure all rue.
For whatsoever they do him tell,
It is not for him, we know it well.

For they would have him his Liberty refrain
And all merry company for to disdain,
But I will not so whatsoever they say,
But follow his mind in all that we may.

How should Youth himself best use
But all disdainers for to refuse?
Youth has, as chief assurance,
Honest Mirth with Virtue's pastance.

For in them consisteth great honour,
Though that disdainers would therein put error,
For they do sue to get them grace
All only riches to purchase.

With Good Order, Counsel, and Equity,
Good Lord, grant us our mansion to be!
For without their good guidance
Youth should fall in great mischance.

For Youth is frail and prompt to do,
As well vices as virtues to ensue.
Wherefore by these he must be guided
And Virtue's pastance must be therein used.

Now unto God this prayer we make,
That this rude play may well be take,
And that we may our faults amend,
An bliss obtain at our last end.

                                     Henry VIII, King of England 1509-1547

 

Next week: 'Odes to Joy, Julia, Tracey and Virginia Cakes' by A. Battenburg-Windsor

*Sir Mandeville (aged 93.5) is Emeritus Professor of History at the University of Caracas in Venezuela. He is researching and writing his latest work, 'The Book of Moron ', about Donald J. Trump.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Hag Stone Charms

According to the dictionary, charm can mean a quality that makes you like or feel attracted to someone or something. For instance, “she was a woman of great charm” or “I don’t trust that easy charm of his”. A charm can also be deemed to have magical powers, to ward off evil spirits such as an amulet like a rabbit’s foot (not so lucky for the rabbit). Charms can also be imbued with supernatural powers and magic to protect the wearer.

Historically, charms can found way back in time in natural things such as rocks, stones or pebbles and these charms are to be found all over Britain. One such example of these is a hag stone or witch stone, fairy stone or holy (sacred) stone, and it is a small piece of rock/stone with a naturally occurring hole in it caused by water erosion whether by a river or the sea. The stone has also been rounded by the actions of water.

Image of a collection of Hag Stones

In folklore, hag stones are believed to possess potent protective powers. Their associations with witches and the supernatural stem from the belief that the hole in the stone acts as a portal, a window through which harmful magic or evil spirits can be warded off. Placing a hag stone above a doorway or tying it to a key ring was thought to prevent witches from entering the home or causing harm. Farmers would attach them to their barns to protect livestock, while sailors carried them for luck and safe passage across treacherous waters. The hag stone’s reputation as a talisman was widespread, and stories of its powers abound in local legends.

Image of Hag Stone as lucky charm to be placed over a house doorway

One of the most fascinating aspects of hag stones is their ability to reveal the unseen. Tradition holds that peering through the hole of a hag stone allows one to glimpse into the realm of fairies, spirits, or other supernatural beings. This belief is rooted in the idea that the hag stone’s aperture acts as a lens, transforming the ordinary landscape into a magical vista. The stone became a tool for divination and discovery, a bridge between worlds.

The name ‘hag stone’ itself is evocative, conjuring images of witches and wise women. In some traditions, these stones were said to offer protection against the ‘hag’—a term once used for witches or malevolent spirits. The adder stone, as it’s sometimes called, links the object to serpents and ancient Druidic practices. The intertwining of pagan rituals and later Christian beliefs ensured that hag stones retained their mystique, even as the nature of their magic was debated and reinterpreted.

Today, hag stones are often collected as souvenirs or displayed as decorative items. Beachcombers and enthusiasts delight in finding them, recognising their rarity and the folklore attached. The stones are sometimes incorporated into jewellery, hung in gardens, or placed on altars, maintaining a link to the ancient traditions and superstitions that once governed rural life.

Image of Hag Stone jewellery by John Smith

Hag stones are much more than mere rocks with holes. They are embodiments of cultural history, symbols of protection, and gateways to the imagination. Whether seen as magical artefacts or geological curiosities, their presence on a beach or in a collection speaks to a deep human desire to find meaning and mystery in the world around us. To discover a hag stone is to stumble upon a story, one that stretches across time and continues to enchant those who seek the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Hag Stones

Ambling along the beach
absent minded yet looking
for clues

in amongst the driftwood
and sea holly there
you were

unassuming, not shouting your
presence despite the wind,
rain, sea’s restless churning

the world can be traced with
your eye, protection descends
from celestial power

ancient reminder of time’s
endless line and an echo
reframing the past.

