Super September

September 2023

The month began really well – still in France! Didn’t return to Guernsey until the 3^rd, to glorious hot weather. My birthday was the hottest I can remember and, in a bonus, I was not at school!

So of course I went blackberry picking and then for a half km swim in the sea at Rocquaine.

The blackberry picking started quite well. However, the Pleinmont brambles are among the most unfriendly and inhospitable I have yet to meet. They tried to hide any juicy, ripe blackberries under prickles and behind nettles; thorns came at my fingers unseen, swiping hard and leaving thorns buried deep under the skin; and each spray of berries only yielded one or two ripe ones, the rest remaining stubbornly hard, red and unripe.

I persevered, but my heart wasn’t in it. I usually love the mindfulness of blackberry-picking, along with the silence, but that day I encountered a coachload of cruise ship passengers coming from the gun, a group of serious elderly men, striding along with walking poles, and a couple of German tourists I recognised from the ferry over from France. Still, it was lovely to be able to do it and rarely go to Pleinmont headland, so nice to have a different adventure.

On the way to the beach, I decided to go down a narrow footpath to a friend’s field. When we had open air church in July, I had noticed quite a few brambles in the hedgerows and so thought it would be a good place to investigate. I gathered a few along the lanes as I went there and by the time I had finished, had a 2 litre boxful – enough for a start on the Great Jam Making of the season. So all was going, well, until I took a Wrong Turning and ended up in a part of the woods I had never ever been before.

It was around midday when I started on My Great Birthday Adventure. I was lucky to get out before darkness fell….

I knew the general direction to go – downhill – so off I went. The path became progressively steeper and rockier, winding around in circles until suddenly some steep steps appeared. No other way to go – except back and up. No ordinary steps either, but ones made for giants, hewn out of granite and put in at irregular angles. The rain had evidently tried to find its own way down, carving out gullies at the side, but that was of no help to me as I carefully hauled my heavy bike, hand firmly on the brake, down beside me.

It just got worse. Eventually I could see tarmac, but at that point there was only the narrowest of footpaths – me or the bike, and of course the bike won – and to even step down onto tarmac was pretty difficult. Then, on the last metre, as I had managed to step down and was about to lift the bike down after me – said bike refused. A hefty branch had come out of nowhere and stuck its fingers between the bike’s spokes, halting it very effectively.

That took quite a bit of time to disentangle.

Even Richard, who often walks the dog in the general area, had no idea where I had been.

Otherwise, we spent the first week busily unpacking the house and catching up on huge machine-loads of washing. The ironing, of course, is another matter… I may be finished by Christmas.

Not joking. Having got back to school for a day, I found myself taking on supply in Year 6 for a colleague away ill. Diving in at the beginning of term wasn’t ideal for me or for the children, disappointed not to be getting ‘their’ new teacher, but they are a lovely class and we all got on well together. It was a bit of a juggling act with my usual day and a half, but the weather was kind and I enjoyed being back in the classroom with agreeable children, teaching a variety of subjects – including P.E., organised by my lovely colleague Pete who gave me lesson plans and great ideas. I had taught all the children before in their way up the school, so it all seemed quite easy. What was especially lovely was that the management were very grateful to me for stepping in, going as far as to give me a card and a huge bunch of flowers. Quite unnecessary, but much appreciated.

All useful pocket money… so we decided to go to Tanzania in December to see Finn and his parents. Deep breath – the flights were three times the price we paid for them just after Covid – but it seemed a good opportunity.

In other news: I hosted a ladies breakfast, after an eighteen month gap. There were a dozen of us – almost too many to fit in the dining room, but the weather was so hot that we sat outside, although we needed to retreat into the shade as the morning progressed. It felt really good to reconnect with friends old and new, gathering together around the table…

We had an ‘old’ friend, Peter, come to visit. His primary purpose was to experience the Guernsey Air Show, which he was able to do in stunningly clear and warm weather. He was absolutely thrilled by it all and hugely appreciative of everything he did, especially the Air Show, the German Occupation Museum and the Little Chapel. We even managed an evening beach barbeque with a marvellous sunset!

And the swimming! Still ‘warm’ – 18 degrees – and so I managed quite a few swims down at Rocquaine, even in the evening after work when it was beginning to get much cooler.  Such wonderful exercise.

The month passed quickly… by the end of it, had almost straightened the house out after the summer away, although still lots of little niggly projects to get done, and a mountain of ironing…as well as dealing with piles of windfalls collected on hedge veg. I expanded my repertoire of apple recipes very rapidly!  The Rugby World Cup had started, so proved to be wonderful entertainment while I got some of these chores underway…and more to come next month.

