A Christmas Story

A Christmas Story.

We lived in the parish of Busbridge which was once owned by the Squire of Busbridge Hall who thankfully fell upon hard times and had to sell off large areas of his estate. Our house and garden rested in part of what was
once a large orchard , hence all our old apple trees that we climbed and from which came all the huge Bramley apples that my mother served up to us , baked or stewed until the season was over. I still hate baked apples!
The parish of Busbridge was a very respectable area , full of snobs and people pretending to be wealthier than
they actually were. Our little school stood opposite the church . Every year, for Christmas, the children were forced to put on a nativity play which was much rehearsed , then performed , in the church , for adoring parents
and local residents.
In those days, one had to be seen to go to church and I can still picture the miserable little women in their black hats , tight faces and primly pursed lips, walking up to the church every sunday.
We, my brothers and I,were looked upon with barely concealed dislike, disgust and distrust by these pitiful crones because we were scruffy urchins dressed in cut down, altered clothes that had recently belonged to an uncle who was killed by the Germans in the war whilst fighting for the freedom of these paragons of virtue and the vicar, who despised me.
Anyway, this one year we assembled in the church to decide which child should have which part in the Christmas play. The vicar sent me out for laughing and told me not to come back. Rehearsals got under way and the days passed and it came to pass that they needed someone to operate a machine which turned on the sun which was a large light bulb in a biscuit tin. There was a sliding lever which when moved slowly up it's slot, made the bulb glow and become gradually brighter to represent the rising sun. I volunteered to operate this and without the vicars knowledge, was reluctantly given the job with many warnings to behave.
So the big day arrived, the church filled and Jesus prepared to be born. The three wise men were waking , ready to find the baby in the stable . When one of them uttered the words "Ah, the sun", I was supposed to begin sliding the lever to make the sun rise, slowly bathing the darkened stage in light.
Unfortunately I had gone to the other side of the church so that I could peer through a gap in the curtains to watch proceedings. "Ah, the sun" said the wise man . Nothing happened. "The sun" he said again in a louder voice, tinged, it must be said , with a hint of panic. A titter was heard from the audience. Probably my brother.
A voice hissed at me . "The sun , you idiot!" Realisation hit me and, my hobnailed boots clattering on the marble floor of the aisle, I flew across, threw the lever fully along it's slot and dawn exploded on the sacred scene.
There were splutterings of mirth from the less reverent watchers , the vicar was sobbing quietly behind the stable and I fled to the vestry , out of the side door and walked home.

The vicar was made an arch deacon and left for new pastures soon after this and his son , who played Joseph in the play became a vicar and I heard recently that he is in prison, a convicted paedophile!

A Christmas Carol

My Christmas Story above inspired my brother to send me this. I'm sure he won't mind me sharing it!

A Christmas Carol written by my brother

And it came to pass, that during the days of Advent, in the early hours of night, some carol singers went forth to spread the spirit of Christmas to the ordinary people of Duncombe Road. With cardboard in their shoes to keep out the chilling cold and icy damp, they pulled their lumber jackets about them and came upon the first house. There, under the cold night sky, they began Good King Wenceslas. Even though the four part harmony fell apart, their voices floated into the air and carried to the people within - who could affordeth coal and were warm and cosy by their firesides.

At the ending of the carol, their voices fell still and they looked upon eachother with creased brows. Perhaps the people within had not heard them. Perchance they should sing another offering? Michael, the eldest caroller, nodded his head wisely and spake unto the others. "We shall give 'em Hark the Herald Angels Sing," he proclaimed. "And if they don't come, we'll stamp all over their roses."

The others nodded wisely, in agreement and cleared their throats, ready for another go. Yet another carol rose up in the silence of the night but to no avail. Not even yet a twitch of the curtains.

They finished their offering, then looked upon one another again.

"We've made fourpence h'appenny," Michael announced. "I think we should calleth it a day."

So saying, they made their way to the gates, pausing on the way to stamp on several Peace floribundas and to trampleth upon marigolds and wall flowers.

"That will teacheth them!" David muttered.

"Yeah," Michael agreed. "Got any Brock's cannons? We could shove one in the letter box."

"This is Christmas, not Guy Fawkes," David sayeth unto him. "The season of good will. Letteth us go home."

"Very good," Michael replied, "Let's just knock on the door hard then run away."

Foxy.

I gave up keeping chickens a couple of years ago because of a rash of foxes. they were eventually dealt with but there are one or two around again. Saw one cross our field the other day, bold as brass. When we have a fall of snow next, I'm going out to follow it's footprints. I bet it investigates next doors chicks before moving on.

Jeffrey Farnol.