Dermot.

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Charm

I’ve always been fascinated by the following as explained by the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN):

All matter around us is made of elementary particles, the building blocks of matter. These particles occur in two basic types called quarks and leptons. Each group consists of six particles, which are related in pairs, or ‘generations’. The lightest and most stable particles make up the first generation, whereas the heavier and less-stable particles belong to the second and third generations.

All stable matter in the universe is made from particles that belong to the first generation; any heavier particles quickly decay to more stable ones. The six quarks are paired in three generations – the ‘up quark’ and the ‘down quark’ form the first generation, followed by the ‘charm quark’ and ‘strange quark’, then the ‘top quark’ and ‘bottom (or beauty) quark’.

Quarks also come in three different ‘colours’ and only mix in such ways as to form colourless objects. The six leptons are similarly arranged in three generations – the “electron” and the “electron neutrino”, the “muon” and the “muon neutrino”, and the “tau” and the “tau neutrino”. The electron, the muon and the tau all have an electric charge and a sizeable mass, whereas the neutrinos are electrically neutral and have very little mass.

The best understanding of how these particles and three of the forces are related to each other is encapsulated in the Standard Model of particle physics but I’m not going down that path. Let’s stick with quarks. Why Quark?

In the early 1960s, American physicist Murray Gell-Man came up with the word quork, which he used to refer to his concept of an elementary particle smaller than a proton or neutron (by his own account he was in the habit of using names like ‘squeak’ and ‘squork’ for peculiar objects). He later settled on the spelling quark after reading a line from James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake: “Three quarks for Muster Mark!” This name was chosen because it was originally theorized that all of composite matter was built from 3 quarks.

In 1970, physicists Sheldon L. Glashow, John Iliopoulos and Luciano Maiani proposed a fourth quark, serving as a counterpart to the strange quark much like top and bottom. And so, on by what most accounts call a whim, they named it the charm quark. The first charmed particles were observed in 1974.

I have no idea what the following means:

‘It is known as the Glashow–Iliopoulos–Maiani (GIM) mechanism through which flavour-changing neutral currents (FCNCs) are suppressed in loop diagrams. It also explains why weak interactions that change strangeness by 2 (ΔS = 2 transitions) are suppressed, while those that change strangeness by 1 (ΔS = 1 transitions) are allowed, but only in charged current interactions.’

Glashow said the name was because of the “symmetry it brought to the subnuclear world”, balancing the number of known quarks and leptons. He also associated charms with warding off evil. The charm quark prevented particle decays predicted by the three-quark theory, which can look evil to a particle physicist when the timing is bad enough.

I remember starting Finnegans Wake years ago but giving up after a few pages.

from Finnegans Wake by James Joyce

Three quarks for Muster Mark!
Sure he hasn't got much of a bark
And sure any he has it's all beside the mark.
But O, Wreneagle Almighty, wouldn't un be a sky of a lark
To see that old buzzard whooping about for uns shirt in the dark
And he hunting round for uns speckled trousers around by Palmer-stown Park?
Hohohoho, moulty Mark!
You're the rummest old rooster ever flopped out of a Noah's ark
And you think you're cock of the wark.
Fowls, up! Tristy's the spry young spark
That'll tread her and wed her and bed her and red her
Without ever winking the tail of a feather
And that's how that chap's going to make his money and mark!

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Charm - In Search of Charm

‘In Search of Charm’ by Mary Young. This book should have been returned to Palatine Secondary School library in 1970. Oops, my mistake, but now that I’ve dug it out from one of my many bookcases, I think I’ll read it again and see how the world has changed fifty odd years on. At school, we were encouraged to walk properly upright, shoulders back, no slouching. Deportment included doing this carrying a book on our heads. This was the sort of thing covered in the book. I remember learning the correct way to open and close a door when entering or exiting a room. I also remember that it was considered acceptable to smoke on a train, but not on a bus, and certainly not outside on the street. This was all aimed at girls becoming ladies. I’ve no idea what the boys did, if anything. They continued to charge about like apes.

