Findon Sheep Fair

A view of the sheep fair at Findon in Sussex as it used to be.

It is that time of year again when the annual fair comes round. I have not been for some years, the last time I went there were only 6 sheep. A far cry from the thousands of previous years.

This year things had improved, we were stuck in traffic for about an hour in a queue to get in to the fair.

Once we got in I initially thought it was going to be another of ye olde country fayre type events. A funfair and variety of stalls selling ‘antique’ country items and other good stuff. The first sheep we saw were in a van used for demonstrating shearing and to tell the history of sheep on the Downs.

However, there was a bio control gate, passing beyond there were pens, no longer hazel or chestnut hurdles, but metal hurdles containing …. Sheep. Several tens of sheep. Different species, different uses, being judged and sold, it was almost as it had once been.

I know there will be some with issues relating to sheep being kept in pens but this is the country raw in tooth and claw. The downs would be a much poorer place without the sheep who have effectively created this landscape.

Of course it was not all sheep.

I think I am getting the hang of this iPad slowly, couldn’t work out how to add pictures originally, sorry rough seas!!!!

Happiness is wet!

It’s true, happiness for me, at this time is wet.

The jubilee celebrations have come and gone, the good people of this green and pleasant land have drunk themselves stupid, fought, thieved raped and burgled their way through the celebrations as good Anglo Saxons do. A time of joy for HM the Queen, a time of extended shifts and pointless bureaucracy for those guardians of the Queens Peace who appear to be out of favour and overpaid according to the fat cats in Whitehall.

However, jubilee over a return to some semblence of normality. Having worked hard the one and I gather our possessions and trek to Suffolk. We depart in the wet, happy not to be in the pen for a while. Constable country calls, stopping at Dedham on the way

The church and vicarage, no hard hats here where is health and safety?

This was a brief lull in the damp descending from on high!

Colchester visited, rain stopped play, smiles of contentment The One and I happy to be anywhere but home with it’s work and bills and worry.

Sutton Hoo, we made a trip to see the ancient burial. We arrived in rain which cleared just long enough to walk around the mounds. We paused to see RAF regiment personnel running up and down the grounds of the house, how many of those young people on pre deployment would return to the land of their fathers?

Woodbridge in the rain, sheeting stair rods of rain bursting from clouds over laden with stored water, torrential downpour that had us soaked to the skin despite waterproofs never previously defeated. Squelching socks in sodden shoes, smiles and mild hysteria.

A dreadful meal at Kwan Thai dirty house overspiced but afterwards the sun, yes sun breaks through and we walk down by the river.

My thanks to Altaturka in Ipswich a meal most pleasant. They even sought our recommendation for a dish not yet on the menu. The staff were lovely, the food a delight, Turkish coffee to die for.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

More of this may follow but for now …

Pickle’s Holiday

Said Pickle to her Pa I’m going West with John
To drive around America, you know I’ve worked quite hard
We’re going in a few weeks I thought I would come home
To save my money not spent on rent and food just so that we can go

Pa and Ma then feed the child (and her boyfriend too)
They are a delight to have at home, a laugh a smile … a moan
Comes the day, ‘Do you need some cash?”
No thanks Ma we’ve saved and saved we’ve got enough we’re sure

First week down, not a sound, the ‘phone lies quiet, idle
second week starts the silence grows, I do hope there OK
Second mid week ‘phone springs to life, ‘Of cash we have run out’
Just three hundred will do the trick paid in today, that’s right.

Another day, passes by, the ‘phone rings once again
We forgot the airport transfer Thursday, could you put 50 in?
A dreadful day for Ma and Pa not chance to bank the cash,
It’s all fine there is no rush Pickle said we have got cash

That evening at 11 am the Pickle calls once more
Explain our sin oh dear oh dear they’ve only ten bucks more
Her ‘phone is took she knows not when you can’t call me anymore
John’s phone doesn’t work so we are stuffed we cannot make a call

This morning’s plans gone up in smoke to bank I wend once more
No sleep last night concern for her and for John did they eat at all,
On her return we are going away Ma Pa and Pickle too, our cash we’d saved
For our holiday, now spent in Californ i a rather than in Suffolk!

A strange yellow light!

It’s no good. I have been trying to think of something grumpy to say. A wrong to rail against, a politician to lambast, something to vent about. My heart is not in it.

