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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Trams - Illuminated Train Tram

 

I’m currently enjoying a birthday break in Dumfries & Galloway, where so far, the snow has missed us out. The temperature is below freezing.  Blue skies, sunshine and hardly a breeze, but that may change in a day or two, according to the weather forecast, even in this micro climate pocket. It’s cosy in our favourite lodge. This is my happy place. While I’m relaxing I’m reminiscing about my childhood and my first encounter with trams.

That second relocation to Blackpool would have taken place in April, 1965. I was nine and a half.  My father got his wish, a pub on Blackpool promenade. Uprooted again, but I soon settled in to our home and my new school. All my pub homes were interesting, even quirky, looking back, but this one was the best. It might be to do with my father’s fulfilled ambition, but there was a calmness and happiness through the family that I was aware of. I hadn’t lived anywhere that offered such fascination through the front windows of our accommodation. South Pier, the beach, the sea in all its moody glory, the promenade that filled with people as spring turned to summer and summer ended with the Illuminations. Bay windows meant our view had a long stretch in both directions. Donkeys on the beach – I would hear their bells as they arrived and departed. Of course, those thundering trams trundling the length of the prom from Starr Gate to Fleetwood and they were loud. At least, loud is how I remember them and they seemed to be more noisy in the winter months when they had the promenade to themselves. During the Illuminations, there was, for me, the added joy of watching the illuminated trams go by, The Rocket, The Ship, The Boat and The Western Train which we always called the Puffer Train Tram, the one my sister looked out for.

Eventually I got to have a ride on one of the clanging monstrosities.  I think our housekeeper, Auntie Kathy, took us – that’s my sister and me – the first time. Other times we went with our mum and even Nanna was persuaded to come along on one of her visits.

As an adult, I have appreciated our Blackpool and Fylde coast line more than I ever did in childhood. When the new, smooth and quieter trams came on track I enjoyed taking the trip from Starr Gate to Fleetwood and back, just to look at the sea. The trams have been part of Blackpool since 1885, which makes them older than the Tower. They are an essential part of public transport for Blackpool and Fleetwood as well as a popular tourist attraction.

Moving pubs meant moving town, leaving behind the familiar comforts and friends to start again somewhere. It wasn’t always welcome but, looking back, I think I coped with the disruption. I have fond memories of people and places that were part of my childhood.

Back to the here and now, weather permitting, we’ll go out for lunch tomorrow to one of our favourite venues. If the weather is against us, we’ll stay cosy and make use of our food supply.

My Haiku poem,

Ride along the front
A new, smooth electric tram,
Starr Gate to Fleetwood.

How quiet they are!
Almost silent on the tracks
Where others thunder’d,

Rattled and trundled,
Those balloons of cream and green
Belonged to Blackpool.

Me, a nine year old,
Found so much fascination
Through our front windows.

And it got better,
Much to my delight, some trams,
Illuminated!

The ship, the rocket,
And the very best of all –
The Western train tram.

The new trams are good,
Accessible and comfy,
Have a seaside treat.

Choose a sunny day.
It’s an amazing journey
The best North West coast.

PMW 2024

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Weird - In My Crazy Dreams

‘Venus is the only planet that spins clockwise.’ Is that weird? As long as it doesn’t knock me over, I don’t care. I don’t take much notice of planets, apart from what the National Curriculum sets out to teach children, but I don’t think Venus is alone there. It might be Uranus that also spins clockwise, something to do with toppling over on its axis. No? Well, that will be just me on my statin induced weird dreams, then.

I blame the statins, like I do for everything else, but it could be the chocolate. Just try Cadbury’s ‘Darkmilk’, though maybe not too much before bed. I’m not having nightmares, thank goodness. My dreams are vivid and just weird, sending me into odd situations, like trying to figure something out at work in a dental surgery. I retired nearly three years ago, and I didn’t work in surgery, I was on reception. I dream about my family, including those who have passed away. Years ago, when I was having chemo, I regularly dreamt of going into a room full of people. It was welcoming and cosy. I was greeted with affection. This was where I belonged. The people were my family, my passed away family. There was my mother, young and pretty as I remembered her before she was ill, and my grandparents with aunts who were special to me, taking me into their fold. The dream was always much the same and with the same missing person. My dad wasn’t there. It upset me to think that if I died, my dad wasn’t waiting for me. It was disturbing, to say the least, as if there wasn’t already enough going on. It was just a very weird, recurring dream brought on by the chemicals that helped to save my life. As I recovered, I stopped dreaming so much and stopped worrying.

