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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The Most Boring Place - Sunday Afternoon, Age 6

I’ve always got something to do or something to think about.  I like to be alone with my thoughts but equally, I like to enjoy good company. There have been things I’ve had to endure that could be called boring, or made me feel extremely fed up. These would be events out of my control, not going according to plan and causing frustration.

Flying back to the UK from the USA should have been an exciting adventure. It was winter time in the early ‘80s and I was fortunate enough to be waiting in the Club Class departure lounge at New York’s JFK airport.  I was travelling alone and on a registered stand-by ticket, happy to wait, sitting on a comfy armchair by the window, watching the snow. Flights came and went. Hours passed. I had everything I needed and felt looked after, but I was tired, jet lag without the jet. I didn’t want to fall asleep and miss a flight I could have taken, though I’m sure someone would come to get me. O’Hare International, Chicago, had redirected their UK flights to JFK due to heavy snow, so planes became full. By the time I was called, I was dead on my feet, but happy to get a place anywhere, on any plane that could fly me home. I had a seat in the centre block of a 747, next to a pleasant German gent who kept trying to make conversation with me. No common language between us, so we occasionally smiled at each other instead. He was going to Heathrow, then on to Frankfurt. He went to sleep. I’d finished my book, couldn’t get into the in-flight movie and probably slept a little, but I remember sitting there, annoyed with the drone of the engines and willing myself home – there was a long train journey to come next. I think I was more fed up than bored. Boring is what I’d call some winter Sunday afternoons of my childhood.

I was an only child until age seven and a half when my sister arrived, so I was used to being doted on by both sets of grandparents and any number of aunts and uncles. Nothing changed, my family was her family and she just slotted in and got passed around for a cuddle. Being a baby, she didn’t spoil whatever I was playing with. I was a well-behaved little treasure, most of the time. Our family ran pubs and in those days licensing hours meant that they were closed in the afternoons and for longer on Sundays. This was family time when we’d all get together for a meal. This is when it got boring. It started well, lots of fun and me being made a fuss of. We would all get round the table to eat, which was always good. At one set of grandparents, I would eat jelly and fruit with a small, shell-shaped spoon, sitting up straight on a high stool. At my other grandparents, homemade rice pudding which was deliciously creamy. Once, as the roast dinner was being served, I rudely remarked, “Oh no, not peas again!” I was swiftly removed by my mother, taken out of the room for a wallop on my bottom, left to cry for a bit then brought back in to apologise. I must have been having an ‘off’ day from my usual sweet little princess self. After dinner, everyone sat in the lounge and eventually fell asleep. I hated it. This was the most boring place in my world. My nanna would sit down, smoke a Park Drive, pick her knitting up and go at it frantically until she nodded off. My dad might go outside to check something on someone’s car first, but soon I would be in a room full of sleeping relatives. It seemed like ages, but probably wasn’t. I’d have a colouring book to do and one of my grandmothers didn’t mind if I turned the contents of her sideboard upside down. Sing Something Simple would come on the wireless which made it even more boring. If I hear Sing Something Simple nowadays, it fills me with happy memories of my idyllic childhood.

My poem:

Sunday roast with Yorkshire pudding,
And why did we always have peas?
Apple pie or sometimes trifle,
Fond thoughts of childhood, fam’ly teas.

The nearly quiet afternoon
In the fading November light
Those all around me are sleeping
And they are such a boring sight.

Like book-ends, Nanna and Grandad,
Snooze cosily on the settee.
Grandad’s Brylcreem’d hair all messy,
Nan’s knitting slipped down on her knee.

Has my auntie just stopped breathing?
Uncle Bill has started snoring.
I’m looking for something to do.
Flipping Sundays are so boring!

Sing Something Simple has come on,
It’s time for us to go, hooray!
They’ll all wake up for opening time,
Running pubs is our family way.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Snow....Friend or Foe?

We very rarely get snow in Blackpool. We might get a short flurry but it never seems to settle. Which is why it was strange this morning to wake up knowing  that ‘snow’ was the title of the blog post I needed to write today, and then to glance out of the window and see a white carpet instead of a green lawn. As usual, it was gone by the time I went out for my walk at lunchtime, but it did get me thinking about the snow I’d experienced in the past. 