The sun has come to Saelig Sussex in abundance. My rest days have arrived, Monday morning was lost due to the lateness of my finishing work but the birds woke me with their exuberant song. But hist, strange light through my curtains.

A few chores done, then out to the allotment. Devastation, my quinoa that was growing so well has been eaten, in place of the crop a few stmpy stems and weeds 😦

Four hours of weeding and re seeding followed. Not a cloud, just broiling sun.

An evening walk to the Downs, I have never seen so many cowslips.

 

In fact my new found sense of well being has become almost irrational. Tuesday broke clear and fine with another splendid day at the allotment, relocating a small poly tunnel and cutting grass that was ‘as high as an elephants eye’. Exhausted by the heat I went back to my garden potting up some seed (to replace plants destroyed by slugs, pigeons and whatever else has nibbled). The One and I decided to go for a walk. The Tesco walk. The ONLY good thing to come out of our local superstore is free safe parking very close to a stunning walk. It is the only thing I use the store for but today I am grateful for the facility.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Brighton Artist’s Open House

Saturday 5th May, Pickle, The One and your ‘umble servant made our way to Brighthelmstone (changed to Brighton because the name was too long for the Railways!) to have a fun day wandering round other people’s houses looking at art.

 

The houses were of all types, from the ridiculously large Edwardian detached mansion to the small terraced property (I far preferred the latter we visited complete with Victorian cast iron range!!)

The rain didn’t dampen our enthusiasm although the cold troubled Pickle who had ridiculed our heavy winter coats on leaving home. Experience winning over beauty and youth.

Not much more to say really except if you find yourself in Brighton this month, at a weekend, pick up a map (free) and go see.

In the first house we went to there were loads of these driftwood sculpture’s, a theme which continued through the day.

Quirky stuff to remind us where we were,

and one of my favourite pieces because the Green Man always makes me smile,

 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

And finally, nothing to do with the Artists but Spike is a hero so had to post this …

Trumping Wind Power

I wonder what people think is more important, providing cheap sustainable electricity for the citizen, or a round of golf for the privileged?

Donald Trump, the well known ‘Green’ activist is apparently outraged.

Like or loathe Alex Salmond he has said that he wants Scotland to produce the equivalent of 100% of his countries, let’s not pretend they are really a part of the UK anymore, electricity needs from renewable sources by 2020. I would have thought this is a perfectly sane and rational decision from a Scottish Parliamentarian to take in his nations interests.

Mr Trump thinks that the presence of a mere 11 wind turbines in Aberdeen Bay will so blight the spot that his one billion pound golf resort will become less profitable. The turbines will spoil his customers sea view. Shouldn’t you keep your eye on the ball when playing golf? He claims that Scotland will become a third world wasteland that foreign investors will avoid. At least it’s citizens will be able to make tea into the future!

Thanks BBC for the information here http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-scotland-scotland-politics-17826561

Now far be from me to criticise Mr Trump, I am sure he is an altruistic kind of guy. He has said that he will spend 10 million pounds on fighting the wind turbines erection. The erection of the turbines will bring lasting fiscal benefit and employment opportunities stretching into the future beyond the demise of Mr Trump and his personal money making enterprises. He complains that wind power is not effective without subsidy. Well, if we all paid the actual cost of things instead of subsidised costs of things perhaps we would all be less inclined to use more than we need.

Who the hell does Trump think he is? He is not Scottish, he does not live in Scotland, he has only invested a paltry 1bn pounds. The offshore farm is worth 30bn of investment.

Trump cares about the planet I am sure, that is why he seems to take every opportunity to fly everywhere. He could surely have presented his evidence to the committee via internet conference call or whatever. However, he chose to fly to make a personal appearance.

Perhaps Mr Trump is feeling the pinch in these financially straightened times, in November 2011 he claimed to be worth 7bn dollars US. At 65 does he think he has time left to spend all the money he has made off the backs of the poor and the blighted?

Trump is supposed to be a businessman. A business man looks for opportunities for profit continuing into the future, rather than the blinkered view of the flash Harry quick buck merchant. Mr Trump it seems has become myopic in his dotage, he cannot see the extended profit of wind power. The capital cost may be large but the investment stream will last way beyond the grass he is cultivating.