Autumn hadn’t, yet, arrived. The weather stayed remarkably warm, with some days so hot and sunny that we could sit outside – Wendy and Nicholas were down in Guernsey from Glasgow and we were able to sit on the patio over an alfresco lunch all afternoon, catching up and sharing our lives… a precious friendship. I finished my spell of supply – it had been great fun, with a wonderful class and the added bonus of being able to feel more part of the school and connect with my colleagues on a more regular basis than I am able to normally, only coming in for a day and a half each week. The gardening jobs were slowly completed and I began to catch up with friends once more.

A very different pace from the previous two months, but hugely enjoyable. Being busy is energising. Yet we still had time to enjoy moonlit evenings and see the super-bright morningstar, our house’s namesake, shining in the eastern dawn.

Traffic - me on the bike, and one car - stopped when this friendly moggy occupied the centre of the road. He moved off to greet my bike with ecstatic purrs and much rubbing against the wheels.

Duck jam on my way down the lane.

Pickle sitting outside the guestroom, mournfully hoping that Peter will appear.

It's still summer outside church!

Snow days.

First Mate’s log, Morningstar, SnowDay 3. 14.05 hours.    A Gift of Days

The blizzard has been gently raging for a few hours now, with no sign of abating to the promised rain or sleet. What started as snow grains rapidly changed to smallish flakes, settling on everything they landed on.

There is power in small things which stick together.

We had already had snow a couple of days ago. Some snow had come and settled over the night; all was icy, but once traffic had started to flow – a couple of tractors, some 4-wheel drive vehicles – we ventured out.  School – unlike most on the island – was still open for business, much to our surprise, so we had to brave the chaos. The normal twelve minute journey took forty...  A few hours in school, then the snow came again, more thickly this time, so, finally, we were all told we could leave: and so... back home again.

School snow day! Fun!

Half an hour later, the sun came out, we felt guilty, yet the temperatures started to drop quickly and soon the ground surfaces were treacherously slippy.

That night, a three quarter moon silvered the frozen snow. The road was like glass. A blissful silence, in the absence of traffic of any kind, hung over the fields. And no wind at all, the air seeming to hold its breath before the storm.

That was the first SnowDay, albeit only a half. By evening, The Authorities had decided that school should not open the next day for fear of ice. Good to know in advance. I put an extra duvet on the bed....

Come the morning, Snow Day 2 dawned crisp, cold (-2 degrees) and sunny. We barely needed the heating as the sun flooded through the windows, shiny sparkling on white gorgeousness.  It all looked wonderful: yet the wind roared fierce, cutting up the cliffs and across the fields. The road cleared so we chill-walked the lanes, still slippy in the shadows, banks and hedges covered in icy drifts.  The wind chill factor must have been minus ten degrees, or more.

Robins, puffed up to keep warm, hopped around the bird feeder. One sat on the trellis against the wall, soaking up the sun’s rays, quite motionless while others scuttered around the tree above it.

Inbetween, I checked through our Christmas cards and emails, making sure that I had caught up with friends and acquaintances scattered round the globe. Best of all, I was able to reconnect with our housekeeper in Kenya: we had not heard from her since we moved house, so I was fearful that we had lost touch altogether, but I managed to get a text through to her and received a quick reply. A wonderful relief.

It was a great day for washing: the wind blew the moisture out as rapidly as if it had been the summer, but by late afternoon the still-damp jeans had turned as stiff as boards.

And my dear neighbour Nicky came round for tea: scones and laughter, much chat, great fun. So great to have this time to be able to spontaneously extend hospitality. (I am trying to make #40Acts of kindness a permanent lifestyle choice...What Would Jesus Do?)

The day seemed gloriously long: yet a blizzard was forecast, so once again, The Authorities decreed that School Would Be Closed.  Not complaining...

And so it came. Later than expected: we had thought it would blow throughout the night, but there was, initially, no fresh snow. Then it started...The wind blows the snow in huge gusts, eddying up and around the house, whirling dervishes brandishing icicle swords, swooping at bushes, cutting through pockets of shelter...

I have walked out to the bird feeder several times, replenishing food, brushing off snow from the remaining seeds and topping up the bird bath with warm water so the birds can drink. All other sources of water are frozen.