The smattering in the garden this morning

I remember the excitement of waking up as a child, being aware of the unusual silence outside, and opening the curtains to see that glaring white blanket, covering everything in sight, just waiting to be disturbed. Like most kids, my brothers and I couldn’t wait to get outside.  If I recall correctly, the games usually ended with me running inside crying, having been hit by a perfectly aimed snowball. My elder brother would be grinning and protesting his innocence, but making sure he was too far from the house for our mum to come running out in her slippers, grab him by the offending throwing arm and drag him back indoors.  My woollen gloves would be sodden and dripping, and my toes inside my wellies would be dry but almost numb with the cold. This whole scenario would be repeated several times throughout the day, interspersed with periods of harmony where all three of us would spend a quiet half hour, deep in concentration, whilst we built a snowman, no doubt annoying my mum even more by  constantly running in and out of the house, dripping freezing water everywhere, looking for carrots and coal and my dad’s scarf and hat. As a child the days of snow were certainly some of my most exciting, made even more so by school been shut down on the days when it would be impossible to get there. 

In contrast, one of my worst experiences involved a heavy snow storm. With a friend, and our five children I had driven to Mickleton, a tiny village in Co Durham, to visit my brother and his wife. The weather was cold but sunny, perfect driving conditions. However, as we came to leave later that evening, there was a big, dark cloud, hovering overhead. We crammed the children into our rusty old car - christened the Belgrano, for obvious reasons.  There were the usual arguments about who was sitting where, the boot of the hatchback being the favoured place for all five children.  This was in the days before safety was the main consideration and even seatbelts weren’t compulsory. The two youngest were given the privileged position and the rest were squashed on the back seat. 

To understand the true horror of the journey that ensued it’s necessary to be acquainted with the local terrain. In order to reach Brough - and a main road - one had to drive for about half an hour ‘over the tops.’  This is a winding road with no lights, a drop of various, worrying depths on one side, and numerous wandering sheep: fine on a bright sunny day, not so great when driving a huge orange rust bucket containing a friend and five arguing children - two of them in the boot. 

As we were waved off by a clearly relieved brother and his wife, the first tiny flurries of snow began to fall. 'How lovely,' we said, ‘look kids, snow!’ By the time we got to the long and winding road over the tops dusk had turned to night, the sky was completely black, the snow was swirling and visibility was practically nil. Not only was it impossible to see where the side of the road dropped into the valley but the snow was also totally disorientating. I tried turning on main beam. I couldn’t decide whether that made it better or worse. Snowflakes were flying around in every direction, making it seem as though we were going backwards at times. Friend, in a controlled panic, had her nose pressed up against the windscreen, trying to direct operations, ‘You’re all right, stay to the left, bend coming up, slow down....’ I didn’t need to be told to slow down. I was probably doing 10mph. I could feel the ice under the tyres and dreaded a dangerous skid. The only good thing was that all other (sensible) people were staying indoors in front of the fire and not driving like idiots along a treacherous stretch of winding road in a snow storm. We might end up upside down in the valley, or knocking out a careless sheep but at least we wouldn’t be hanging by our non existent seat belts and we wouldn’t be having any head on crashes. 

I don’t think I’ve ever had a more frightening driving experience (apart from when a tyre blew on the motorway, the car went out of control and I ended up crashing into the left side barrier - but that’s another story).  We continued along the tops, our noses pressed against the windscreen, the silence only punctuated periodically by a child nervously giggling and myself or friend telling them in a clipped, no nonsense voice, to be quiet.  By the time we reached the safety of the main road, we had been travelling for two and a half hours - a journey that usually takes a fifth of that time.  Slowly, I steered the Belgrano to the side of the road, gently pressing on the brakes and trying to remember which way one had to turn the wheel to get out of a skid. My friend and I removed our noses from the windscreen and turned to face each other.  We didn't know whether to laugh or cry.  A voice from the boot piped up, 'Are we nearly home, mum?'

'Won't be long now,' I said wearily, as I took note of the snow settling thickly on the road ahead, and preparing myself for a long haul.  The journey that normally took us an hour and three quarters, lasted five long hours that night.  Strangely, the boys in the boot never requested that space again.

 

Things Noticed While Walking in Snow

A single car’s tracks: two ribbons

unrolled on a cutting sheet.

Bird prints by a hawthorn bush:

a smattering of ancient Greek;

discreet scars on a marble beauty’s thighs.

A curtain of ice over bulging bedrock.

Your hand balled round mine.

Fields spread out like a bridal gown.

Power lines plotting perspective.

Through scrawled birches, two donkeys:

vigilant, freeze-framed,

the female’s bray muffled by the cold.

Your hands in your pockets, mine by my side.

An absence of words.