Does Trump really believe that leisure should take precedence over investment in infrastructure? An infrastructure designed to work far beyond peak oil, when his customer base will no longer be able to fly, except maybe by airship or hot air balloon. He could probably provide all the hot air, at a cost, for his chums to inflate said balloons.

Employment for the local economy? I suppose Trumps customers can look forward to being caddied by exclusively Scots caddies? Accommodation serviced by exclusively Scots staff? I think not, cheap labour flown in from the Phillipines or wherever.  If they are looked after by Scots people, they will probably be humiliated by being forced to wear the Tartan Trump, wear plaid and walk around greeting guests with a cheery ‘Och aye the noo‘ and other US held stereotypical attributes given to the Scots.

Trump would probably rather we used oil, coal or nuclear. If the Scottish Parliament collapses and agrees not to put the wind farm in the bay, I hope they put a socking great nuclear plant right next door to Trumps Tee.

Mr Trump, you cannot be a nimby here, even your yard ain’t that big.

English surprises in April

Enough of the ranting already, time to prove there is more than a little joy in thepigpen. A 15 minute stroll from our house is a wood.

 

I love woods, a closed and closeted environment which surrounds a soul in womb like comfort. The scuffle of small animals in decaying undergrowth, the song of birds stirring in the dank air to mark and guard their place. The open glades and denser thickets, such a huge variety of space in such a small area.

The patch of soft earth near badgers set to be avoided, the sudden dart of doe in undergrowth. The unexpected opening of the canopy reveals the raptor soaring overhead. The path leads to a small stream where Robin sings and cavorts at waters edge, the unexpected sight of a house.

A perfect day whatever the weather.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

An evening in Brighton

Following our meal The One and I walked to the seafront and along the promenade. The sky was stunning, warm breezes caressing us as we wandered toward the setting sun.

The poor old pier is still hanging on. No longer linked to the land, the original entry booth is to be incorporated into Brightons new attraction, the name escapes me but it will be a metal column with a platform that goes up and down so a view of the city can be obtained. That assume’s money can be found. They couldn’t fund the pier restoration so what hope? Silly me, I forgot, it’s new and will make loads a dosh for someone.

The One thinks I am obsessed with the pier, it is true I will often take a picture of the pier when I go to Brighton,

but last night I loved the light sky blue pink, behind the pier.

This shows the now destroyed deck supports. We walked West toward Hove the setting sun was in our face, the promenade, not busy yet with summer crowds, a pleasant place to be. Normal people having an evening stroll / cycle. Even the hoody homeless squatting skating boarding sub culturite’s were out taking the sun and air. The world, at that time, in that place, exuding peace and love. Beach barbecue’s in swing (ugh burning animal fat) but good humour abounding. A street drinker wandered toward me, I recognise him. I have seen him being angrily aggressive at the sky for being there, cold and damp. Not today, drunk as a skunk, can in hand ‘Good evening’. I respond ‘Hi how’s it going’ (the English Que Pasa? perhaps). We move on.

A little further and we turn back to the station, but not before I see the rotunda has a sign beneath, “Open”, I had never seen this before, a cafe bar, open and inviting, a destination for another day.

As we walk back along the road side, motorcycles scream, cars dump their valves. The Grand still stands despite, Patrick Magee, the mayhem veiled behind the blue lighting of the facade. Will Brighton ever really forget that day and will PIRA really change its spots?

The lights, like strings of twin pearls hark back to an older age where smart ladies with their gentlemen escorts would promenade after supper, parasols idly carried for fashion. Long gone the fashion for pearls and parasols, but the evening walkers, joggers continue the tradition of post supper perambulation nonetheless.

A final look back to the Pier, with moon above and lights below;

before plunging into the little streets and backwaters of The Laines. Full of life, but not too much so tonight. The whole of Brighton seems to be dozing after the exertions of the day in full sun. Even the pubs seem quite and relaxed, no frenetic energy, rushing to the next thing, it might be better. The Seven Stars, a Jazz band warming up, alas no time to stop and listen.

back to the station and homeward bound. A stunning evening in this jewel of the south coast. Not the sort of thing I would usually say as I consider Brighton, generally, a bit of a carbuncle on the rump of the planet. Just shows how wrong you can be.

The photo’s are courtesy of my Google Nexus One.