Imagine waking up in a spotlessly clean and tidy bedroom, bathed in sunlight filtering through tilted blinds. Outside, the neighbour who never speaks to anyone, smiles and calls out a cheerful ‘good morning’. On the main road, a few cars go by, carefully observing the twenty mile per hour speed limit and the pavement slabs are even with no trip hazards.

This would be too weird for words – or I had died and gone to Heaven.

Meet the Weird-Bird

Birds are flyin’south for winter.
Here’s the Weird-Bird headin’ north,
Wings a-flappin’, beak a-chatterin’,
Cold head bobbin’ back ‘n’ forth.
He says, “It’s not that I like ice
Or freezin’winds and snowy ground.
It’s just sometimes it’s kind of nice
To be the only bird in town.

                           Shel Silverstein (1930 – 1999)

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Blizzard - The Postie Stone, Moffat

The Postie Stone (i)

How exciting it would be to become snowed in when we have our pre-Christmas break at our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway. I think of this every November into December, when we spend a couple of weeks there, wrapped around my birthday, to do some Christmas shopping in the fabulous, privately owned individual shops. In anticipation of having to stay until March, unless a tractor from the farm comes along to rescue us, I take a supply of ‘emergency’ tinned food and packets, and stock up aplenty on arrival.  This time, it nearly happened. It was our last morning, the day we were leaving. Snow was about eight inches deep and still falling thick and fast. A huge mound shaped over and around our car so it looked like an igloo. We never have snow at home, not like this proper ‘build a snowman’ stuff and we stood in awe gazing at the most amazing landscape through the window.

One day, we went to Moffat, an enchanting market town north of Dumfries. We’ve been before and enjoy a stroll along the high street, seeing what the shops have and this visit was pretty with festive lights and shop windows trimmed for Christmas. It was a cold but calm, sunny day and for me, a wander into the Old Graveyard was appealing. John Loudon McAdam, of tarmac fame is buried there, also are the graves of James McGeorge and John Goodfellow. They were enroute to Edinburgh from Dumfries with postal deliveries when they were caught in a blizzard and died. 

The Postie Stone (ii) Detail

Taken from Atlas Obscurer –
“A roadside memorial commemorates the lives of John Goodfellow, the coach driver, and James McGeorge, the coach guard of a mail coach.

The pair were on a mail coach traveling from Dumfries to Edinburgh in February 1831. They became caught in a fierce blizzard which forced them to abandon the coach and set off on foot through the snow to try and deliver the mail and make it to safety.

They took the mailbags and horses but eventually, the men were overcome by the elements and died of exposure near the head of Cross Burn. The horses continued on, eventually reaching a nearby farm which raised the alarm.

The stone was erected in their memory in 1931, a century after the event. The men were laid to rest in the churchyard in nearby Moffat.”

(A full account of this can be found online, titled The Coaching Disaster.)

Such a sad story and I thought of them again as I watched the falling snow on our journey home. All was well until we were driving into Cumbria and coming over Shap. Late afternoon and it was going dark, the snow clouds were low and visibility was poor. The blizzard soon reduced the motorway from three to two lanes and traffic slowed accordingly. We were grateful to arrive home unscathed because soon after we heard about abandoned cars in Cumbria and jack-knifed wagons on the M6.

Being snowed in at the lodge would have been cosy, though, in my fantasy world.

 During my childhood, age 8 to 9, we lived in Padfield, near Glossop in what became one of dad’s favourite pubs and B&B to manage. We got snowed in, which still happens up there. The village was cut off for days and I remember my mum helping the neighbours out with food where she could.  School stayed open, which meant the fun of snowball fights on the walk down and up again. All the teachers – there was only four of them – lived near the school so it wasn’t likely to be closed and we were allowed to play out in the snow. Times have changed. If the travel news should mention The Snake Pass or Woodhead Road being closed due to snow I think ‘That’s Padfield cut off, then’. Fond memories.

Leaving the Lodge

Emily Bronte passed away on this day in 1848. This is one of her poems. It reminds me of Wuthering Heights as I imagine a blizzard over the moors.

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow,
The storm is fast descending
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me;
I will not, cannot go.