I was an impressionable fifteen year old in 1970. I idolised Twiggy, though all I had in common with her was incredibly skinny legs and an eye for fashion. I didn’t have her gorgeous face, still don’t. I was a young lady, behaving mostly in a lady-like manner. I loved my trips to stay with family in London which would always include a visit to Carnaby Street where I would look for something delicate and floaty to wear. And beads, they were my signature accessory.

It’s obvious to me now, as a mature, hopefully lady-like woman, that I grew up in a time when girls were being trained, if that’s the right description, to become good wives. My aunt told me that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach. I get by, but I’m not the Cordon Bleu that she once was. Luckily, I married a man who is an excellent cook and perfectly capable of making a delicious meal. Presenting ourselves as easy on the eye by looking nicely groomed was important, too. Um, for self-esteem, first.

A friend of my mother’s had a fascinating charm bracelet that gave me such joy to look at. It was gold and stuffed with many charms. Something had a folded ten-shilling note inside, something else a pound note. I’d never remember it all, but I loved looking at it and finding things I’d previously missed. It must have been worth a small fortune and it must have been really heavy. Just something that has stuck in my memory.

I expect that re-reading ‘In Search of Charm’ will fill me with horror. Women are equal. We can come out of the kitchen. I had my own mortgage when I was single.

I chose this poem because I liked it.  

The Charm

Thrice toss these oaken ashes in the air,
Thrice sit thou mute in this enchanted chair,
Then thrice three times tie up this true love’s knot,
And murmur soft ‘She will, or she will not.’
Go burn these pois’nous weeds in yon blue fire,
These screech-owl’s feathers and this prickling briar,
This cypress gathered at a dead man’s grave,
That all my fears and cares an end may have.
Then come, you fairies! Dance with me a round;
Melt her hard heart with your melodious sound.
In vain are all the charms I can devise:
She hath an art to break them with her eyes.

Thomas Campion (1567 – 1620)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Jumble Hole Clough

Some years ago, Adele and I on a grand day out from Blackpool ventured across the old county line between Lancashire and Yorkshire. That boundary ran along Jumble Hole Clough, a steep-sided wooded valley formed by a fast-flowing stream that eventually discharged into the River Calder.

In the 19th century (actually from the late 1700s onwards) through to the early 20th century, the steep-sided valleys of the Upper Calder area were home to a series of mills that harnessed the power of fast-flowing streams to turn water-wheels that produced the power to drive spinning and weaving machines of the Industrial Revolution.

One of the earliest was built at Mytholmroyd by Thomas Edmondson, its scribbling and carding machines being water-powered and its spinning frames worked by young women and girls. Other mills soon followed across the region, financed by wealthy merchant-manufacturers. Eventually hundreds of mills were in place across Calderdale, spinning, dyeing, knitting, stitching and weaving wool, cotton and silk with practised excellence into cloth, bedding and carpets. The opening of the Rochdale canal in 1796 and the building of a branch of the Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway through the Calder Valley in 1841, provided excellent transport links for the mills to bring materials in and ship product out to the world.

Jumble Hole Clough, focus of today's blog, lies to the west of Hebden Bridge and Charlestown. By the early 19th century it was a thriving industrial centre with four large mills: Staups (originally Starlings) Mill, Cow Bridge Mill, Spa Mill and Jumble Hole Mill itself.

Staups Mill was apparently the earliest of the four to be built. It was a cotton mill with two 'mules', with two hundred and sixteen spindles on each (a comparatively small operation), spinning calico for the most part. It appears to have changed ownership several times during the 19th century.

"Brave dreams and their mortgaged walls are let rot in the rain."

Cow Bridge Mill was a three storey mill built over the stream and an artificial waterfall created to divert the stream into a mill dam. It was accompanied by a row of cottages providing accommodation for the mill workers. Originally a cotton-spinning mill, it changed to worsted production in the 1830s. When it finally closed down near the end of that century, the looms were relocated to more modern premises elsewhere.

Spa Mill was a much bigger five-storey cotton mill built around 1788. It was powered by an overshot water wheel from a dam above the mill. It was said to have specialised in fustian, a tough cotton cloth used mainly in men's clothing (jackets and trousers). 

