Why?

I suppose to many, if not most or even all, parents, that is the most annoying question our children ever ask.  Indeed, it seems at times that "Why?" is the only question they ask.  But even now, at the great age I have managed to notch up, I still ask that question.  Why?  By some convoluted thought process that even I don't understand, a post I read the other day had me searching my computer files.  Stephen Hayes, aka the Chubby Chatterbox, posted a copy of an early Daguerrotype and mused on the fact that this was possibly the first occasion on which somebody had his photograph taken.  It reminded me that I had in my computer files a copy of an early experiment in stereoscopic photography.

This picture (or should I say these pictures?) was taken by the Old Bat's great grandfather in the 1960s and show St Nicolas church, Brighton.  He was one of the foremost experimenters in stereo pictures in the country until he emigrated to Australia in about 1870.  Why Stephen's post brought this picture to mind is because of the single man.  But in this case, it leads me to ask, "Why?"  Why is he facing out of the picture?

Which leads me to a conversation I had recently with my daughter-in-law.  We agreed that we both want to ask, not "Who?" or "Where?" or "When?, but "Why?"  For example, somebody must have been the first to grind the seeds of a wild grass, mix the resulting powder with water to make a paste, and then cook the paste to make bread.  OK, so it is of passing interest to learn when this was first done, and where, but I find it more intriguing that somebody would actually be driven to undertake those three discrete activities in the first place.  Why?  What made them think that something good might possibly result?

And why on earth would anybody want to pick leaves from a bush, dry them, and then pour boiling water over them?  What made them think that "tea" would be the result?

I suppose I just have to accept that, like those questions from my children all those years ago, these are just more with no answer.

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The weather on Sunday was delightful and I was prodded into taking a panoramic picture of the view from the bedroom window that morning.  As always, you can enlarge by clicking the picture ( think).

Fly time

No, I mean time flies.  Here we are, Tuesday again.  Already.  It's amazing how fast the old tempus does fugit.  Of course, I realise that it might not actually be Tuesday where you are, or when you are reading this, but right here and now it is Tuesday.  Well, in point of fact, it's not.  It's yesterday.  (Was it not the Carpenters who sang about yesterday once more?)  You see, today - that is, tomorrow - is due to be a busy day so I thought to steal a march on myself and start drafting something to post tomorrow - or today, if you see what I mean.

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Over the weekend I discovered that my great great great great uncle Henry had travelled to California is search of gold.  He was born in eighteen-oh-something and left his native Norfolk (that's Norfolk, England, not Norfolk, Virginia) for the New World.  He settled at Hounsfield, a small township in Jefferson county, New York state, where he farmed.  In 1850 he had 40 acres of land on which he kept 4 horses, 2 milch cows, 3 other cattle, 30 sheep and 2 swine.  The farm's produce during the previous 12 months included 130 pounds of wool, 60 bushels of Irish potatoes, 50 bushels of barley and 400 pounds of butter.  As well as great uncle Henry and his wife, the farm had to support seven of their children.  By 1860, Henry was farming 160 acres, 145 of which had been "improved", and he had 6 horses, 20 milch cows, 14 other cattle, 7 sheep and 6 swine. There is a clue as to how he managed to acquire so much more land in a newspaper cutting somebody has found.  Unfortunately, they note neither the name of the paper nor the date of publication.

It seems that as well as being a farmer, Henry was a stonemason.  Or perhaps he was a stonemason first and did a little farming on the side.  According to one source I have seen, he built the sidewalks in Sackets Harbor, New York, but the newspaper cutting tells how he went to California in about 1851 with a band of 30 men and 40 wagons.  The party passed through 17 different tribes of Indians and took seven months on the journey.  In California, Henry practised his trade as well as digging for gold.  He is credited with having built the best stone building in San Francisco at that time.  Having accumulated a tidy sum, he returned to New York and bought more land.

Maybe if Skip has a few minutes to spare next time he is in the city, he could track down Henry's building?

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Talking of Skip, I tried to obtain one of those fly splatter guns.  Seems they are being shipped to the States only.

