TOMBSTONE

During a gentle cycling day with the Veteran-Cycle Club (which will be posted up later), we chanced to stop at the 13th century church at Brookland. I just had to share with you this gravestone in the floor of the nave.



What a magnificent name - they don't write 'em like that any more! I see that his wife, Ann, only outlasted him by a month (who says you cannot die of a broken heart?)

COMMERCIAL BREAK

That "HerhimnBryn" at Secret Hill Mosaics says she is going through a creative block at present.

Mosaics are not currently inspiring her, so it would appear that she decided to set up another sort of blog to keep that creative mind of hers from rusting. Even at the age of two she was intent on creating a "stone and water feature", by blocking our back-yard drainpipe with pebbles! (sorry H!)

I just mention this in case others would like to follow me there (and also because I feel a certain parental duty - and pride!)

LEONARD COHEN

To all lovers of the sublime Leonard:

Can I recommend a visit to the blog of "riseoutofme" see also this link for background.

MARMITE RICE CAKES

I don't know how long these have been around, Marmite Lovers, but I have just found them and they are absolutely delicious - particularly with a dab of creamy Irish Butter.

We have started buying Irish butter as from today in thanks for that great country saying "No" in their referendum to the scandalous proposed EU Constitution. This country is not being allowed a referendum on the subject in spite of this government's promise in their election manifesto to hold one. I will be toasting the Irish in Guinness today!

(Interestingly, the Irish language does not contain a word for "No" - instead it uses the phrase "it isn't")

THE GYPSY LIFE

It's time to put the old horse between the shafts (figuratively speaking) and trot off with the caravan again. (Although I guess that a real horse might be a lot more economical than a car with the way fuel prices are going).

A couple of weeks way down West are planned. First to our beloved and nostalgic Cornwall. We return to a little farm site just south of Launceston most years. It is centrally located for the coast and the moors.

Then stopping over for a week in Dorset on the way back (near Cerne Abbas, with its ancient, priapic hill figure).

The weather forecast is not too good (my neighbour says he always knows when wet weather is going to set in - it is when we go on holiday!) Still - we take it as it comes.

Catch y'all later.

RUDGE "SUPERBE"

In 1961 John Head wanted a bicycle to cycle across London to his job at the Bank of England. In view of the prestige of his employment he decided that it must be a "gentlemanly" machine in keeping with his dignity. Accordingly, he did his research and decided that the "Rudge Superbe" fitted the bill. Rudge cycles were by now part of the Raleigh cycle empire. He bought the deep red bicycle from a little south west London cycle agent:

Over the years the cycle carried him to and from work. He had children, joined the Cyclists' Touring Club and, eventually the Veteran-Cycle Club (having acquired a variety of machines over the years). But the Rudge was always his favourite bicycle and even though it was a "gentlemanly machine" he used it at cycle camps and rallies.

We now fast-forward to 2008. John is now 82. He always vowed to keep on riding his Rudge, but has reached the stage where he can no longer lift his leg over the cross-bar. To keep on riding (he has my respect) he bought a modern, open-framed bike. The Rudge was oiled up and stored, but he felt it a shame that it was no longer used and (reluctantly) advertised it for sale in the Veteran-Cycle Club's magazine for £100 (a satisfactory mark-up as it cost £28 in 1961).

This is where I come in. I saw the advert, then forgot it. 3 weeks later I re-read it, thought I would give him a ring, although I guessed it would have been sold. But no, he "had been mucked about" and it was still there. So I made the trip to West London and spent a morning with John and his wife (his reminiscenses were worth £50 alone!) and paid the full price for his beautiful, original and much loved machine. Here he proudly displays it on the day of sale:

Having taken it home and introduced it to my own bicycles, you see it here in detail

The saddle is a magnificently comfortable Brooks "B66" with large insulating springs

The chaincase protects the drive and means that one can ride it without resorting to trouser clips, or tucking them in your socks to avoid oil stains

Lighting is provided by the still working Sturmey-Archer hub dynamo set in stainless steel wheel rims and the magnificently chromed head lamp. Gearing (very low) is by Sturmey-Archer 3 speed in the rear hub.

The bell gives out a sonorous "ding-dong", befitting the bicycle's dignity, whilst the stand enables it to stand alone (nothing so common as leaning it against a wall!)