The river, giddy and gleaming:

a dark vein trying to resuscitate

the ghost of land.

And always the split duvet of sky, emptying itself over us

over and over

to cushion our fall.

                                                 Sharon Black

I knew I didn't have time to write a poem this week, so I started looking for something suitable. I liked the imagery in this one, and the fact that it paints a picture in stark contrast to my disastrous car journey. 

Thanks for reading.    Jill   

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Snow - Fun in Padfield

It snowed yesterday. Just a tiny bit. Enough for my grandson to notice and tell me and sure enough, there was a flurry. We watched through the back room window, taking a break – I should say another break – from my efforts to home school him. Some snowflakes were big, but they didn’t hang around. The sun came out again, the sky was blue, and the last snowflake melted on the window and rolled down like a big tear-drop.  My grandson isn’t bothered. They’re not used to snow. He didn’t want to go out in it the other day when we had a depth of half a centimetre. He’d rather stay in and keep warm, but as he had walked round in his wellies I thought he might be hopeful of us quickly fashioning a tiny snow person in my back garden.

We hardly ever get proper snow here on the coast. I think it was 1981 when I trudged home from a nearby friend’s house in borrowed wellies which just about protected me, so deep was the snowfall that took us all by surprise when we opened the door. Luckily, as we were planning on staying in, I had walked. Usually I would take my car expecting us to be going off somewhere. The snow lasted a few days. Telephones were not working. I couldn’t get a message to work, but it didn’t matter, no one else made it in. There were a couple of times in the ‘90s when school was closed due to snow and my children played out in it. Very rare. It’s different further inland.

Padfield School 

During my childhood, for a short time we lived in Padfield, a village near Glossop in the Peak District. My parents were managing the local pub / small hotel, The Peels Arms, still there and it’s a great place, by the way. I made lots of friends at the village school and had a party for my ninth birthday in the hotel dining room. It was a very quiet neighbourhood and not many cars in those days. We had previously lived in pubs on busy streets or in town centres so being allowed out to play was a first for me and I loved it. Once, and it was only ever the once for reasons you’ll understand, I was allowed to take my toddler sister out in her pushchair. I took her to the nearby playground where she watched me play on the swings and roundabout with my friends. I must have got distracted. I don’t know the length of time involved, but at some point back at home, someone asked, ‘Where’s Anne?’ and the realisation hit me. I’d left her at the park.  She was still there, safe and well and I expect she was happy that someone came to rescue her. I was in the biggest trouble.

It snowed that winter, as it does every winter up there, and we were cut off. It must have been after Christmas because I remember sitting  by the fire in the ‘snug’ bar making the baskets from the gift of a basket weaving set I had received. No one could get in or out of Padfield.  Everything carried on as normal. The school had four classes with three teachers. Standard One and Standard Two shared a classroom with one teacher and all the staff lived locally. Snowy schooldays were fun, messing about all the way there and all the way back. The problem was that deliveries couldn’t get in, so provisions at the shop ran low or eventually ran out. I remember my mother helping out with food from the hotel to whoever needed it.

If the travel news on the radio gives information about the Snake Pass or Woodhead Road being closed due to snow, I know that Padfield and possibly Hadfield are cut off. I think back on my time there with fondness – apart from the incident with my sister – some great memories.

Padfield in the Snow
A snowman stood by every gate
Watching us marching down to school.
“Hurry up, we’re gonna be late,
Last one in is Mrs Swift’s fool!”

It’s hard to rush in such deep snow
With a blizzard freezing your face,
Making snowballs ready to throw
At some mates, nearly keeping pace.

Mrs Swift is standing, waiting,
About to close the classroom door,
Watching us dripping, creating
The puddles on the wooden floor.

Her eyes are narrow, looking cross.
Above her glasses, angry frown,
No doubt to nine-year olds who’s boss,
“Come in quickly and settle down!”

Prayers, assembly and work to do.
Writing and reading and hard sums,
Then we’re painting in shades of blue.
At home time, some letters for mums.

More snowball fighting up the street,
Climb the hill, laughing and falling,
Icy fingers and frozen feet,
“Pamela, your mum is calling!”


PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

The photo is Padfield School, not mine.

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The Night Sky - Stars

There are many things I enjoy about staying in Dumfries& Galloway. One thing, free to all in abundance is the total darkness around the vast area of Galloway Forest Park. On a clear night, the sky sparkles with millions of stars, their brilliance natural and clear, unspoilt by the pollution of town lighting. We can step out of our lodge and just look up into the night sky. This is when I wish I had better vision; so much is lost on me. For the sharper eyed or keen astronomers, the Scottish Dark Sky Observatory is situated at Dalmellington in Ayrshire at the far north east of the forest.