Each time, I step in pristine snow: my footprints have been obliterated, as if I had stayed smug inside all morning with no care for wildlife. Blackbirds have been skulking this morning, hesitantly hopping through the underbrush. The snow bears witness to occasional panicky rushing in circles out into the snow and back. One female cautiously hops onto a branch, observing the bird feeder fearfully before finally plucking up courage to leap down and snatch a crumb.

The leaden skies bear no hope of reprieve. The snow drifts on endlessly.

A few vehicles rush by, skidding through slush. Otherwise all is quiet save for the howling of the wind, fruitlessly seeking crannies in corners through which it can invade. We are warm inside. The dog huddles next to the radiator.

These few days have been a welcome reprieve. ‘Normal’ life feels full: good, but full. We go from one project to another, from this meeting to that, sharing life, constantly occupied.

These days are for stopping. For catching up with neglected tasks. For reconnecting, by email and in person, with friends. There has been time to have tea with a neighbour; a phone chat with a distant friend; writing emails and letters;  organising gifts.  Sorting stuff. Clearing out. Resting.

A gift of time indeed.

First Mate’s log, Morningstar, SnowDay 3. 16.05 hours.

The snow has abated, bringing rain in its place. We rushed outside as the snow eased to build a snowman: two adults, laughing like hyenas, rolling loose snow balls to form a huge snow bear. Pickle, reluctantly joining us, grabbed the Spirit of Snow and tore round the garden, weaving in circles in and out of bushes and across the lawn. Too much of a tempting target for snowballs...she waited reproachfully by the front door for us to finish adding the potatoes for eyes and a rather short nosy carrot.

Back safely inside. Rubbed down, warm and dry. Fire lit. Light beginning to fade. Snow starting to melt. Another gentle, relaxed evening....

First Mate, Signing out.

Settling in

After a couple of weeks of gardening/pruning/clearing/labouring/navvying/rockcrushing - most of which I have done, but the bulk of the heavy work has been done by my beloved husband - we have finished.

For now.

The aim was to get the rock pile off the drive so we could park the motorhome. Achieved. Rock distributed, with only a small pile remaining for the last of the parking provision.

So I turned my attention to the house. Having slowly moved all our belongings here over the last couple of weeks, everything was piled up in an (un)satisfactory mess. But now the kitchen cupboards are filled and the surfaces are clear, suitcases have been unpacked and clothes distributed in wardrobes and, finally, we have distributed seating and put rugs down in the sitting room. Our large African pictures are up and, for the first time since leaving Africa, the room has a truly African feel.

Large woven baskets from Pokot serve as occasional tables, graced with lamps made from gourds we bought at the side of the road in Machakos, as we drove down to Mombasa one time.

Heidi Lange's beautiful prints hang together near Robin Andersen's silk screen print of a Masai boy herding his goats. A David Shepherd print of elephants, one which many of our friends whose roots also lie in Africa own as well, dominates one wall.

A trio of elephants, carved from coconut wood, sit on the windowsill. A metalwork scorpion, made by Jonny, and a zebra made in Zimbabwe wait to join them, along with various other artefacts. A large grey rhino, created in Tabaka from Kisii soapstone, marches near the fireplace.The acacia root lamp, which we made before we left, lights up our dining room.

There are many other things which we will unpack later. Books wait in boxes for the shelves we need to buy and put up in one of the spare rooms, soon to be called the 'office'. Files ditto. Stationery, too. These things can wait.

Meanwhile, my canary-yellow kitchen gladdens my heart, my blue and white china finally comfortably at home in these echoes of Sweden.

And, on Moving In Day, I was blessed to receive these beautiful flowers: not as a moving-in gift, just a 'thank you'...but what wonderful timing.

And, best of all: photos start to appear...

What do we do about the chicken?

Mama Kuku is now well established at home.
No longer 'it' she is now 'she'.
Someone suggested we call her Helen.
(I'm not sure why.)
She potters around under the bird feeder, coming up to talk to us when we go outside, asking for food.
She's almost scary at times, chasing after us, clucking demandingly.

But I didn't ask for a chicken.
I didn't want a chicken.
I don't want to chase her away, but she's here - to stay, it seems.
What now?

FC

It seems that Feral Chicken is not actually feral, but escaped from some loving family home.
The trouble is, we don't know where.
It hangs around under the bird seeder ALL DAY, scratching away at the lawn. The weather has turned chillier, so the chicken is looking considerably 'fatter' as it fluffs up its feathers against the cold.
Now Richard has started feeding it bird seed.
It clucks appreciately when it sees him.
It'll be wanting to come into the house next.