             Emily Jane Bronte 1818 – 1848

Thanks for reading. A Merry Christmas to all, Pam x                                        

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Crackle - Snap, Crackle and Pop

Harbour cottage, Isle of Barra

On our second trip to the Outer Hebrides, we stayed in a fabulous cottage on the Isle of Barra.  It was a restored and extended Crofter’s cottage with many original features including an open fireplace in the ground floor living area. The time of year was May, late spring, early summer and the Hebrides, though breezy, was warmer than expected. Too warm for a log fire but I could imagine the ultimate in cosy.  I read the guest book entries of some amazing winter breaks describing the sound of the crackle and spit of a newly laid log fire. I could picture myself curled up on the sofa with a book or letting my mind wander as I watched darting flames begin to devour the logs. The cottage received regular visitors and it was interesting to read how they liked to spend their time. Hikers, hill climbers, sailors, water sports or observers like me, all had their story to tell.  Someone had been snowed in, but couldn’t have got off the island because of the weather, so had to stay longer. Someone else couldn’t leave the cottage for days due to the danger of gale force winds. Nothing like that happened to us. It didn’t even rain during our stay. The Glasgow to Barra aircraft stayed on schedule, so did the ferries, which was our means of transport.  Everyone who had stayed when it felt chilly had remarked on the brilliant log or coal fire.  I wish I’d set it up just to see it, and hear it snap, crackle and pop.

When I was a child, the only breakfast cereal in our house was cornflakes. At my Nanna’s it was cornflakes or All Bran. Once, I asked for All Bran. It was horrid, but I ate it because I’d asked for it, and that is what happened in those days. If my grandchildren choose something then don’t like it, I’ll find them something else – I’m a softy. At some point, Kellogg’s Rice Krispies made it to our kitchen and true to the advert on TV, as soon as the milk was added ‘Snap, Crackle and Pop’ happened. It’s funny when you’re only eight and still makes me smile.

My first introduction to John Cooper Clarke was listening to his album, ‘Snap, Crackle and Bop’. It wasn’t the music, it was the words, the clever imagery of Beasley Street and Evidently Chickentown made me laugh. His appearance fascinated me then, about 1980, and unchanged, it still does. I’m reading ‘I Wanna Be Yours’ and trying to make it last because I’ll miss it when it ends.

Here is my poem for JCC,

Terza Rima for John Cooper Clarke, when Manchester became Madchester,

Those of the time embraced every word,
Listening in wonder to John Cooper Clarke,
The Bard of Salford who had to be heard.

Rapid from the mouth and skinny and dark.
‘Evidently Chickentown’, effing good,
He’s magic with words, bright as any spark.

His wholesome description meant that we could
Smell the inhabitants of ‘Beasley Street’;
Rich mixture of urban decay and blood.

Life, humour and truth, a picture complete
And painted with colourful language that
Reaches all listeners not just the elite.

So thanks, JCC, I know where I’m at
Laughing out loud at the poem called ‘Twat’.

Pamela Winning 2012

Thanks for reading. Stay safe and have the best Christmas you can. Pam x

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Resolve - New Horizons

Happy New Year to one and all, let’s see what unfolds in 2018.

When I was younger, much younger and naïve, I looked upon New Year as a new start with everything from the old year forgiven, forgotten and packed away. We wished everyone the best, and still do, always hoping for better times.  Back in the day New Year’s Eve marked the end of a couple of weeks of parties in our pubs. Sometimes my friends and I helped out at a private hotel ran by a family we knew, then joined in with the party until the early hours, looking forward to new beginnings. Fond memories still mentioned forty-odd years later. If only that ‘off with the old, on with the new’ actually worked.

This New Year’s Eve was quiet but pleasant, seeing in the New Year with our daughter, son-in-law to be and our youngest grandson, aged three months. His big brother was in bed. We watched Jools Holland’s Hootenanny and enjoyed a midnight buffet in their warm and cosy lounge then walked back to our house.

Nothing changed with the midnight bells and fireworks. I’m still carrying the illness that has overwhelmed me since before Christmas.  Sore eyes add to my malaise.  My worries and anxieties haven’t miraculously melted away and I’m no closer towards making decisions for the future. What shall I do about work? Do we move or do we stay? I could do with the magic wand I believed existed in my youth. Meanwhile, I wait for recovery and inner strength to help me resolve my issues.

I need a Moody Blues moment.

New Horizons

Well I’ve had dreams enough for one

     And I’ve got love enough for three
     I have my hopes to comfort me

I got my new horizons out to sea. 

But I’m never going to lose your precious gift

It will always be that way

‘Cos I know I’m going to find my own peace of mind

Someday. 

Where is this place that we have found?

Nobody knows where we are bound

I long to hear, I need to see

‘Cos I’ve shed tears too many for me. 