Jumble Hole Mill is the only one of the four still in existence. Today it is used as private residences and workshops. It was originally called Underbank dyeworks and was particularly used for dying silk, having two dye sheds. It was partially destroyed by fire in 1899 but was rebuilt and survived in use until the 1950s under the ownership of Cocker and Co. Ltd. "bleaching, dyeing and finishing of blacks and colours; rayons; pongees; crepes; repps; cashmeres; brocades; honeycombes; mercerised stripes, muslins; lenos; doria shapes. Underbank Dyeworks, steam, tel TN 207. T.A.Cocker Mng director; Mabel townsend Secretary". The remains of the mill dam which was fed by a goit from Jumble Hole Clough, can still be seen above the mill.

Of course, as is the way of the world, increased mechanisation, the growth of industrialisation and much cheaper labour in other parts of the world in the 20th century eventually meant that the mills of Calderdale were no longer viable concerns. Gradually they all closed down.

In the last hundred years the abandoned workplaces have fallen into ruin (as the photograph of what remains of Staups Mill above shows), and trees and wildlife have reclaimed the steep-sided valleys. A once bustling area full of noise, smoke and human activity, is now a green and pleasant habitat filled with birdsong and the sound of rushing water, a paradise for hikers, dog-walkers and nature lovers. 

Only a couple of examples of the area's industrial heritage remain, preserved as museums, and those fast-flowing streams with their occasional mill pools and weirs.

"Happiness is now broken water at the bottom of a precipice."

It's Ted Hughes country, of course. He was born at Mytholmroyd, midway between Heptonstall and Jumble Hole Clough and to the west of Hebden Bridge. His parents had a house at Slack, near Heptonstall, and Sylvia Plath is buried in Heptonstall churchyard.

If you're intimately familiar with the poetry of Ted Hughes, you'll know that he wrote a collection of poems in the late 1970s about that region of West Yorkshire that was his backyard when he was growing up. I quote his preface to that volume here, along with the titular poem from the collection, as it reminds me of our fascinating walks in Calderdale that day.

"The Calder valley, west of Halifax, was the last ditch of Elmet, the last British Celtic kingdom to fall to the Angles. For centuries it was considered a more or less uninhabitable wilderness, a notorious refuge for criminals, a hide-out for refugees. Then in the 1800s it became the cradle for the Industrial Revolution in textiles, and the upper Calder became 'the hardest worked river in England'.

Throughout my lifetime, since 1930, I have watched the mills of the region and their attendant chapels die. Within the last fifteen years the end has come. They are now virtually dead, and the population of the valley and the hillsides, so rooted for so long, is changing rapidly."

Remains Of Elmet

Death-struggle of the glacier

Enlarged the long gullet of Calder

Down which its corpse vanished.

Farms came, stony masticators

Of generations that ate each other 

To nothing inside them.

The sunk mill-towns were cemeteries

Digesting utterly 

All with whom they swelled.

Now, coil behind coil,

A Wind-parched ache,

An absence, famished and staring,

Admits tourists

To pick among crumbling, loose molars

And empty sockets.

                                                Ted Hughes, 'Remains Of Elmet', 1979

                                        

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Jumble

I can think of six second hand bookshops within an hour’s travel of where I live. Four of them are a delight and I have spent many happy hours browsing their shelves. And buying books of course. The other two look like someone has broken in overnight and done the following, according to my Chambers:

Mixed confusedly, thrown together without order, shaken up, jolted, mixed together, been agitated, floundered. i.e. in a Jumble.

bookshop chaos

Which is just about acceptable in one of them but the other is a danger. You have to go one way round and turn sideways to get along the passages, always with the threat of something falling on your head.

I’m not sure about the next bit but they both have no rhyme or reason in what you may find. You get Enid Blyton next to piles of the Geographical Magazine which I have sometimes found intriguing. But not if you want to search for a particular subject or author.

Which has got me thinking about how the others and indeed libraries actually do organise their books. I’ve heard about the Dewey system but what is it?