Have any of you ever read any of J. Farnol 's books? They are collectable now. We had two or three in our family bookcase. Black Bartlemy's Treasure, Martin Conisby's Vengeace, and The
Broad Highway. There are a lot more. Beltane The Smith, The Amateur Gentleman,
Peregrines Progress etc. , all highly recommended . I've read all of those about six times in my life
and will probably read them again! I've found a shop in Hay on Wye with a lot of them for sale
from two pounds up to ten pounds each.
Whilst on the subject of books, You must find, buy and read, Twenty Years Agrowing by
Maurice O'Sullivan. I bet if you do, you'll be taking the ferry to Ireland and visiting a certain west coast island!

Hat!

This is K's new hat . I really like it.

Homemade bread.

Just in case anyone has NOT got a bread machine , take my advice and go for it!
It is SO easy. The white loaf pictured was so light, I had to nail it down to take the photo!
Get a PANASONIC SD 254.

Nothing day.

I'm feeling depressed today, like a lead weight in my forhead and chest. No one to tell because you don't , do you? Want to go for a walk but can't quite do it. K is at work. Here's a thing, once I was feeling really down, on my own and I started to cry and my dog , sitting in front of me put his nose in the air and howled! I was so ashamed to have upset him that I hugged him and found I'd forgotten my own woes! There, that's told someone and I'll go for a little walk now.

Our river.

This was last year. Wonder if this winter will bring lots of rain. Terrific power in this water, you couldn't walk across the bridge with the river like this.

At this time of year, the grass is long and horrible, the trees are bare ,
river high, fast and threatening and the planks on the bridge wet and slippery.
How I look forward to spring, primroses , daffies and bluebells
with blossom on the blackthorn, damson and apple trees.

Saucepan handles!

What's the old fool going on about now? You might ask. Well I'll tell you. Have you noticed how most of your saucepan handles are loose and wobbly? Well, they are held on by a screw which works loose and could conceivably work so loose that the handle could come right off when you are carrying that lovely lamb stew across the kitchen! This is what you must do. Go to your ironmonger and purchase a tube of Loctite Fix and seal or some such name. Go home and find a screw driver to fit the head of the saucepan screw. Then , one by one, take the handles right off, clean the screw, apply a drop of thread sealant and screw it back on nice and firmly. Lots of swear words later , you will have a set of saucepans with lovely solid handles that are unlikely to ever work loose again. You will be surprised at how much your life will be improved , you will look forward to boiling that egg or those potatoes!

Method.

With the pics. below, I pointed camera at a bright light, half pressed the shutter to keep exposure,
then pointed at candles and clicked so they were under exposed. (Just in case anyone was interested!!)

Second black and white!

First Black and White

Photos.

The sun is shining, the trees bare and bright, even the dogs down in the garden seem to have more energy today. I've just wandered up the road to where council workmen, ever obedient to Brussels, are preparing to demolish a little stone bridge which has been deemed unsafe regardless of the fact that they took a sixty ton crane over it the other day! I've taken a few snaps of the scene. I'm unable to post any photographs at the moment. Have to get my daughter to sort me out again! Silly old fools , messing about with computers! " What have you done now?"! Gawd.
Boy! It's nice out there though. My face is tingling. Going to make a cup of tea now.

Will.

Today I thought I'd make my will,

though there's some life within me still.

So, down I sit to make a start.

To my Kathleen, I leave my heart.

Memories are the reward for living.

There were happy moments when we were young.
The war was remote for us, something the grown ups spoke about.
There were no cars on the roads.
Milk was delivered by horse and cart as were vegetables and parafin.
The sun always seemed to shine and we could roam at will to explore,
play and get into mischief.

Forgotten piece!

Since we met I've been in pain.

I think that I'm in love again.

I can't forget your lovely face or your eyes

that make my poor heart race.

One day, perhaps, I'll tell you this,

'til then I'll dream of our first kiss.

Can't say it so I'll write it.

I was in an ambulance again, heading for a hospital 40 miles away . It was what they called,
unstable angina pains.

I felt cheerful and chatted and laughed with the paramedic. After half an hour, however, conversation flagged and I began to feel tired. I closed my eyes and despite the lurching of the vehicle, I started to doze and felt as if I was floating down into a mist and then, there was my dear old grandad, smiling at me , his arms open in welcome.
I started to shout in bewildered distress . Not words, sounds and then the medic was trying to calm me , reassure me, pumping something into the tube in the back of my hand. I cried as I tried to explain what had happened. " My grandad was waiting for me" I said. More calming words from him. " Your pulse dropped to 32" he said " but I've got it back up again". Then he was talking on his radio. They didn't mess about in Hereford hospital. They said later that my pulse rate went
down to 28 . I had more glimpses of my old Grandad, my old pal, whilst being treated, always
with that gentle smile.

A kitten with spots?

Momentous day.

I've given up airguns! Sold my gun and associated bits! Taking up photography more seriously.
Must go now, trying to decide from whom to purchase my new Nikon D40 with 55- 200mm lens!