Fortunately your average bicycle thief would not give the bike a second glance (they only seem to pinch mountain bikes) - however the Rudge comes with a built in fork lock (John even supplied the two original keys)

The Rudge is a nice ride. Unlike my "head down, arse up" drop handlebarred bikes, it will not be hurried. As befits a "gentleman's bicycle" one sits high in the saddle, looking over the scenery whilst cruising serenely along. On the flat it will allow itself to run at about 12 mph. Middle gear takes care of head winds and slight rises, whilst I am astounded how the low bottom gear allows one to ride up almost any hill. One almost feels that a collar and tie should be worn when riding it!

I use it frequently to do the 3 miles into town and it will get its first run out (under my ownership) with the Veteran-Cycle Club in July. Appropriately it will be a local ride - "A Marsh Meander" over Romney Marsh, ending up for fish and chips at a cafe in the ancient town of Rye.

BLUEBELLS (for HHnB)

HHnB writes about her childhood memories of Bluebells, so I thought that I would give her a treat and publish a few photos just taken in the wood over the way from here.

Anne Bronte's poem on the subject seems particularly apposite:

"There is a silent eloquence
In every wild bluebell
That fills my softened heart with bliss
That words could never tell "

and is worth reading in full, H


Anne Bronte's sister Emily, also wrote a poem on the same subject, but I prefer Anne's.

Of course, the dog, Sabre, had to get in on the photoshoot. Some children had left a rope swing which he decided was worth playing with. He is 11 (77 in human years) but still thinks he can act like a kid (a bit like the bloke he lives with, I suppose!)

COFFEE, CAKE AND THINGS

(click on any image to enlarge)

A couple of streets away lives a feisty 87 year old lady, a widow who is fiercely independent but has come to know me, through my wife. She has had a interesting life - who would think to see this upright, beautifully dressed, silver haired woman that she was a Sergeant in the Woman's Royal Army Corps in World War II and commanded men manning an anti-aircraft battery which shot down a number of German bombers. On Remembrance Day each year she proudly wears her military beret with badge and her medals on her chest. (Aspects of  this poem come to mind).

She sometimes asks me to do the odd "handyman job" which she cannot manage (she is proud of the large box of her late husband's tools - she always tells me she has the tools for the job!). She is an excellent cook and I usually get a "quid pro quo" in the form of cake. Her new fridge has arrived - the door was on the wrong side, so she asked if I could change it - job done.

. Two days later my wife arrived home with a plastic box containing half a delicious jam sponge from her. I felt that the gift needed proper appreciation - the day was warm and springlike and a cycle ride beckoned. Cake and a flask of coffee were packed and off I pedalled to spend a leisurely couple of hours adrift amongst the lanes - the target being one of my favourite stops - St Rumwold's Church

A convenient seat in the sun presents itself and I settle down to do the jam sponge justice.




(To enhance the meal the coffee was how I like it - laced with brandy!)


Sitting and musing in the sun I was kept company by my (very) old companion here - James Jordan, who sleeps beside my seat.




Let's have a look at his stone - it is written in archaic manner with the internal   " s " written like an " f ". To save you enlarging the image it reads:

"Here lieth James Jordan
late of this Parifh, Yeoman
He died May ye 9th 1745
Aged 68 Years.
And alfo Seven Children
Four by Mary his firft Wife
One by Ann his second
And two by Elizabeth his Third"

A busy man who deserves his long, long rest!

But - where are my manners! I have brought you all the way down here and forced you to look on whilst I indulged - yet I have not shown you around the church. Let's go to the main door. Its woodwork was cut from Kentish oak trees 700 years ago




Regular readers of my blog will remember my love and affinity with wrought iron so it is a delight to put one's hand into the door's latch-ring




And so we enter this, probably the oldest church on Romney Marsh, dating back to Saxon times (c.800 AD). A tiny, scintillating gem of a building whether you have a religion or no.




You will notice the proliferation of candles - these are very necessary since the church has no electricity. This is a real delight at the yearly Christmas carol service with the holly and ivy glinting with the brasswork in the winking candlelight - the music being provided by a string ensemble in the ancient gallery at the back, as in times past.

Thanks for joining my serendipity - just look where opening a fridge door has led us! (shades of Narnia!)

SECRET HILL (HHnB)

Those who have not been to "Secret Hill" recently will not know that she has done a bunk and set herself up with a new blog address.
If you want to catch up with her go to:
www.secrethillmosaics.blogspot.com/
(Commission please, Duchess!)

ROMAN SHIELDS AGAIN!

