This is our river in a good mood on a hot summer's day.
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Thursday, 26 July 2007
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!
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!
Wednesday, 18 July 2007
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!
Tuesday, 10 July 2007
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.
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.
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.
Monday, 9 July 2007
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.
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.
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