Picture.

If you click on the witches cottage and the other picture, it gets very big! More detail though.

Witch's Cottage

The Witch!

Witch.

The night was dark and cold and wet and the clouds were racing across the moon , pushed, chased,
by a fierce west wind and moving shadows ran across the land revealing a cottage here or an oak tree there and frightening cattle into motionless clusters in their muddy fields and the witch flew high , clinging tight to her besom , intent on her mission , no choice but to do what witches do. No
fireside chair tonight. No warm bed or comfort.
Cold, old , ageless face , black eyes seeking a guiding mark momentarily lit by the teasing orb, only witness to her pain, of the tears torn away by her flight, of the soundless cry of her despair.

The good old days.

Just been exchanging emails with a lady who was a Quaranc, (army nurse) in Hamburg military hospital in the fifties where I too was stationed for six months. I hope she reads this because it was so nice to know that others shared and remember fondly the same places and memories of what sometimes seems a different, far off world. We were so young with a lot to learn but it was such fun!

The latest Morgan dream car.

Another dream car.

My air gun.

Only joking!

The Honda Cub pictured below is considered the worlds greatest motorcycle with around
50,000,000 being built ! Easy to ride, super reliable and economical and I am trying to sell all my airgun stuff to buy one!

Motor bike for old codgers!

Thanks.

Thanks to Anna- - for reading and commenting on my blog. I would write on yours but you don't seem to visit it much! Procrastinating again? What a car eh? Purely to dream about of course.
As for your offspring loving you, I'm sure they do and always will. I bet your husband regularly looks at you , smiles and falls in love all over again.! My lovely wife and daughter have shown me how to put pictures on my blog. Hope I remember!

Ariel Atom profile

Ariel Atom Pic.

Have you seen this car yet?

If I win the Lottery I will buy one of these! The Ariel Atom. I will get a photo when I can but if you type the name into Google, you can see it.

Picture for today.

If only they made motor bikes like this today! 500 cc. Long stroke.

Ah! Well!

Thought for Today

A receptionist at a dentist's told me her mother had died and I could sense her grief and I went home and wrote this because it could apply to any of us.

She died , at last, the other day,she died and left me sad.
I can't believe she's really gone and it's left me feeling bad.

She once was young and did the things that all young people do and then grew up and loved a man and then gave birth to me.
She held me close and cared for me to shield me from all harm ' til I could stand alone or so I thought, without her loving arm.

Throughout the years she watched me grow, with unspoken fears and pride. She watched as she grew old and then, our roles reversed, she let me care for her, loving me still, understanding my moments of impatience
and seeing me contrite, for she too had a mother once.

She may be gone but she will live always in my memory.

Her lovely face , her funny ways, the show of temper, her caring love will remain.

Grandpa's apples.

When, at this time of year, we went to stay at Gran and Grandad's home, the first thing we would do would be to run to the end of the back garden to see if there were any windfall apples. The ones we liked best, were, according to grandpa, named Corrianders. Small , red with light green patches and a lovely smell and taste. A few years ago I made enquiries and no apple of that name could be found but was advised that it was a Devonshire Quarrendon and I bought two little trees. This yearthey are overloaded with those lovely old apples. (the type dates from 1650) They don't keep and fall as soon as they are ripe but the taste and beautiful smell bring back the memories!
Talking of apples, I've got a very young Bramley seedling cooking apple tree which has it's first fruit this year. Five apples, not very big but a promise of apple pies in the future!
It's a lovely day today. Sunny and warm.

I just love my home.

Sammy

Yellow Moon.

Yellow moon please shine on this dark night.
This empty night like every night that lies before me.
Shine on me and light my dreams and let me see.
Share with me my secret world of love and joy and sorrow.
Perhaps your friend the sun will light my world tomorrow.

Sweet sixteen.

I remembered her today, again.
With that same, familiar, sort of pain.
Remembered her face and bewitching smile
that always lurked in those lovely eyes
that could see the truth and hated lies.
Those eyes that could spark with anger or laugh in jest
and stop me breathing and fill my chest
with a feeling I could not express.
The pain I felt again today.
To hold her hand would bring me joy
as we walked together, girl and boy.
So long ago, yet still her face I see.
Does she ,I wonder, ever think of me?

The Emperor Concerto.

Just been smiling to myself. The Emperor is about the only piece of classical music I know and I really know it because when we were children, my sister had this bit of music on six twelve inch
78 rpm records and an old wind up portable gramophone with a broken spring! I used to play this lovely piece of music by turning the turntable with my fore finger (which got worn away!) I think I got the speed about right! I used to raid my mum's needlework basket for needles, cutting them to the right length with pliars!

Poem by my daughter.

FAITH.