It is comforting to feel at-one with nature beneath this celestial blanket, listening to the owls, catching a glimpse of a deer, fox or rabbit and the smaller creatures that come out at night. This is my heavenly, happy place.

Last week was Bonfire Night. It’s not my favourite time of the year and this is the first time that my priority hasn’t been to keep our spaniel calm. I found myself agreeing to stroll down to the park with my eldest grandson, aged four, and his parents, to watch the annual firework display at the cricket ground. We live in a family-popular area so there were lots of fireworks around us. No sooner had we left the house, all of us wrapped up for the cold, than we were subjected to a barrage of bangers going off from all directions around us. My gloved hand tightened the grip on my grandson’s as I reassured  him that the bangs were only noisy fireworks, nothing scary, and if we keep looking up to the sky, we’ll see the lovely patterns and bright colours. And we did. We stood on the perimeter of the park and watched the fireworks from the surrounding neighbourhood before the cricket club started theirs.  Nearby, some people were behaving recklessly with fireworks. We kept moving out of their way until we gave up and made for home. My grandson enjoyed it, which was the main thing.

Soon I’ll be back in Dumfries & Galloway. The night sky might be cloudy, heavy with rain or possibly snow hiding the stars and moon from view. I won’t mind.

Stars by Emily Bronte

 

Ah! why, because the dazzling sun
    Restored my earth to joy

Have you departed, every one,
And left a desert sky?

 All through the night, your glorious eyes

Were gazing down in mine,
And with a full heart's thankful sighs
I blessed that watch divine!

I was at peace, and drank your beams

As they were life to me
And revelled in my changeful dreams
Like petrel on the sea.

 Thought followed thought—star followed star

Through boundless regions on,
While one sweet influence, near and far,
Thrilled through and proved us one.

 Why did the morning rise to break

So great, so pure a spell,
And scorch with fire the tranquil cheek
Where your cool radiance fell?

 Blood-red he rose, and arrow-straight,

His fierce beams struck my brow;
The soul of Nature sprang elate,
But mine sank sad and low!

 My lids closed down—yet through their veil

I saw him blazing still;
And bathe in gold the misty dale,
And flash upon the hill.

 I turned me to the pillow then

To call back Night, and see
Your worlds of solemn light, again
Throb with my heart and me!

 It would not do—the pillow glowed

And glowed both roof and floor,
And birds sang loudly in the wood,
And fresh winds shook the door.

 The curtains waved, the wakened flies

Were murmuring round my room,
Imprisoned there, till I should rise
And give them leave to roam.

 O Stars and Dreams and Gentle Night;

O Night and Stars return!
And hide me from the hostile light
That does not warm, but burn—

 That drains the blood of suffering men;

Drinks tears, instead of dew:
Let me sleep through his blinding reign,
And only wake with you!


Emily Bronte  1818 - 1848

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Cottage - I Belong in a Crofter's Cottage

 Isle of Barra

There’s something very appealing about escaping to a crofter’s cottage in the north of Scotland.  It is good for me to break away from the rat race and the negative trappings of modern living from time to time.  I would love to spend all winter up there with snow and freezing winds then come indoors to the warming glow of a peat fire and wholesome, home-made food.  Wishful thinking, I know, but I’m fortunate enough to have stayed in some sympathetically renovated ones with electricity and running water and nothing could be more perfect.

Years ago, driving westward along the north coast of Scotland, not too far from John O’Groats, I came to Dunnet Head and what I would call a living museum, Mary-Ann’s Cottage, which is open to the public for guided tours at limited times. The crofter’s cottage is exactly as Mary-Ann left it and is a fascinating insight into her life. If you like social history, I strongly recommend a visit if your travels take you anywhere near.

I like to be ‘off the beaten track’ and Harbour Cottage on the Isle of Barra (my photo) certainly provided everything I wished for in May this year. A wonderful, stone built cottage with ground floor walls at least three feet thick and a fireplace, not that we needed to make a log fire in the unusually warm climate.  Lovingly renovated and extended to make three first floor bedrooms and a sun lounge, Harbour Cottage was a delightful holiday home. I have the same opinion of the fabulous, tiny crofter’s cottage in Lochboisdale, South Uist last year, (my photo). I would happily return, but there are other places to see first.