(Click on any image to enlarge)

This time last year I was involved in making a pair of Roman Cavalry Shields . Trouble is, I did too good a job of it and the Society has asked me to paint 6 Auxiliary Infantry Shields for use this year. The design is copied from one shown on Trajan's Column.
A pleasant enough job, painting in a warm dining room (I have an understanding wife) whilst the wind and rain beat against the windows. Now I have finished my part and the shields move on to have the bronze edging (to guard against sword cuts) and the centre bosses fitted.

Here is a finished one in close up. The unit represented is named in the "ansate" at the top (The small rectangular blue label with "ears" which is a feature of Roman inscriptions). It is the First Cohort of Tungrians , troops drawn from what is now modern Belgium - they were once stationed on Hadrian's Wall in the first century AD. The laurel leaves have obvious meaning. The two crescent moons relate to the veneration of Cybele, the Magna Mater or Great Mother.

All done for love and interest, unfortunately. Checking armour makers on the internet shows that such as these go for at least £150 each!

This link will explain how the Auxilia fits into the Roman Army - if you have time to wade through it. But briefly they were locals recruited from outside of Italy, not Roman citizens. (A bit like the native troops recruited by the British Empire). They never served in their own countries, for obvious reasons and were only paid a third of Legionary pay. The bonus was that they were awarded Roman citizenship after their 25 years service - a big deal in those times.

Here is a painting by Society member Graham Sumner of an Auxiliary (Society member Adrian Cook) , using a shield of similar pattern but different colouring.

TAG TIME!

That Lucy has tagged me!

1. Pick up the book you are reading, or else the nearest book (of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences

That seems quite an easy and interesting meme, so here goes:

" To my Lord's, where we find him newly come from Hinchingbrooke, where he left my uncle very well, but my aunt not likely to live. I stayed and dined with him. He took me aside and asked me what the world spoke of the King's marriage."

Name of the book? That should be a pretty easy one, I think!

(I shall pass this one when I have a bit more time)

SECRET HILL (HerhimnBryn)

Yes - I know she says she has stopped blogging, but she has put another (I will not say "last") entry on her site to show us the completed studio. "Just perfick" as Pop Larkin would have said!

ON A BLOWING DAY

(click to enlarge)

Well - that's a first! (especially for HHnB!) No-one managed to locate the quote in my "Kipling's Remedy" post. It comes from "Juggling Jerry" by George Meredith (the poet of Box Hill). Here is the verse from the poem:

Yonder came smells of the gorse, so nutty,
Gold-like and warm: it's the prime of May.
Better than mortar, brick and putty
Is God's house on a blowing day.

Obscure poem by an unfashionable poet. But when, as a schoolboy in 1954, I saved up and bought my first lightweight bicycle frame those two lines were written above the frame builder's message in his catalogue. Then and now in summed it all up, really.

MARMITE (again)

So, they've done it again!
( see my previous posting:
http://little-corner-of-the-earth.blogspot.com/2007_02_01_archive.html)
Marmite lovers, you can now get, for a limited period, "Champagne Marmite" for Valentine's Day.

KIPLING'S REMEDY

Well - my last post shows that I have spent a good deal of time reading. Naturally I gravitated to one of my favourite poets, Rudyard Kipling. As usual, he has a word for the occasion - and this one was the following (bearing in mind my last miserable posting):

"The cure for this ill is not to sit still

And frowst with a book by the fire.

But take a large hoe and a shovel also

And dig 'til you gently perspire"

The hoe and shovel did not inspire so I very reluctantly dragged the bicycle from the garage and set out against a 40 mile per hour westerly wind across country. The sky was heavy, overcast with scudding grey clouds, but no rain.

As I rode down towards the Marsh the sun succeeded in giving a brief flash of light, which I managed to take advantage of for a picture:

Then it disappeared as quickly as it came and I slogged some 10 miles across the bleak flats against the wind to a remote garden centre with a good cafe. Warmth and calm. Toasted, buttered teacake and good coffee.

Then back on the bike and making the turn towards home resulted in the wind now being behind me. Exhilaration! The bike flew with the utter silence of no air past the ears, reminding me of Masefield's lines from "The Everlasting Mercy":

"Along a dim road, on and on,

Knowing again the bursting glows

The mating hare in April knows.

Who tingles to the pads with mirth

At being the swiftest thing on earth."

I took a lane where I know the first primroses bloom in Spring - usually in late February. My reward for making the effort today was the sight, sheltered from wind and frosts and facing any sun, of the first, solitary clump of the year - in January, no less!

I got home tired and tingling after some 25 miles of blowing weather, ("Better than mortar, brick and putty / Is God's house on a blowing day" - origin of quote, anyone?) the "Black Dog" having been lost on the way somewhere (he has not caught up with me again yet!)