My children sit, under the elephantine branches of the great beeches.
They are looking for treasure.
Dappled sunlight bounces off the greenery and flits across their concentrated frowns.
As they scrape and push at the leafy soil, wholesome black earth fills behind their nails.
A glimmer of something, glass? Metal? Gold?
The search intensifies. Shoulders taut with exertion. Faith.
At last , a brown glass bottle is discovered from it's hiding place.
It's deep lustrous colour is treasure indeed, for them , in their plastic reality.
Fingers stroke the smooth, polished glass.
Confirmation that treasure exists, and dragons and happy endings.

Treasure too, for me, in this moment with my children.

My faith and a tiny memory of this day and a brown glass bottle.

Disconnected jottings.

I found this in one of my notebooks, written some time ago. Funny how thoughts and memories surface and it's nice, somehow, to share them.

When I was a child, staying with my grandparents, I loved the river and the search for
my grandfather,fishing, amongst the reeds. I remember his old trilby hat and his old , calm, face. What did he think about as he waited for the float to send a hundred rings across the surface?

At home , I remember the hot , soft , tar at the edges of the road on the walk back from school
where the teachers tried to break my spirit and make me believe I was worthless. I remember my wanderings in the countryside, the spring with the white sand boiling as the cold invisible water pushed it's way up to join the stream which wound it's beautiful way through the horsetails and willows to the old sheep dip where we splashed and made small bowls from the yellow clay of the bank. The wild strawberries. The goat's cave.

My shouting, drunken, father, unable to forget HIS drunken father and the smell of death
from the trenches at Yypres, frustrated at his inability to fulfill his fantasies , would compensate by terrifying his four misbegotten children and his wife whom he snared with his smiles and charm to satisfy his ego and lust. Did he know? Did he care that these helpless , puzzled mites
trembled in their beds at the sound of his heavy feet approaching the back door after another night of debauchery?
No wonder the tears fall as I think of the waste of it all, think of how nearly I followed his example. But I remember bare feet on warm grass and crystal streams , which are still there,
and I can't stop the tears. They keep coming out of my eyes.

The River at Rest

This is our river in a good mood on a hot summer's day.

Leaving Home?

Did you ever leave home when you were a child and get as far as the front gate?

Two bits for farmers.

Sheep!

A sheep is both brainless and stupid and no matter how hard you may try, it' s just when you
think you are winning, it will run to the midden and die!
Now a goat runs it close in the brain race and will give you a whole lot of sorrow, it will seem
to be well then it's belly will swell and she'll die on her bed on the morrow!
But a sheep takes the cake ( and the silage) and will eat you from house and from home and
just when you think the sun's shining, it dies with a cough and a groan.
It studies the old art of dying and passes well kept secrets down. It spends it's short life just
aprowling on the lookout for somewhere to drown.
In a hedge or a ditch, it doesn't care which, whether stuck on a fence or flat on it's back , it'll
die just the same, silly bitch!
It just isn't fussy which way it meets death, it will only be happy when it draws it's last breath.
Yes, a sheep is both brainless and stupid, it's dying is more like a trade . It will die in the snow or die in the rain or die in the sun or the shade!
It will get in the way of the postman who will cheerfully run it quite flat but one way or another , it will die , like it's mother and you'll never stop it , that's that!

And now FARMING.

Sheep and cows and horses, Lambs and calves and foals.
Hay and straw and silage and fence posts needing holes.
Mud , manure and thistles, Nettles, mud and moles.
Tea and cheese and dry bread rolls and mud and sheep and foals!
Punctures, rust and cyclones, Crud and mud and flood.
The trouble is , you see , my friends, Farming's in the blood!

Fiddling again!

I bought one of V-Mach special piston seals for my HW 80 and fitted it after lightly polishing the cylinder with Brasso. Result is an even better gun!

The Lake.

