Samhain

We were born before the wind,
Also younger than the sun
'Ere the bonnie boat was one
As we sail into the mystic.
(Van Morrison)

Homesick

I enjoyed it better with the sound down:

The Walking Englishman

I Am The Master Of My Fate

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley (Invictus)

Peter, the English Gardener

I could have done with subtitles in places but he's spot on with his pruning tips:



More gardening tips here.

Swordsman 2

Something I Don't Normally Do

I posted the first video at 'the other place' this morning for Sunday Reflection.  Harvey Keitel is a fine actor - some of his films may be 'hit & miss' but his performance never is.  I think he reinvigorates 'If' by Rudyard Kipling and I could listen to his delivery over and over: "... or being lied about, don't deal in lies.."   Perhaps, if this were shown in schools, poetry and its eternal values might gain credence with more of our children. Teaching is not to 'teach', it's to enthuse & enable children to learn - there's a difference.


More on Kipling here, from The Kipling Society
Here's Keitel in the bar scene from Mean Streets:

Something From The Far Reaches Of Memory

I don't know how it came, but it came unbidden in the sad, reflective moments after my son had caught his plane home after three wonderful weeks during which my eldest son and his girlfriend also visited.  I thought I'd inflict it on you as well - well, why not?  Quite by chance the Bala Lake Railway is one we visited when the boys were youngsters.  I'm getting worried about my state of mind though: I thought I saw an Anarchy symbol at 1:23 and the image at about 1:42 seemed to flash up the word 'Nazi'.

Orff: Musik fur Kinder III

Eine Kliene Handel's Musik

'Tell Me Not That I Am Too Late'

Jane Austen

Betjeman: Kings Lynn to Hunstanton

Art For Art's Sake

 

Fred's
Waterhouse & Dodd
Northcote Gallery

Wounded

I am wounded and I  won't be well again.
Not the tape of triumph
nor the bandage of bright victory
could mend this wound
he's given by the act of leaving.

Had he left the room,
Had he gone forever
or across the street.
Gone is gone
and it would be the same.
 
I die daily now.
And he didn't even call it 'love'.

Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead

On Reflection

If ever a face was killed with kindness, it's mine.
It glances at me from the corner of its eye
which sags and wrinkles
like collapsing sails.
Best of all it loves the bright, cold Autumn sunshine
to show its defiance of Christian Dior.

Sometimes I say, "I'll show you who's boss around here,"
And, witch-like in my kitchen, I brew strange potions
guaranteed to cure
the worst reflection.
I've heard witches have instantaneous results
but my flushing face would make them green with envy.

Perhaps I should ignore it for a while.
But not too long lest Nature plays a cruel trick,
catching me off guard
and upping the stakes.
I might wake one morning to find a double chin
and that would be adding insult to injury.

Essentially England

I've stumbled across another 'quiet corner' website.  It's packed with history, food, travel and other little gems.  I've no idea who's behind it but it seems to have facts and pics about most of the Counties - except Yorkshire!

More links: Traditional British recipes
Bryan's - they call it a 'Seafood Restaurant' these days but it will always be t'chippy to me and miles better than Harry Ramsden's even before that was sold off as an overpriced franchise .

Hmmm...fish & chips ...

Gardening

Royal Horticultural Society

More links: Freebies for your garden
Heirloom English seeds

Van Morrison

The Mirror Crack'd

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance --
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right --
The leaves upon her falling light --
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
The Lady of Shalott, Alfred Lord Tennyson

A Reminder

I first came across this simple poem in primary school; it was read out to us by Mr Carlton, our Class Teacher, and, for better or worse, it made a lasting impression:

"What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare."
'Leisure' by W H Davies