 

South Uist

My favourite lodges in Dumfries and Galloway are a home from home and somewhere I go to for a break at least twice a year. This year it will be three visits and would have been four if one of my chosen times hadn’t clashed with work. They are not exactly cottages, but get unpacked and settled, and the feeling is just the same, relaxed, cosy and free.

My poem, written after a stay at a cottage near Gairloch, North West Scotland,

 

I’ll Take the High Road

 

Sun-yellow gorse meets a bright blue sky

Where mountains seem low and clouds are high.

Single track, crumbled edge, shared with sheep,

The drop is sharp, the climb is steep

Then dips to touch the shore of the loch

Where gentle waves lick tumbled rock.

Then swift ascent and a chance to pause,

Admire the view and brown-heather’d moors.

Mile after slate-grey mile and some more,

Then, at last, we reach our cottage door.

The road ends where the loch becomes sea,

Dolphins are playing and I feel free.

 

 

                                                                      Pamela Winning.  May 2014

 

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

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From Russia - With Love

The ‘Beast from the East’ sent us a hint of snow to wake up to, here on the Fylde Coast.  A more substantial ‘white out’ further inland caused the closure of schools and brought transport to a full stop. Such extremes rarely reach us, but even so, I keep a well-stocked larder of tinned and packet food in case we can’t get out. I am the first to agree that this is hilarious, considering that there are two shops a very short walk away and we usually have our weekly groceries delivered. In my defence, I have explained to the mirthful ones that it isn’t only the weather I’m prepared for, but illness and disability as well, even though we live in a neighbourhood and not miles from anywhere in the far reaches of East Siberia.

I think I’d like to visit Siberia. I don’t know where it figures on the tourism market but it looks interesting.  First we’ll tackle Scotland next week. Hopefully it will be warmer than the -50 Celsius that Siberia has been experiencing.

When I was a child I picked up on things called ‘The Cold War’, ‘The Iron Curtain’ and ‘Eastern Bloc’. It was nothing to concern me, I was far too young to understand, but I was old enough to sense solemnity and worry myself about it to the point of nightmares which baffled my mother. It came from news bulletins, rather than adult conversations and affected me so much that I avoided having the news on as much as possible when my children were young.

Years ago, a work colleague was going on holiday to Moscow. She liked unusual places and always went on her own. It is fair comment that she wasn’t popular at work and those of us that had to put up with her hoped she might not be allowed back into the UK, the naivety of our youth. We didn’t get our wish, of course. She sent a postcard saying simply, ‘From Russia, with love’.

As a football fan, I hope that this summer brings something else home from Russia, the World Cup.

One of my favourite poems:

I Loved You (Ya Vas Lyubil)
I loved you; even now I may confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tongue-tied, yet I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know,
So tenderly I loved you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.

 

Alexander Pushkin, 1799-1837

 

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x 

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Mountains - Come Out, Let Me See Ya!

Geography and Geology were never my strong points and I didn’t carry the subjects any further than 3^rd Year high school, so forgive my ignorance in only just discovering that there are five basic kinds of mountains.  I’ve been looking on a Primary Homework Help website and read about Fold, Fault-Block, Dome, Volcanic and Plateau mountains, formed when slabs of the earth’s crust crashed into each other. It’s never too late to learn and I’m developing an interest.

 

When visiting the Scottish Highlands, I’ve looked forward to the drive through Glen Coe, in anticipation of seeing Ben Nevis. So far, I’ve been denied this treat as anything taller than the roof of the car has been shrouded by Scotch Mist. I believe the area is beautiful and I hope for a clear day when we head out that way in the summer, though I’ve seen a translation for the meaning of ‘Ben Nevis’ which is ‘head in the clouds’.  In case you’re wondering, Ben Nevis and the mountains surrounding Glen Coe are volcanic.

 

Ben Nevis is not the only mountain to hide from me. Very many years ago, I was based near Grindelwald for a week on the Bernese Oberland trail in Switzerland and never got to see the top of the Eiger as it was constantly obscured by cloud. The film ‘The Eiger Sanction’ was still popular and boosted tourist trade, not that a boost was needed. An excursion to go sightseeing in the Bernese Alps was cut short due to heavy snow and this was late Spring.

 

We took our daughter and her friend to North Wales on holiday when they were both just teenagers.  We were all looking forward to a day out in Snowdonia, especially the mountain railway to the summit of Mount Snowdon which we could all enjoy. We would be on top of the world. It was not to be. The train track was being upgraded or repaired and was out of action. The climb was not suitable for all of us so we chose something else.  The adventurous ones had lots of fun riding the cable cars up and down the Great Orme to Llandudno.