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I know it's not New England standard, but the autumn foliage in Withdean Park looked attractive in the sun on Sunday morning.

Moving with the times

Yes, sir, that's me - moving with the times.  I really am getting quite up to date with my vocabulary.  To wit, I have come across the phrase "butt out".  I was accused of having used those words to a fellow Lion last week and I'm sorry to say that he took umbrage at my actions.  Happilly, we have since shaken hands and everything is once again hunky-dory.  But as for telling him to butt out: I had never heard the expression until I read it in his email to me telling me of his upset!

I have also discovered the word "Movember".  No, that's not quite the whole truth.  I think I may have seen the word before - November last year, possibly - but it had never really entered my consiousness and I most certainly knew nothing of its meaning.  This year I gathered that it was something to do with men growing moustaches - which let me out as I already have both a moustache and a beard.  Then I learned from reading the weekend papers that it is something to do with prostate cancer.  Presumably men (and women too?) are sponsored to grow moustaches and the money is raised for a prostate cancer charity.  I might, when I find sufficient time, investigate some more.  Then here is Fanuary, which is, I gather, something to do with women?

It is possible, I suppose, that this just shows what a sheltered life I lead - or how boringly old-fashioned I am.  I even try not to split my infinitives or end sentences with conjunctions.  And I say five-and-twenty instead of twenty-five.  That last only sank in on Thursday.  I can be precise because it was on Thursday that I telephoned a fellow Lion to confirm that I would give him a lift to the dinner meeting that evening.  [At a village pub just the other side of the Downs.  I had sweet and sour chicken with rice and very good it was.  Followed with a slice of strudel and cream, and then I polished off spotted dick and custard which was going begging.]  It is actually only when talking time that I use the expression.  I don't say seven twenty-five or even twenty-five past seven; always five-and-twenty past seven.

At least I don't say four score instead of eighty.  The French do: they don't have a word for eighty and say quatre vingts - four twenties.  Mind you, they don't have words for seventy or ninety either!  Seventy is sixty-ten, so seventy-seven becomes sixty-ten-seven, and ninety is four-twenties-ten.  Ninety-seven gets quite complicated at four-twenties-ten-seven.

One day I might even learn what Americans mean when they say "a quarter of four".  Is that quarter to four or quarter past?

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These photographs have just come to hand.  They were taken at Brighton Lions' fireworks display last week.  I can't decide which one I prefer so you can see both.

We will remember them

Picture: Commonwealth War Graves Commission

Citadel New Military Cemetery near Fricourt, Somme, France.  This is the resting place of, among others, Drummer Ernest Arthur Patterson of 8th Battalion, Suffolk Regiment, who was killed in action on 31st August 1915, aged 19.  The son of George and Emma Eliza Patterson, of Edith Cottage, Commodore Rd, Oulton Broad, Suffolk, he was also a cousin of mine.

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England.  There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Rupert Brooke

Lookering

I have applied to become a lookerer.  Eh, what? you ask.  What the heckythump is lookerer?  Basically, a lookerer is a volunteer part-time shepherd.  Ok, ok, you can stop giggling now.

Each winter, the city brings sheep in to graze certain open spaces around the edge of town.  This is done as it helps to conserve ancient chalk downland and is cheaper than mowing.  As the Council says on its web site:

A number of important conservation and ancient chalk downland areas in the city are grazed with sheep to improve the open space for both wildlife and people. Grazing is better than mowing for the land as the grass is removed over several weeks allowing insects to move away and ensure structures like ant hills are not damaged. Sheep also find some plants tastier than others, so grazing removes different plants at different rates, unlike mowing where everything is removed at once. Grazing also ensures aggressive weeds such as nettles and brambles don't take over and prevent people from using open spaces for quiet recreation, healthy exercise and enjoying wildlife.

The sheep need looking after and volunteer lookerers drop by to check on them at pre-arranged times.  It is supposed to take only about an hour a week and it sounds quite interesting.  Lookerers have to attend a one-day course to be told the theory behind the idea and to learn how to handle sheep and erect the electric fencing used.