The following is from an article by Janine Ungvarsky and published by EBSCO in 2022:

‘Dewey Decimal Classification (DDC)
The Dewey Decimal Classification (DDC) is a way of organizing books in a library so that related topics are shelved together. The system identifies each book by its subject in such a way that adding a book to a grouping does not require renumbering books. It is the most widely used library-organizational system in the world and is constantly evolving as content is added.

Origins
The Dewey Decimal Classification (DDC) system was invented in 1873 by Melville Dewey (1851-1931), then a student assistant at the Amherst College library in Massachusetts. Dewey, who later became a founder of the American Library Journal and the organizer of the first conference for librarians, published his classification system in 1876.

order

Prior to this, a library numbered each book in its collection according to its location on the shelves. A book always had the same number in a library but not necessarily in other libraries, and books on related topics were not usually shelved together. This system made it possible for patrons to locate individual books, but they had to look up each book individually in a master file. The system also made it more difficult for patrons to find books on related subjects.

Dewey revamped this system, numbering books in relation to each other in a way that put books of like topics together. Other libraries adopted his system, creating the first standardized means of locating books in any library.

Structure of the DDC
Under the DDC, books are first grouped into general categories, or classes, and given a three-digit Arabic number based on the overall subject matter. 

These are the ten broad categories for classification:
000—is the most general and includes reference works such as encyclopedias and periodicals. It also includes computer science topics, something that did not exist when Dewey created the system.
100—is dedicated to works of philosophy and psychology, occultism, and parapsychology.
200—includes works related to religion.
300—includes all social sciences, such as anthropology, sociology, political science, law, economics, education, communication, and customs.
400—is dedicated to language, specific languages, and linguistics.
500—covers natural sciences and mathematic topics.
600—includes all technology.
700—is dedicated to the arts (fine and decorative arts, music, and performing arts) as well as sports and games.
800—is dedicated to literature and includes prose, poetry, and drama.
900—encompasses history and geography.

The first numeral in the three-digit number defines a book's general classification. The second numeral indicates a division of that classification, and the third further classifies the book within its division. For example, the 900 classification is for books about history and geography, while the 910 classification is for books about geography and travel. Books starting with 920 are about biography and genealogy, and books starting with 930 are about the history of the ancient world. The third number further classifies a book—a book with the number 931 is about the history of ancient China and a book with the number 932 is about ancient Egypt.

Dewey's system added decimal points to provide more refined classification. In this instance, the decimal point is more like the period in a sentence than a mathematical device; it signals a pause in reading or copying the number. The portion of the number to the right of the decimal point can have as many digits as necessary to allow for a detailed classification of the book's subject matter. For example, a book about caring for dogs is classified as 636.7, with the first "6" representing the broad class of technology, the "3" representing agriculture and related technology, the second "6" serving as the notation for animal husbandry, and the "7" after the decimal point indicating that the book is about dog care. Additional numbers after the decimal point could be added to define different facets of dog care.’

DDC organised library shelves

Well, I found that fascinating.

I thought I’d have a go at a short effort (not haiku) jumbling the definitions of Jumble:

Jumbled Jumble

Agitate, shake without order
throw confusedly, jolt,
flounder together

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Fruit Tree

It has to be Tangerine. Apples are awesome, bananas are brilliant, cherries are cute (fabulous blossom too), damsons are delicious, entawaks are exotic (look them up), figs are flavoursome, greengages are groovy... I could go on through the alphabet... but tangerines are the tops.

Let's get the etymology out of the way first. It ought to come as no surprise that tangerine was originally an adjective meaning 'of Tangier', the Moroccan seaport from which the fruit was first shipped, given that it grows in that region of the north African country. It was in fact once known scientifically as 'Citrus nobilis var. tangeriana', though its modern binomial is simply Citrus tangerina. The OED cites the first usage of tangerine from an edition of The Tatler in 1710. Morocco to this day is still the fourth largest producer of tangerines behind China (the world's biggest grower, though their variety is more commonly known as mandarin), Spain and Türkiye.

Tangerines

As for the fruit itself, tangerines are smaller and less spherical than oranges. A ripe tangerine has a slightly pitted, soft thin skin, is usually easy to peel, and the flesh inside tastes stronger and sweeter than an orange. Tangerines are great thirst-quenchers, being 85% water, 13% carbohydrate (fructose and glucose) and 2% fibre and protein. They are rich in vitamins A and C. One small tangerine provides about a third of the recommended daily vitamin C intake. Eat three a day and you'll never be a scurvy knave. They are also virtually fat-free. 