A good walk ruined …

 

A peaceful day, sun shining, the South Downs like a reclining venus sunning her curves in the first spring sunshine of the year.

Hunting pink abounds, there are harsh cries on the downs. Yelping harpies no longer filled with their former blood lust. Now hunt and hounds seem content to chase men not foxes. The followers follow, the hounds howl, the hunting horn calls vue halloo but the quarry is either sacks dragged by quad bikes or men in Nike running shoes, ‘just do it’.

No! Please don’t just do it. My stroll up the to the ridge was shattered by 4x4xfar driving past in convoy each blue fumed spewing monster slower, noisier and fouler smelling than the last. Once they had gone the trail was overtaken by quadbikes carrying men with overloud voices to let us know they were ‘hunting‘ (as if we hadn’t guessed, they assume my IQ matches their’s perhaps) all this traffic interspersed with lovely horses carrying less lovely humans, ‘Rather” ‘Eh What’ ‘Good show.’

At the ridge the gathering behaved as hunters have since they first started to chase foxes in this way, stirrup cups, nibbles and bearing down on the footborne peasantry to make them remove themselves from ‘Moi Laaand’ and for God‘s sake stop making the place look untidy.

The only positive was that the fox appeared not to be the main quarry of the day but a piece of foul smelling sacking dragged behind and equally foul quad bike driven by equally foul men.

Once the horse and hounds had outstripped the casual bystanders, glad handing each other at being able to take part in such a spectacular event, there is no telling what hounds found. My guess is the master of hounds took them away from the noxious sack and they probably found some living breathing creature to chase; or am I overly cynical?

Fortunately for me the hounds rode East, I was walking West. A and I left with our thoughts and stunning views across the downs to the Seven Sisters. was the white chalk really stained red? Or was that just my imagination running wild.

 

No, it seems it was just my imagination (queue song) …

Another different day …

After yesterday’s sunshine, we listened with bated breath to the weather man. Yes I am sure he said Sunday will be just the same as Saturday. It’s going to be wall to wall sunshine.

As a result of the very positive prognostication A (quicker to use the first letter of the alphabet than a name. It signifies her importance to me and is much quicker than any other descriptor that would do sufficient justice to her)  and I decided to be off out early. Never mind it’s a bit overcast, the cloud will burn away soon, it will be lovely. No need to take that heavy coat it will be too hot to wear.

A very cold hour and a half later we acknowledged what any self respecting occupant of these Northern Isles knows. Don’t trust the weather forecast. Nonetheless, we had gone out and found the buzzing rally that we had been told about. There were to be huge numbers of vintage 1960’s motorcycles and mopeds. There they all were congregating in a field next to a pub. A and I tried to pick our way daintily between the puddles, ankle deep mud and cow pats. In fact there was a staggering selection of bikes to look at, about twenty or so. 😮

A nice red one,

A lovely silver looking one,

And some others.

I would have taken more pictures but by this time my knees were turning blue. There was a strange man in a Hi Vis jacket trying to sell me something oily from a cardboard box balanced on the back of something that looked like a bicycle with a lawn mower engine strapped to it.  Quick A, while his back is turned run for the car!

It was like the start of Le Mans, tyre’s spinning (sorry didn’t mean to cover you in mud but …) we left in a cloud of smoke. Still being hopeful of some sun we stopped at a lovely village green for coffee and nibbles.

Just one of the quaint houses we could see from our picnic bench. By this time, overcome by what could be a nasty touch of frostbite we beat a hasty retreat home. As I pulled the car onto our drive, the sun in all its glory peered from behind a black cloud and smiled on us. A stiff breeze was still blowing so we ate lunch in the polytunnel. Warm and protected it was actually very pleasant. Over lunch the sun strengthened and it seemed the weather man was right after all. I took a photo of one of my little North facing clematis blooms:

far hardier than I.

As the sun shone we went for a walk in the afternoon. Not wanting to be caught out we took cardigans and jackets. The sun blazed from a cloudless sky, … we carried our cardigans and jackets.

The sky was a lovely azure blue as we walked. We found a willow covered in flowers, the tree was alive with hover flies and bees. I include a couple of final pictures to prove that actually the met office did get it half right, Huzzah.

and finally a blasted oak, or is it just waiting, like me, for spring to burst into leaf

we returned home to home made ginger beer, very alcoholic, and an evening by the fire.