In the summer months during the years 1947 to 1954, my brothers and I and our friends would meet at the Lake. This was privately owned by a kind old man named DR. Fox who allowed the public access to the lake which was set in a large area of woodland and we swam and played and picnicked as much as we could in this heavenly place. There was a diving board at the deep end of the lake, about six feet above the water. Every so often , a young man who obviously thought the world of himself, would arrive , change into his brief swimming trunks and pose for a while before
executing quite a good "jack knife " dive in front of what he hoped was an admiring audience.
He had long black hair , heavily oiled and combed into two large waves which was fashionable then.
One day, we were lounging in the sun at the deep end , and he arrived and an expectant hush descended over us we watched him begin his ritual . The diving board had developed a large lateral crack and we had stopped using it , knowing it was now very weak.
The Adonis walked up to the board , looked at the water below and asked us if it was warm today. We assured him it was. He then walked along the board . Noticing something different in its feel, he saw the crack and asked if it was safe. We again assured him it was fine saying we'd been using it all day.
Now, the jack knife dive involved at least three progressively higher jumps on the end of the board then the body is folded as the diver touches his toes whilst in mid air. He then straightens
and enters the water cleanly to eventually emerge , climb the iron ladder to bask in the admiration of the watchers.
We all held our breath as he tentatively bounced up and down . He sprang upwards and descended for the first time .The tortured board managed to propel him back up this time but
when he came down from his second leap it broke cleanly with no resistance and the diver fell straight down in a shocked and ungainly sprawl into the water to disappear for several seconds, leaving behind a large multi coloured patch on the surface of the water from his hair oil!
He came up at last and staggered to where his clothes lay , saying nothing whilst we clung to each other, helpless with laughter.
We never saw him again.
There was a funny sequel to this event. Having no diving board now , we looked for a replacement. At last, in the boat house, we found a nice long plank which we borrowed and laid on the bank over the remains of the old one and with four boys standing on the rear end we were able to take it in turn to dive.
At last, tiring of this , we walked around to the shallow end on the other side of the lake to sunbathe and chat. Suddenly we saw, across the water, a man about to take a running dive off the board, not realising of course that it wasn't anchored to the ground! We shouted and waved in an attempt to warn him but he just waved back, not understanding and sure of our rapt attention , he ran lithely along the board which of course collapsed beneath him and nearly brained him as he entered the water in a tangle of arms and legs!We all collapsed with laughter again and indeed , still do laugh to this day at the memory.

The Beech Tree.

Situated in an old country estate with a public bridleway running through it, this beech was not an ordinary tree, it was huge. How many hundreds of years old we never knew. It's massive lower branches ran parallel to the ground , their ends touching the grass. Beneath the tree in summer,
it was dry, cool and shady, a meeting place for children by day and I suspect, lovers by night.
It must have been climbed by generations of children to whom,in their imaginative minds, the smooth grey branches became the rigging of a sailing ship or a magic bean stalk. The tree was climbed by scrambling up the tip of the bigger lower branches and actually just walking along the broad limb to the trunk where you could begin to go higher. For some it was a test of courage and even for children who recognise little danger, it's height was formidable. Carved initials marked
the personal limits of skill and daring. A wonderful tree was this beech. It stood amongst other lesser trees. Chestnuts and hazels with an undergrowth of brambles and a carpet of dead leaves and grass.
When I was about fourteen years old, I went to the Beech tree and climbed it alone . Higher and higher I went and reached the last set of carved initials and with thumping heart and tightly gripping hands, I slowly inched upwards until it was impossible to climb higher . Cliging hard with my legs, aware suddenly of the wind swaying the branches, I felt small and vulnerable. I opened my knife and cut a shaky MG in the branch at face level. I climbed carefully down and hurried happily home. I was King of the Beech tree!
I started work at fifteen and what with girl friends and then life in the army , I forgot childish pursuits but about eight years later I went back to see the old tree and can still remember my
sense of shock and outrage when I found it had been cut down. Who could have destroyed such a magnificent tree which had been a source of joy to so many? I hope others still occasionally remember that giant tree as fondly as I do.

Those were the days.

When at the age of ten and nine months,I was sent from my primary school to my secondary school,I palled up with another new boy named Tony. We helped each other face up to would be bullies and were soon left alone by the older boys. Tony invited me to his home one weekend. He
lived a couple of miles away from me,further out in the countryside . He lived near the far end of a roughly surfaced lane which for the most part was rutted sandy soil. I rode there on my ex post office cycle and found his bungalow easily enough and the back door was opened by his Welsh mum, dressed as always in a wrap around pinafore , her hair in curlers under a hair net , a bit like Hilda Ogden the Coronation Street Character.

That day was the start of a new life for me. We walked up the lane to a poultry farm and
"called for" another boy named Brian and the three of us wandered down a narrow path to a magical place called Juniper Valley. I was introduced to wide expanses of bracken, silver birch trees, moss and deer. On one side was a large hazel wood where the ground was a carpet of bluebells in the spring . Squirrels scrambled from tree to tree chattering angrilly at our presence. The hazels, growing on the hillside,leant out at an angle and we could climb from one to another with ease and travel , like clumsy Tarzans, for considerable distances without touching the ground.
In certain secret places, known only to us of course, primroses flourished among the patches of rabbit mown grass.
When tired of climbing, we would make our way to the other side where bracken grew much
taller than we were in our pre teen years. We would find flattened places beneath fallen trees
where deer slept at night . We discovered fox holes and badger setts and we had an area of moss , like a soft mattress where we performed hand springs and forward rolls with no fear of injury
and when weary, we would lay in the dappled sunlight and talk "boy" things like girls we liked, fights we'd had, teachers we hated, the cane bicycles and food.
We spent all our spare time in these woods or at a nearby lake , swimming in our ungainly fashions in hand knitted trunks which, when wet , afforded us much amusement.