Tangerines are easier to grow than many other citrus fruits. They can even be grown in containers indoors. They require these key components:

- a mineral rich soil that does not decompose, and contains live microbials

- organic fertiliser without synthetic salts

- regular watering to keep soil moist but never waterlogged

- a minimum 6 to 8 hours of sunshine during the growing period (May to September in our hemisphere)

- a temperature than never drops below freezing

Tangerine trees take four years to reach maturity and start fruiting. They can eventually grow up to 15 feet tall, but can be kept more compact (6 to 8 feet) in a container or if pruned regularly. A healthy tangerine tree can produce up to 100 lbs or 45 kilos of fruit each season and will continue to fruit for up to fifty years if well maintained.

well maintained tangerine trees

Who recalls as a child finding a tangerine at the bottom of one's Christmas stocking? Apparently it's a tradition that goes right back to the 13th-century when French nuns would leave stockings full of fruit, nuts and tangerines at the houses of the poor at Christmas. It's certainly the case that the giving of tangerines as gifts to family and friends at the tail end of the year is an honoured tradition in China and Japan, the fruit and the colour being symbols of good luck and happiness.

 

The colour tangerine (as separate from orange) didn't appear in print until 1899. As an historical back note, even the word orange was a latecomer to the official spectrum of recognised colours. Until the arrival of oranges in 13th century Europe (brought to Spain from Persia by Arabs), and the naming of the colour after the fruit (nārang in Persian which became naranja in Spanish, with "have a naranja" eventually morphing into "have an orange" in English), objects of a shade between red and yellow were always described by the compound word reddish-yellow or yellowish-red (geoluhread in Old English).

Nowadays, tangerine, also known as 'vibrant orange', has a hex designation #f28500 in computer graphics and a Pantone number 15-1247 in the painting and printing trades. And we in the jewel of the north are very proud that our local football team plays in tangerine (not orange) and white, a tradition which actually began in 1923, before which time Blackpool played in a variety of fairly ordinary red or blue kits. It is not unusual to hear or read us being referred to as the Tangerines, as well as the Seasiders.

And so to my latest poem, which also lends its name to the title of my upcoming second collection due some time in the spring. More on that later. For now, I give you...

Tangerine

Sitting in the shade of this tangerine tree

a quiet hour devouring you page by page
my false bride your Christmas stockings
eyes of night dimpled smile lips as bright

as morning sunlight striking citrus. Folies

fade in memory your hex code printed on

emotions soft and slow to ripen. Cinch the

pebble peel up a spray of essential oil zest

as promise of cool flesh in segments fresh

and full which pressed to bursting squirt a
sweetness on my tongue. The tang itself of
life of love revealing in complex favours by

degrees a liquid fire to quench such lusting
as is chaptered within. End of my questing
just rind and spit pips attesting you’ve won
an unintentioned heart. Love you tangerine.

I couldn't write on the subject of fruit trees without leaving a small musical bonus in the form of Nick Drake's beautiful song: Fruit Tree from the LP 'Five Leaves Left'. It might have been inspired by his visit to Morocco in 1967.Just click on the song title to activate the YouTube link. Enjoy.

 

Thanks for reading. Up the mighty Pool. S ;-)

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Fruit Tree

When I moved into my previous house in Thornton Cleveleys it was the garden that sold me on the deal. It was an really ugly house, the kitchen was drab and cheerless, the bathroom cold and unwelcoming, but the back garden was huge. Despite a couple of discarded mattresses, overgrown by grass and weeds, there was a mighty sycamore at the far end and closer to the house, a fruiting cherry tree and a neglected apple tree.

I had to prune it back quite hard and attach sticky strips to the trunk to deter ants but by the next spring it was showing signs of recovery. The cherry blossomed and bore some sweet fruit. The apple tree did not. Naturally I was disappointed. I had planted raspberry canes the previous year and would pick a handful to eat with breakfast every summer morning. The apple tree was a dilemma.