Thanks Kipling - just the right medicine.

THAT TIME OF THE YEAR

Yes, folks - it's that time of the year again. Cold, wet and miserable. Dark in the morning until about 8.00 am and then an overcast flat grey sky all day, with lights on again from about 3.30pm.

Don't want to get up in the morning, don't want to start any projects. Drink and eat too much sweet stuff (cakes, sweets and biscuits), sit around reading (Larkin's "Aubade" suits the mood!) and putting on weight.

A few crisp, sunny, frosty days would be nice - but warm Spring mornings, birds singing and primroses in bloom would be better!

They dress it up and call it SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). But I think we still have the primeval instinct to curl up, warm and comfortable and sleep it out!

So, maybe a short rest from blogging whilst I hibernate - although when I wake up now and again I shall creep out of the cave and feed on your blogs (especially those from the warmer areas of the Earth!)

'Night, 'night.

CHRISTMAS

A view over the fields to our 13th century village church (click to enlarge)

The Oxen

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
"Now they are all on their knees,"
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years!(1) Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
"Come; see the oxen kneel

"In the lonely barton(2) by yonder coomb(3)
Our childhood used to know,"
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

Thomas Hardy

(1) This poem was written in 1915

(2) A farmstead

(3) A valley

I have recently read Claire Tomalin's excellent biography of Hardy, which has prompted me to read all his wonderful poems again. This one cleverly parallels the Christmas story (The oxen, the stable, the shepherds sitting around the fire) without actually mentioning it. It also, for me at least, encapsulates Hardy's Wessex - the folk tale told around the fire by the old men of the village whilst watching their sheep. The last line goes to the heart of Hardy's agnosticism and emphasises his hope and essential spirituality.

This Friday, 21st December our family and friends gather here to enjoy our annual "Scrooge Night". Mulled wine, brandy, mince pies and cream - whilst watching that best of all Christmas films "Scrooge", with the inimitable Alistair Sim. ( There is a "Daddy, my Daddy" moment, when he asks the forgiveness of his nephew's wife in the last scenes!)

And so, "God bless us, everyone" as Tiny Tim exclaimed

A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL!

MOTORCYCLES

This post is for Vita really since she is convalescing!

The time has come for me to re-arrange the motor cycle fleet.

(click to enlarge)

The 1982 BMW (on right) has been with me for 22 years now and it would be like losing a leg to get rid of that - that will be around until I can no longer get my leg over (so to speak).

Of the two "trailies" I sold the XL125 Honda (centre) after buying the Honda XL185 (left) from an old friend who had had it since new.
Two things decided me to sell the one on the left too:

1. Recent legislation in this overcrowded island is killing off the use of "off road" vehicles over our ancient track ways . I count myself lucky to have had their enjoyment for over 40 years.
2. Approaching the age of 69 I ask myself if I should still be bucking, jumping and slip-sliding alone along these ways. (Know thyself).

So one aspect of my motorcycling life ends, but one has to compensate. Thus a new baby joins the BMW in the garage.

This is a 1978 Honda 400 four cylinder with only 18,000 miles under its wheels, for me to enjoy as a light, nippy and manoeuvrable machine for country lane bend swinging. I had one of these machines back in 1977 and have always hankered for another. They took Britain by storm, but were never popular in the States for some reason, so Honda killed them off after 4 years in 1979. (They are reputed to have lost money on every one they sold!). The way the four exhaust pipes swing down together still stands as some of the finest chrome-work ever seen on a motorcycle, many feeling that the design would not look out of place as furniture or pure art.
However inflation has meant that for the one I bought in 1977 for £700, I have now had to pay £2,000 for the "new" one. (I kid myself that the sale of the two trail bikes almost equals the cost of this one!)
Motorcyclists reading all this will understand that I am not particularly enamoured of today's modern "plastic rockets", posing as motorcycles!

HUMOUR OF THE TRENCHES

It is the (often cynical) humour of the British "Tommy" that sees him through. I found this in a book I am currently reading ( "Gone for a Soldier, A History of Life in the British Ranks") and thought it might lighten the mood after my last post.


And nothing changes!


As it was (60 AD)

And is now (2007AD)

REMEMBRANCE

November 11th.

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Wilfred Owen
Owen was known as "The Soldiers' Poet" - he told it like it was, without the "Tunes of Glory" and knew the disgust, fright and filth of war.
(A commentary on this poem and on the poet can be read by clicking on his name above.)