 

 It was Burns’ Night this week, so I’ve chosen something by Rabbie. It starts with mountains before he becomes distracted…

 

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains

 

 Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide,
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde,
Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the heather to feed,
And the shepherd tends his flock as he pipes on his reed.

Not Gowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores,
To me hae the charms o'yon wild, mossy moors;
For there, by a lanely, sequestered stream,
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream.

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path,
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow strath;
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove,
While o'er us unheeded flie the swift hours o'love.

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair;
O' nice education but sma' is her share;
Her parentage humble as humble can be;
But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me.

To Beauty what man but maun yield him a prize,
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs?
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts,
They dazzle our een, as they flie to our hearts.

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond-sparkling e'e,
Has lustre outshining the diamond to me;
And the heart beating love as I'm clasp'd in her arms,
O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms!

 

 Robert Burns

 

 

 Thanks for reading, Pam x



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Winter

Pick up any book or poem by one of the Bronte family and more often than not, there will be a winter scene described or winter weather referred to. Strong, icy winds blew through the parsonage, constantly chilling the inhabitants deep into their delicate bones from autumn until spring. Great, sash windows overlooked the church and the graveyard, framing a cold, grey, unwelcoming aspect. It was bleak, to say the least, more bleak than ‘Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone’ in Christina Rossetti’s ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. Warm, summer sunshine must have been a rare happening in 19^th century Haworth and surrounding areas.

I grew up fascinated by the lives and works of the Bronte family. It began with my mother’s copy of Jane Eyre, the first book in her glass-fronted bookcase. She would read it to me. When I was a little older, she bought me the Dean’s Classics for Children version. Later, it was Wuthering Heights that became my favourite and remains so, despite ‘picking it to the bones’ in the name of study many years ago.

I don’t like the cold, but I have fond memories of winter, long past. I was cosy in the large, high-backed easy chair beside the roaring fire, with my feet tucked beneath me and my head pressed into a winged corner. I flicked ash from a Benson & Hedges into the hearth and turned a well-thumbed page of ‘Wuthering Heights’, for the umpteenth time. I made a few notes as I attempted to dissect characters and crossed out a selection of possible opening sentences. This was back in the day when I studied English, rather than enjoyed it and found the whole process a boring, tedious chore.  (Oh, I got where I was going in the end, but it would have been so much better with the teachers of today.) Distracted, I left the chair for a moment to watch the blizzard. The house stood alone, not in the Yorkshire Moors immortalised by Emily Bronte, but hidden in the hills of North Lancashire, not far from Ingleton. I leaned my elbows on the deep window sill as the world turned white and the wind whistled round the house and howled down the chimney. I wiggled my toes in sheepskin slippers and smoothed down the over-sized Fair Isle sweater I’d borrowed.

The afternoon sky was an eerie hue of beige, pink and grey. Snowflakes grew fatter and stuck to the window. I watched until the lane completely disappeared and only the tips of the tallest privet poked through where the drifts hadn’t yet reached.

The others came back just before the power failed. It was a common occurrence, apparently. We spent the evening playing cards by candlelight and cooking food on the fire. The generator, when someone got it working, was to keep the fridge and freezer ticking over.

At some point during the following few days, I completed my work. Looking back I’d probably given up, decided it would do and gone out to join in the snowball fight. Whatever, I haven’t suffered for it and I’m still in awe of the Bronte family.

The Night is Darkening Round Me

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 Bronte 1818 – 1848

Thank you for reading, Pamela Winning.

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Cold snap?

Why is it a heat wave and a cold snap?  What if we reversed it?


Polarwave

Summer slid down the piste like a shark
Hot on its trail came the cardigans,
then the wool mix socks
a ragged scarf about the neck
finally, the duvet was transferred to the sofa
that's when we knew it - Polarwave.

The blackbirds didn't see it coming
at night they would perch in the trees
as if it were still October
pining for a St Tropez sun
come morning, their Jurassic feet were glued
by frozen dew, formed hard about the twigs
like jaws of glass

The moon wore her halo at night without apology
while the sun seemed out of his depth; ill at ease
and we walked fairy footsteps outside
or slipped and bruised ourselves colourful
until, recklessly, we left the duvet on the bed
made love without our socks on
put the scarf to better use.

I hope that's helped to cool you down.  Thanks for reading.

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