It will probably come to nothing for me as I expect there will be no more courses until late summer 2013, by which time the Council will have forgotten all about me.

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In view of what has gone before, this picture seems quite appropriate: sheep on the South Downs with a distant view of Brighton and the English Channel.

No crab apples

Every year, a few weeks earlier than this, I am required to collect crab apples for the Old Bat to turn into crab apple jelly.  This is used both as a spread on toast and as an ingredient, together with balsamic vinegar, in a tangy sauce that goes well with, for example, tuna steaks.  There are a number of crab apple trees growing in grass verges around Patcham and I set off with a plastic bag to pick up the windfalls from around these trees.  This does make me feel a little like a bag lady, but it's all in a good cause.  Nobody else seems to want the fruit anyway and if I don't collect it, it will just lie there and rot.  In fact, some of it is usually well on the way to rotting by the time I collect it.  But not this year.  There was not a crab apple to be found.  I don't think somebody beat me to them, I think they just didn't grow.  Like the apples in my garden.  The bees didn't get out to pollinate the blossom because of the rain.  (I did hear of one lady who pollinated her apple tree using a feather duster.  The mind boggles.)  So, as our stock of home-made jelly is getting very low, I searched the web.  I found just three manufacturers in England, two being small companies with no national distribution except through their web sites.  The third was a large jam manufacturing company whose products are sold in numerous places, including at least one supermarket chain.  However, that supermarket does not stock crab apple jelly.  So I have had to order a jar over the web at enormous expense.  But it's worth it just to keep Herself happy.

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Ploughing on the Downs yesterday afternoon, accompanied, as usual, by a flock of gulls.

Nature notes

I made mention of a fungus that is attacking ash trees and causing a condition known as ash die-back, this proving fatal to the tree in the majority of cases.  I expressed some surprise at the comment in newspaper reports that this could put at risk some 30% of the broad-leaved woodland in England as I had no idea that the ash comprises such a high proportion of our trees.  Yesterday I enjoyed my first walk in Stanmer woods for several weeks.  I have kept out of the woods partly because we have so much rain and the dog attracts mud like pigs attract flies.  Yesterday, however, I decided that the wind would have dried the paths to some extent and off we set.  I took particular note of the variety of trees: beech, oak, chestnut, hazel, ash, sycamore, field maple, holly, yew and several I did not recognise.  What did surprise me was the high number of ash trees in those parts of Stanmer Great Wood where the trees were mixed.  Granted, there are parts - sometimes quite extensive parts - where a good 90% of the trees are beech.  Indeed, there are patches where all the trees are beech.  There are also patches of mixed hazel and chestnut with an occasional oak.

Which reminds me.  Although ash die-back has been in the news recently, the oak, beech and larch are also suffering from fatal diseases even though I can't remember what they are.  I must enjoy our woods while I can.

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We do get quite a variety of birds in the garden.  Regular visitors include house sparrows, hedge sparrows, wrens, blue and great tits, robins, blackbirds, starlings, wood pigeons, collared doves, rooks, jackdaws, magpies, jays, herring gulls, chaffinches, goldfinches, greenfinches - and probably others I have overlooked.  I don't spend a lot of time gazing out of the windows, but most days I glance out from time to time and perhaps spend a minute or two watching what is going on.  It is the greenfinches that puzzle me; they are not as green as I seem to recall from days gone by, being more of a dull olive.  Indeed, if it were not for the yellow flash on the wings they could be mistaken for slightly off-colour female house sparrows.

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Talking of looking out of the window, I did so while I was at the kitchen sink washing up the breakfast things and noticed that the sun was shining brightly on the fields across the valley.  Every field was a bright green, right up to the ridge.  Even the copse on the ridge was in sun, but the sky behind was a deep purple-grey.  It was a dramatic picture but I knew that by the time I had put the battery back in the camera and got up to the bedroom window, the scene would have changed.  In fact, I might have managed it.  Curses!

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When I am working in the garden, a robin frequently serenades me from the cherry tree.  Either that, or he comes to watch what I am doing.  This, of course, is the European robin which, at 5 to 5.5 inches long, is somewhat smaller than its American cousin.