Improving my airgun.

At the factory, Weihrauch splodge grease all over the piston and piston seal. This results in dieseling
which produces over powerful shots (illegal) and inconsistant accuracy. Today I took my HW 80 to bits and cleaned all the excess grease out, replaced the rather burned piston seal with one from my airgun bits box and the standard spring guide with a Titan one. I'm glad to report that the result is an air rifle that shoots sweetly, cocks smoothly and quietly and shoots accurately with power just
in the legal zone! I wish that Weihrauch would not use all that grease. It should not be necessary to dismantle a new gun to make it shoot properly "and" legally.

This is another view of my HW 80! It is a standard model. I have removed the open sights . I think that this is what makes it so light that it floats in the air!

This is my new gun. An HW 80 in .25 calibre. and it is very good!
Notice that it is so light, that it can float in the air!

View from the window.

Loads of birds going about their business. Woodpeckers have a young one that can fly but still wants his mummy!Several Blackbirds, obviously feeding young.Magpies, doves and pigeons.
Often three or four squirrels out after the peanuts. Haven't seen any otters this year but no doubt they will be after the salmon later in the year. Yesterday, the weather was great but today it's cloudy. Funny how the sun can lift your mood. There are no sheep in the field at the moment. The grass is being allowed to grow for haylage which for those that do not know, is wrapped hay which turns into a wonderfully smelling feed. Like tobacco. The willow sticks that I stuck in the ground last year are growing apace. Grass needs cutting again but until I get a self propelled mower, it will have to wait as my heart protested last time I did it!!

This is a view of my front garden and cottage in early summer. (MAY?) Taken from the field side of the river and is where I'm going to set up a shooting table so I can practice and sight a gun in and learn to shoot a large calibre at distances of up to fifty yards.

When and if I ever get my new rifle!

This gun is a BSA Lightning with a brass muzzle weight that I had made but proved too heavy!
Very nice little gun though. Trigger a bit crude but a useful ratting or rabbiting gun. Of course I sold it!

Our bridge.

Two great big electricity post pushed across by tractor and slid up opposite bank on sheets of corrugated iron. Planks sawn and nailed and handrail cleverly fixed by myself! So far it has resisted the force of the river in flood, which is considerable. Should have built it higher but too late now! In calmer times , a real Heron comes fishing here and stares at the whicker model , puzzled! The young weeping willow has struggled for a couple of years to get it's roots down to water, the ground being very stoney. One day it will get to river level and I expect it to really take off then.

Weihrauch HW 80.

First made as an improved HW 35 as it could be made to give more power for those with a FAC., in 1982.It has since become famous.
Heavy/ Yes, at 8.8 lbs. without scope or mounts but if it could be managd, the weight helped accuracy.Indeed , there are heavier airguns out there, the Diana 52 and AirKing for example. The 80 and the Dianas are lovely guns that will last forever and give up their 12 ft. lbs. lazily, without stress.
The Weihrauch is a simple design, a classic if ever there was one, making few concessions to modern fads, the K or Carbine barrel model being the only one I can think of, the standard model still retaining the wonderful open sights of old for those shooters with sound eyesight!
The design and quality of manufacture are, in my opinion, unbeaten anywhere,
even by Air Arms TX 200s. Bombproof.
A sensitive, gentle but firm hold whilst firing is all that is required for very satisfying accuracy, unbettered by the excellent HW 85s and 95s which are a pound lighter and rather less robustly built.
I have owned two HW 80s , both during my early and formative years of airgunning and I didn't fully appreciate them and they were sold, like all my subsequent guns in my silly search for something better!
I am now impatiently awaiting the delivery of an HW 80 in .25 calibre which
should be even "softer" to shoot and I look forward to killing a lot of rats etc. with it. I intend to keep this gun and care for it like a baby!

TX 200 HC

This is really just on here for practice! Taken about four years ago. How time flies!
The gun is an Air Arms TX 200 HC in .22and is a really good gun.
When I get my Weihrauch HW 80, I'm going to try to take a really good photo of it to put on this blog, although a picture cannot convey the feel of a good airgun or the way it feels when shot.
I would very much like to hear about anyones favourite air rifle ? Come on, don't be shy! Funny experiences whilst shooting?

My little house.

This is my home, the little one on the left! You can just see the homemade bridge that crosses the river and there is the table at which I sit and shoot my air rifle!

Mole.

There is a very troublesom mole in the garden, making a mess of molehills and now he's moved to around the sheds and has his way blocked by concrete slabs! I've just set a trap. The ground he's been travelling through is VERY stoney. Amasing animals. Got to go though.

Spring and early summer.