The Spiders

My last post was so full of chicken I never got round to mentioning The Spiders.

It is Spider Season here. The carpet has been crawling with the thin long-legged type – so ephemeral their legs snap if you glare at them. The front door has a huge web in front of it, occupied by a golden Madam who throws her washing lines in every direction and has a hissy fit if one of her threads so much as trembles. (Which they do, frequently: my breath turns somewhat menacing when I realize I cannot approach my front door without the risk of destroying the Madam’s home.) Tiny white balls of fluff, spider cases, have appeared on the floor beneath my spider plant, rolling stroppily around, resisting attempts at capture.

I have been woken at night by strange caresses, long fingers delicately tracing my cheek or neck.

I had entered Spider Season with equanimity, until the night-time caresses turned to day time horrors. Stumbling out of bed, I sleepily put on my jeans. As my foot emerged from the bottom of the leg (if that makes sense – the leg of the jeans, that is) something large and grey dropped from my toe. A spider. At least 3 inches across, stretched out. It was certainly at full stretch as it galloped towards the bed. I lunged, but missed as it reached safe haven.

Its cousin – even larger – was in the bath, glowering.

“Look, it’s not my fault I live in this house too,” I told it. But reasoning with Spiders is a fruitless task. I gave up, because I know something the Spiders don’t.

Cold weather is coming. Then they’ll be sorry they ever lived here. They’ll be moving out then – unless I get them first.

Tales of Chickens and Feral Spiders

Actually, this should be feral chickens. One arrived in the garden a few days ago. I arrived home one evening, paused at the mail box, and was startled by a scrabbling above my head accompanied by a smattering of twigs falling into my hair. A chicken was roosting in the cypress tree next to the box.

Since when had our postman turned into a chicken, I wondered? I examined it closely. Smart brown and white dappled feathers, with a tawny brown collar, a red beak… all the usual Chicken appendages. It glared at me, annoyed that I had broken its peace with my presence. Shrugging, I left it to it. It was cold in the tree, and I had a warm house to go into.

It was still there the next morning. Beneath the tree. Scratching around on the gravel, turning over dross in search of insect and grub gold.

It was still there at lunch time. Same actions. Same menu.

And dinner.

As dusk fell, it hopped back into the tree again. I contemplated asking it for a contribution towards its board and lodging.

Days later, it still occupies my garden. It evidently has chicken intelligence: the hunting ground has moved to the patch of grass below the bird feeder. This is normally Robin’s haunt: he flashes his red feathers at all who intrude, but in this instance he is nowhere to be seen. The FC must be more than a hundred times his size, so sense reigns in his birdbrain. There is probably more nous in there than in the Chicken, which must be galling for him. A clear case of brawn triumphing over brain.

Where has this Chicken come from? Where should it go? There is no knowing, but at this rate, the lawn will be scratched to pieces in another couple of weeks and the Grass Police will be on my case.

Or the Chicken’s.

The Dottie

I tried to write on here this morning, when I had 1 hour and 27 minutes until 'the dottie's' arrival. (The 'dottie' is my daughter Cat, so named by my school's French caretaker who, after over thirty years in Guernsey, still speaks his own uniquely accented English. He needs a whole blog post all to himself. At least.) But my dear husband had started a scan on my computer – which took a couple of hours rather than the twenty minutes he had envisaged – and then the internet decided to go slow. Very slow. After it took several minutes just to load one page, I decided to abandon the attempt.

So, several hours later, and she is home. Exhausted: up most of the night travelling after going to the annual church ball, getting down to Gatwick by coach. Then, several cups of coffee later, the flight to Guernsey. Unpacking, then reorganising her room, took some time, as did more cups of coffee with homemade Guernsey gache, lunch, and catch up.

Now she is crashed out, asleep. The house is as quiet as if she was still away. But it is so good to have her back.

Home is where the heart is

It’s nearly the end of the uni term, so Cat and Jonny will be home in a couple of weeks. They have all but finished their exams, have no more lectures or course work… so why aren’t they hopping on the next plane back to Guernsey?

Why aren’t they coming home straight away?

Because home, for them, is again more than one place. Kenya is still home. Guernsey is home. Now Norwich, where they are studying, is another home.

It’s not because of the university, though. Both of them have found new spiritual homes in the churches they attend. Both enjoy helping out, becoming more and more involved in the life of the church. Becoming part of a community which has become home to them.

They – and we – are the richer for it.