The following spring I took my mum and my daughter to Southport flower show. I bought some vanilla lily bulbs and while walking round the marquees, came across seated group involved in a question and answer session with two celebrity gardeners. We took our seats and after a while I put up my hand and asked how they would suggest I could fix my tree. They in return asked whether there were other apple trees in the surrounding gardens. I responded that, yes, one garden had a tree. The solution, they announced is to cut a branch from that tree when it is in bloom and brush the flowers in my own tree with the pollen. I am pleased to announce that it worked and soon apples appeared. Simple solution.

Sadly the following year, we were hit by The Beast from the East and the cherry tree took the brunt of the cold winds and started to die. The apple tree thrived, however much of the fruit had brown speckles and were not appetising. I would take them off and had soon built up a pile at the foot of my perimeter hedge. During the cold winter season, this became a food store for hedgehogs and blackbirds who feasted on the fruit and the worms that the apples attracted. It is said that everything happens for a reason.

When I was much younger, my parents were tenants of a 16th century coaching inn. Next door was an abandoned cottage with an orchard behind. As village children with little entertainment to be had, we loved to play in the old building. We collected discarded tins of paint and made attempts to make it cheerful. The colours of paint made the interior quite a spectacle.

One day, around a dozen of us were messing about in the cottage when we heard a child's voice screaming. Running outside we discovered a little boy of around four had climbed an apple tree and was being viciously attacked hundreds of wasps. It seems that he kicked the nest. I told one of my friends to run and get the child's father, then ran to the telephone box and dialled 999 for an ambulance. He was going into shock by the time help arrived but after treatment and a brief spell in hospital, he recovered. It is a vivid memory for me and very frightening!

Now to get back to my old apple tree. Eventually I began to hang bird feeders from it and attached a birdhouse that I found in my dad's shed after he died in 1998 to the sycamore. That year we had our first brood of baby bluetits and on Christmas Day while eating lunch, the lawn dusted with snow,  a magnificent great spotted woodpecker came to eat from the feeder. It was a red letter day for the apple tree and as an avid bird lover, for me too. Over the years it attracted jays, wood pigeons, countless robins and just once, a pair of waxwings. It became a happy little tree.

The poem was written a good few years ago but I think that it captures the right moment.

A Winter's Tail

On a bright and bluish Boxing Day
when the house is quiet
the kids away
I am ironing alone
in the peace
facing the window
wide and clear
and I gaze to the garden
through frosted grass
while the tears stream down
for the love that I lost
for the joy that passed
Then I stop
and I peer at a flash of light
the green and yellow
a bird in flight
with a soft black cap
and a bold black chest
my acrobats are back to their nest
dashing and dancing
from limb to limb
of the apple tree with its mouldy trim
swinging from strings to a coconut
to taste sweet suet and butternut
such delight to my wondering eyes did appear
and brought me a smile from ear to ear.

Thank you for reading. Adele

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Fruit Tree

Arboriculture, or the cultivation of fruit trees goes back to the Neolithic period and was developed, perhaps, around 6,000 BCE within the Fertile Crescent in Mesopotamia, between the Tigris and the Euphrates, and in Egypt, in the Nile Valley. The first fruit trees to be cultivated were indigenous species.

I was going to go along the historical line and trace what happened over the thousands of years since then but in looking up details I came across this place in Kent and I’d never heard of it before and it sounds wonderful.

Brogdale Farm is near Faversham in Kent. It has the largest collection of temperate fruit in one place in the world. Row upon row of fruit trees and grape vines make up its treasure trove of over 4,000 fruit varieties. It is, in essence, the UK’s largest orchard.

Brogdale Farm

The collection is owned by the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs (Defra) and is part of an international programme to protect plant genetic resources for the future. The University of Reading is responsible for the curation and maintenance of the UK’s National Fruit Collection (NFC) in collaboration with the Fruit Advisory Services Team (FAST), who are based at the Farm. Public access is organised by Brogdale Collections, who manage public access and provide guided tours and run various events throughout the year.