Looking out of the window I see the sun is out again ! The grass needs cutting, the leaves are mostly on the trees again, many flowers are in bloom. the mint bed is flourishing, the willows that I planted last year are growing well. The little bridge we put over the river has survived the winter floods. The new cooking apple tree has lots of tiny apples on it but will probably lose most.
The lambs in the field have grown very quickly and have stopped dashing about in their little gangs!
God!! that grass is long!!

Moles.

There seemed to be a plague of moles last year. Most fields were a mass of molehills which cause several problems.
An old man named Elfet who lived in what is left of Llanafan village which now has only about six houses, took me to one of his fields and showed me how to set a mole trap. This must be done properly or you are wasting your time as moles are clever little sods with a keen sense of smell, so no soapy smell on your hands and use weathered traps.
My own field looked like the third battle of Eypres when I set my first traps but it is fine now.
I caught nine moles and have just rid Elfet's field of his.

Gran and Granddad.

Nothing to do with airguns this time. I had two grandparents (my mums parents, ) who were a strong and good influence on me. Granddad always seemed old to me . He loved the countryside
and was really content to sit among the reeds on the river bank near his house with his fishing rod, pipe and his old felt trilby hat that I looked for when bringing him an apple and sandwich for his tea. I wrote this next bit some years ago but it remains true.

Dear Gran and Granddad. I was thinking today, how much I miss you both. You taught me so many things, mostly by example. Honesty, good manners and love.Love for people, love of the countryside and nature. You told me about forgiveness but I'm afraid I failed there.
I picked upan appreciation of lots of little things too that remain with me today.Pickled shallots!, black pudding, suet pudds, smoked haddock, strict meal times with white table cloths, carpet beaters and much more. Your world was small and well ordered. Mine was small too although it seemed large with so much to do and explore.

You wouldn't like the world as it is today. Your lives ended at the right time but I miss you
so much.

Fashions, fads and fantasies.

I've just been laughing at a piece by Pete Wadeson in a "Let's Go Hunting" article in which he lists all the equipment one needs for a successful outing. It starts with a first aid kit and carries on through camouflage clothing, hats . face veils , boots, special this and that! I laugh because I'd just read in a sort of diary I kept in 1980 that "I went out rabbiting with my springer airgun and my next door neighbour Jesse, and we came back with four rabbits for my dogs." The thing is, we wore whatever clothing we happened to put on that day, Jesse didn't have a gun and kept talking all the time and we just wandered around some fields not trying to hide with me just shooting,probably with open sights, when the opportunity presented itself !

Update

I've found that I cannot obtain a .25 barrel for my HW 95, after weeks of waiting! I have sold all my airguns and ordered a Weihrauch HW 80 in .25. I still have about four weeks to wait for it !
It's HELL I tell you !

Tomorrow, weather permitting, I've got to do a lot of strimming or else the grass is going to win, as it threatens to do every year.

PS. to Cadet Major.

I adn't had contact with my old school pal Tony for a long time but a couple of years ago I 'phoned him. He still lives in his parents old house with his wife. No children. I asked him if he still had the BSA and sure enough he had! Keeping it for sentimental reasons. He sounded a bit grumpy. Sad, really because we had so much fun as lads.

Cadet Major.

Just after the war (WW 2), when I was about ten years old, my pal, Tony who was the same age,
was given a BSA Cadet Major by his father. Every Sunday morning we would go into nearby Juniper Valley and hunt squirrels. The airgun couldn't have been very powerful, in fact , I'd like to know if anyone could tell me, but just the same, Tony managed to bag several squirrels although
each required several shots to finish it off !! The next airgun I saw belonged to the man next door. It was an early BSA underlever like the Lincoln Jefferies. I later, about thirty years later, owned a 1905 Lincoln Jefferies BSA which was a lovely gun.

My front garden.

Out river is usually, in summertime, little more than a brook but when we have several days of rain, this is what it looks like! The water rushes along on it's way to help flood Builth Wells ! A dog or indeed , a human would have little chance of survival after falling into the five foot maelstrom.

Front garden!

New airgun project.

I never seem to be satisfied with my airguns and my next "fiddle" is to change the barrel of my .22 Weihrauch HW 95 for one of .25 calibre.
I have two air rifles at the moment, an HW 99s in .177 calibre and the aforsaid HW 95. I have ordered a .25 barrelfrom Blackpool Air Rifles and am now waiting impatiently for it! The only problem I can foresee is , when the barrels have been changed, is how best to reduce the power to below the legal limit of 12 ft. lbs. (The larger calibre needs less to expel the pellet) I will keep you up to date on progress.

Ramblings.

I would welcome feedback to my bloggs. My main hobby is shooting and fiddling with, airguns. I would like to hear from anyone with interests in anything to do with country matters. For example, trees, lurchers,birds, pubs, good beer, homemade beer,building a summer house, shooting rats, catching moles, photography, walks , making walking sticks, even fishing , which I don't do but would like to catch eels.