On the wind soaring free

Spread your wings

I’m beginning to see

Out of mind, far from view

Beyond the reach of a nightmare come true. 

Justin Hayward, (from Seventh Sojourn, 1972) 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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A Very Private Place

For as long as I can remember I’ve loved to hide away in a quiet, cosy corner, preferably with a book and a drink (back then, orange juice, these days, tea or coffee) and, if possible, some sort of calorific snack.   

As a child, there’s something particularly enticing about a den, especially one cobbled together out of old bits and pieces – blankets, tablecloths, scarves, discarded cushions – and all held together with safety pins and sellotape.  I always went for HCF  (High Cosy Factor) so warmth, low lights and a hidden view into the real world were all points high on my agenda.  That little area under the stairs was always good, so long as I had a cushion to sit on, a blanket to throw over me and the door was left slightly ajar for spying purposes.

I’m not sure where, when or quite how this obsession with these very private places started but I know it goes back a long way.  I remember when my brothers and I received transistor radios for Christmas.  We were thrilled.  It was certainly the best present I’d ever received and promised endless excitement, preferably within some sort of den situation.  The bottom bunk, with a blanket as a screen was a speedy solution, but even better was to take the radio under the covers at bedtime and wait, with escalating excitement, for Midweek Theatre, the highlight of my week.  Of course, this was a Wednesday night and I had school the following day.  I was supposed to be sleeping, so this was definitely a covert activity.  One night the play was so frightening that I was scared to open my eyes.  Worriedly, I turned off the radio, missing the grand denouement, and called for the comforting presence of my mum.  Needless to say, I never admitted to what I’d been doing, but whimpered something about a nightmare.  It didn’t stop the bed/den activity but it did make me a bit more choosy about what I listened to.

At about this time I was considerably in awe of my granddad’s shed, which was his little haven from the stresses of normal life (and my grandma).  It was small, jam packed with old jars and tins holding an assortment of nails, screws and washers, and had its own unique shed smell: wood shavings, glue, creosote and granddad’s Old Virginia roll ups.  Often, when we visited, grandma would be bustling about in the kitchen and granddad would be making something in his shed – tiny chairs made of pegs, crude picture frames, little boxes with ill-fitting lids.  Always a man of few words, he loved to be on his own, which probably explains his actions one day when my brother, then aged about three, was sent out to ‘see granddad.’  As young children are wont to do Geoff started giving granddad imaginary objects.  This went on for about ten minutes until granddad opened the shed door, put a tin on the ground, instructed his grandson, “Here, put everything in that,” and swiftly shut himself back in his shed.

Next door to grandma and granddad lived a family with two girls around my age.  My envy knew no bounds when I opened the connecting gate one day to discover that their dad (a bit of a whizzkid in the DIY stakes) had built them a proper brick wendy house, complete with furniture, rugs, crockery and fancy curtains at the windows.  How I loved to play in that wendy house.  My dad, although capable of basic DIY, could never compete with Ernest Truslove.  Only recently, dad told me, with a voice full of incredulity, that years ago Hazel Truslove had revealed they were moving as ‘Ernest had run out of jobs to do in the house.’

The thing about private places is that they have to be just that – private.  They’re not places for crowds of people.  In my opinion, two adults could be one too many.  It’s private, it’s secret and therein lies its appeal.  The summerhouse we received as a Silver Wedding present several years ago is the culmination of a lifelong wish to have my very own private place.   I’m sure that desire had its seeds in Ernest Truslove’s wendy house, and although I don’t have fancy curtains or a rug I do have two chairs, a table and a collection of old candles.  And a sign that tells me I’m ‘living the dream.’  Summer evenings and I am ensconced in a blanket, just me, a cafetiere and a good book.  And if the husband wishes to visit he has to knock….

Rio in his Den

I wrote the following poem in memory of my childhood hideaways.

My Den - Jill Reidy

Pull the blanket right across

Secure with pins and sellotape 

But leave the smallest gap 

To peer through 

View the outside world

As it goes about its business

Whilst I, in my tiny den,

Nestle down into the cushion

Like a mouse in straw

Wrap the rug around my legs

Nibble at a biscuit

And turn the pages of my book

My mother passes, humming

I hear the strike of match 

And flare of gas on hob 

Water splashing in a pan

And the chop chop chop of knife on board

Sunday's leftovers 

Are whipped into shape 

Bubble and squeak, cold roast beef

Peas, and pickle on the side

Aromas mingle, waft towards me

Finally...

I am lured from my tiny hideaway.

Thanks for reading,    Jill 

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