They reckon to have near to 3,500 fruit trees and say that with around 2,100 varieties of apple tree, the spring time blossom display is worth a visit alone. But there is so much more to the Nation Fruit Collection. Its mandate is to safeguard the future of each and every one of its trees and vines. The genetic resources housed within the NFC are fundamental to researching how we can adapt fruit crops to our changing environment, or select varieties that will grow well as our seasons and climatic conditions change.

They ask why should you visit Brogdale and the National Fruit Collection? And answer that question thus:
‘As well as being a stunning sight to behold, you can taste many different varieties of fruit and even taste the exceptional apple juice that is produced from the harvest. Visitors can get their unfamiliar fruit varieties identified.

What’s more, you’ll be better acquainted with an establishment that has contributed immensely to the development of global fruit growing knowledge.... Since the NFC was established it has conserved the 4,000 cultivars and distributed them to research organisations all over the world, as well as supporting many local fruit groups and orchards to identify fruit varieties and obtain scions for rare cultivars.

By visiting, you’ll also be supporting the Brogdale Collections, which relies on visitors to the NFC and the festivals and events and on charitable funding. The best time to visit Brogdale Collections is during one of its events such as the Apple, Cider or Cherry Festivals, where you can taste and buy hundreds of varieties and tour the NFC, or Hanami Festival for spring blossom. But whenever you go, be sure to join the daily guided tour of the extensive orchards. See the website for more information.’

Here is an example of one of the Tours on offer:
Blossom Tours
Dates: 28, 29 March, 18, 19, 25, 26 April
Times: 11.30pm and 2pm

Brogdale blossom time

"The blossom tours will take you on a journey around the collections, discovering the seasonal highlights and peak blossom areas of the orchards. Ideal for the curious to learn about the National Fruit Collection or for aspiring photographers to grab those perfect shots of the blossom."

Thanks to Julie in Australia for suggesting the following poem.

After Apple-Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

                                                   Robert Frost

               

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Fruit Tree - An Apple Tree on St Kilda

It was one of those rare mornings where I didn’t need to be up early. A grandson had stayed with us recently, which meant early starts and walks to school in all weathers. Since he’s been home, I’ve been fighting some sort of flu virus which has given me a dreadful cough and some aches and pains. I’m not blaming him, of course not. I’ve got run down and not rested enough. Anyway, it was nice to stay in bed a bit longer, just dozing, listening to the wind whistling round the windows and imagining that I’m in my fantasy cottage in St Kilda, warm, cosy, everything I need, as a wild blizzard dominates the bleak surroundings. Somewhere in this blissful existence, I wanted a fruit tree. In reality, there are no trees of any sort on St Kilda. High winds and constant salt spray prevent tree growth and the peat, acidic soil is completely unsuitable. In my imagination, I have had sustainable soil shipped over to help maintain my vegetable plot. An apple tree would be lovely. Eventually, I had to get up from my gorgeous bed and live in the real world. My fruit tree blog had to be in there, somewhere.

Close to where I live, there was an abundance of damsons. The tree was over-hanging the garden wall on the property and the fruit spilled on to the pavement making a sticky, purple mess. One of my neighbours, with permission, collected some damsons and made jam. Much better than wasted fruit making a mess.

Nearby, there is a small, confused cherry tree. I say confused because it comes into bloom with fabulous blossom at various times of the year. Never any cherries, though.

At a young age, I learnt the hard way just how bad a tummy ache can be after eating crab apples picked from the tree. Home was always a pub, on a street in a town, so nowhere to play out except the carpark. That was fine for my bike or scooter, but no mates to play with. All changed when we moved to a pub in the village of Padfield near Glossop. I soon made friends from our school down the road and we were never in. We fished for tadpoles, got in trouble for playing in the local farmer’s silage pit until we were filthy and stinky and one day, decided to feast from an apple tree. Crab apples. They were bitter tasting, probably not ripe, and I imagine it was quantity that made me unwell. A lesson learnt.

My Haiku poem,

In my wildest dreams
I’m in comfort perfection,
St Kilda cottage.

Sweet, rosy apples,
So juicy and fresh each day,
Clustered on branches.

A rare, sunny day
And a cloudless sky in this
Archipelago.

Strong winds just bring snow
Icy, northern blasts make a
Harsh environment.

I wish I could grow
A fruit tree on St Kilda,
Weather protected.

PMW 2026

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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