The other day, whilst our lovely neighbours were away, I hung around their chicken house with my new air rifle because I'd seen two rats feeding on the chickens corn. I eventually saw one as it left the wooden feed trough and it hid from me under the nest box only it didn't hide well enough and I shot it with a .177 pellet. It was a big fat rat. Very satisfying!
The rain has stopped so I'm going out to the river side to practice with my air rifle which is , for those interested, a Weihrauch HW 99S. I have another which is an HW 95 in .22. Both these guns are, in the Weihrauch tradition,very well designed and made and are a pleasure to shoot.

I'm feeling old and bored today. The snow is still out there. The dogs have been out for a pee and come back in quickly.
This is a true account of a typical day in my life when I was about ten years old, sixty one years ago.Sunday morning, mid summer and already the sun was reheating the parched garden and softening the tar bubbles at the edges of the road. I ate my porridge and drank my mug of strong tea and telling my mum I was going for a walk, I headed off down our road. It was deserted apart from the milkmans cart and horse. I said hello to the horse as I passed. His name was Ginger and he had an uncertain temperament. It wasn't unknown for him to attempt to kick anyone who tried to pat him. Todayhe just stood stoically waiting for the milkman to return after accepting the offer of tea and gossip with Mrs. Edgington.I decided to be a red indian scout today . I had the large knife that my granddad had made me, stuck in my belt (no sheath) so I was ready for any dangerous situations as I turned onto the footfath that ran past the grammar school and headed for the wilds. Crossing a lane I climbed the first stile and the path narrowed, the long grass, still bearing the dew and cobwebs of dawn,brushing my legs.Over another stile , onwards between fir trees then hazels to the last stile on which I sat, pondering which route to take. The path dropped quickly now to a stream and small bridge under wich, each year, a wren made it's nest. I decided to turn left over a broken fence and cross wild land to the goats cave.I crawled through the dry grass, my knife in hand, ready for anything, and came face to face with a large coiled grass snake which hissed at me. The snake went one way and Running Deer the other! When my heart resumed something like it's normal pace, I went onward and down the hillside and found the sandy apron in front of the goats cave. I sat for a while in the hot sun looking down on an old farmhouse on the far side of the stream. Lighting my way with a bit of candle, I entered the cave on hands and knees . It was cold and dark and had a strange but not unpleasant smell. Several yards in I saw the two gleaming eyes of a goat and made my second panic stricken retreat of the day! I went down the grassy hill moving left along a narrow track made by the goats and ended up by what was known as the Sheep Dip where, no doubt, later in the day, local children would splash and play and hunt wild strawberries nearby. I made my way along the narrow road towards home, stopping to drink at the spring where the clear cold water bubbled up through white sand. Up the hill with high walls on each side , then along the lane to where my road began.Mum wasn't really interested in where I'd been and Dad had left for his sunday drinking session in the British Legion. My two brothers were sitting in the garden under the first apple tree, reading. I went down to the raspberry canes and made a camp.Father was late home. Three oclock for Sunday dinner. We'd been sitting aroundthe kitchen table since two, waiting, tense. He came in the back door and slammed it shut. We kept quiet. He complained that the dinner was cold and the meat was tough but at least he didn't throw it out of the window this time. When he'd finished, he went out to the front verandah and went to sleep in his deckchair.Knowing better than to make any noise, my brother Dave and I left mum with the washing up and went up to a place called Busbridge park and climbed in the Beech tree (huge) pretending we were pirates . Some bigger boys arrived and not wanting to risk a Bashing Up, we thought it wise to move on and drifted through the woodsto the Devil's Temple. If you ran round it seven times and lay down, the devil would appear. Well it didn't work so my brother and I , feeling dizzy, staggered off down the stony path to the Lake where we were told to push off by some nasty fishermen! We got onto the top path which overlooked the lake and threw some stones into it to annoy the men who shouted angrily saying they knew who we were and would see our parents. We just hoped they didn't wake dad up, that's all!!We ran up the hill to a wild place with no name with overgrown statues of angels and crosses. My brother pointed out a courting couple and we spied on them for a while until our giggles caused the young man to shout at us. We withdrew and on a signal, let fly with our catapults at them andran for it, racing between tussocks and trees until we reached the lane leading home. Still laughing, we reached our house. Dad had gone out again. Mum gave us Marmite sandwiches. " What have you been doing?" she asked. " Nothing much." we said grinning at each other.This was a fairly typical day in my life when I was around ten years old.My dad was the only unpleasant thing in my life apart from school which I disliked intensely. I lived for fun and freedom roaming the countryside near my home. Thankyou for your indulgence in reading this. Mick.

My Blog...

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