News from Nowhere

I always rnjoy Rachel Roddy's coolery column in the Guardian, more for her descriptions than for her recipes. I was not in the slightest tempted to cook last week's chocolate and rosemary panna cotta - I didn't even feel much desire to eat it - but I loved what she had to say about aromatic herbs. Their scent, she argues, seems made for our culinary pleasure, but a form of self-defence, a weapon against both both predators and competitors.

Rosemary is particularly kick-arse in this respect, with those volatiles (mostly organic compounds called terpenoids) synthesised and stored in minuscule glands that project from the surface of each dark green needle, which breaks when brushed against or bitten, releasing an intense, hot, bitter shot. It’s the evergreen equivalent of carrying personal defence spray. The needles also mark territory. By leaking their volatiles into the nearby soil, they inhibit the seeds of other plants (maybe even their own) from taking root and, in turn, taking space, water and precious minerals in a challenging environment.

Flickr wants me to verify my age. They explain that this is a result of the Online Safety Act.

It's irritating, but not impossible. The first time I encountered it, it tool me by surprise, so I just backed off, and did something else. When I had durham_rambler ready to advise, and some pieces of ID handy, I logged in to Flickr only to be admitted straight off, and couldn't find any way to call up the relevant screen. Eventually, no doubt, the stars will align and I will persuade Flickr that I am over 18.

But while I was there, I checked my profile: I opened my Flickr account in February 2006. Which os surely evidence that I am over 18.

My birthday this year will be a semi-significant one. Five years ago I had a proper, significant, ends-with-a-zero birthday (I wrote about it at the time): but of course it was not a good time for special birthday holidays.

This year, therefore, I have some catching up to do. I was just beginning to think about how I would like to do it - France by train, perhaps? It's about time I visited Strasbourg... Then GirlBear suggested that - well, I think she suggested that she and boybear come and visit, but we decided that the really fun thing would be to go somewhere together. So now I was looking for somewhere that had something special about it, but was also Bear-friendly (not Abroad, not too far north): and I booked a long weekend in Portmeirion, which I have wanted to visit since - well, you can probably guess. I have added a week beforehand in north Wales (actually near Chirk, which I had never heard of, but which sounds interesting).

I was very excited about this that I carried on planning. D. has already booked our midsummer getaway, near the Moray Firth (that is, not far from where we spent his last birthday in Aberdeenshire, but nearer the coast). It has been my plan all along to go on from there to Orkney, and now that is also booked - nothing ambitious, but overnight ferry north, and a few nights at the Foveran...

durham_rambler has found a travel company who do rail holidays in France, so maybe we'll make that happen in the autumn - last week's travel section had a piece about Metz which would combine nicely with that trip to Strasbourg. And we have other things planned: the home-town-reunion get together (not in his home town), the Folk Festival...

It could be quite a fun year, in fact.

Against all precedent, my morning was brightened by an item on the Today programme.

Not only has a new prize been announced, which will give serious money each year to an artist to create a work somewhere in the UK that is free for the public to visit, the first award goes to Andy Goldsworthy.

As noted at the time, while I was in London I bought The Penguin Book of Penguins: partly because I was in holiday mood and wanted to buy something, but also because it was such a very neat idea, and such an elegant design (it shouldn't really be orange, of course, which indicates fiction, but let's not be pedantic). And penguins are a regular feature of the Elm Tree Quiz, so really, it was my duty to buy the book...

Author Peter Fretwell is a scientist with the British Antarctic Survey: he has made a specialty of using satellite images to learn about emperor penguin colonies (there's a bit about this is the book; I'd have liked more). ( I should probably include a trigger warning here: ) Despite all of which...

One of the book's virtues is that it is illustrated with drawings by the author's wife, Lisa Fretwell. I did not feel that she was in any way the lesser contributor: (this author interview with both of them includes her drawing of an Adélie penguin).

Its other great virtue is that it is full of irresistible Penguin Facts. The zoological details are amazing, but inevitably it was the historical / cultural stuff that really set me thinking. Take those Adélie penguins, for example. Peter Fretwell says that the species was named after his wife by Jules Dumont d'Urville, who first discovered this penguin in 1840. Two things bothered me about this statement.

The first was the idea of Dumont d'Urville telling his wife Darling, I discovered these funny little black-and-white flightless birds, and they have such a comical waddle, I called them after you... It turns out that Fretwell is simplifying things, and this is not quite what happened: other sources seem to agree that Dumont d'Urville named Adélie Land (Terre Adélie) in Antarctica for his wife, and someone else named the penguins for the area where they were found.

The other was that as early as 1840, penguins were being differentiated into new species. This is probably just ignorance on my part: I begin to suspect that as new and very scattered colonies of penguins were encountered, it was a natural to assume that each was a different species as to assume that it wasn't. The internet doesn't seem particularly interested in this subject, though there is a talk by historian Ellen Arnold which I need to listen to; also what zeems (as far as I understand it) to be a genome analysis investigating the hstory of the devekopment of the different penguin species. But I was starting from the point at which early explorers identified these birds as "penguins" (Fretwell dates it to 1577, in the log of the Golden Hind, which is so hood I would love it to be true). ( When is a penguin not a penguin? )

( splitters and [c]lumpers )

I have loaned my copy of the book to the Quizmaster. He asks: "But is there a Puffin Book of Puffins?" This is such a good question; why didn't it occur to me?

I started out writing this post as a way of getting something off my chest. If I write it down, perhaps I'll stop yelling at the radio every time they mention that TACO, Trump Always Chickens Out. Because the opposite is also true: maybe the President doesn't follow through on his threats, but he doesn't keep his promises either. Sir Keir tried to woo him with praise and letters from the king, to charm him with smiles and soap, and it worked for a while, and now it doesn't, and now what?

Anyway, that didn't seem like much of a post. So I thought I'd append a little sweetener, a piece from Saturday's Guardian about the Todoli citrus farm. Which is interesting in itself, and timely, this being marmalade season. But there's more to the story than chefs having fun with buddha's hands and blood tangerines. The Foundation's own website leans heavily towards art (Citron Lamps at the Dîner des Agrumes at Villa Medici. anyone?). And this video is all about biodiversity:



When life gives you lemons...

Last Thursday, the forecast was that Storm Goretti wouldn't arrive before late at night - ( Wait, Storm WHAT? ) - so, having visited the greengrocer in the morning to stock up, we decided we were safe to go to Newcastle for Phantoms at the Phil.

The Phantoms briefly haunted the Prohibition Bar in Pink Lane, but having outlived that venue have now returned to their original home at the Lit & Phil. Fittingly, it was in many ways a classic example of the event: three authors read three new(ish) stories with a supernatural disposition, not admittedly in the book-lined splendour of the library itself, but in the rather better acoustics of a downstairs room. Each story was completely unlike the others, and each was a perfect example of its author's approach to the brief.

Sean O'Brien's Events at the House of M. Garamond had nothing ghostly about it: the narrator confronts horrors which are demonic but corporeal in nature, against which a pistol is an appropriate weapon. At the break I asked Sean what he had against garamond (the M. Garamond of the tale is not only evil but ineffectual, which is unforgiveable): on the contrary, he said, it was his preferred typeface. It was days later, chopping red cabbage for dinner and wondering why he had chosen to set this dark tale beside the Canal du Midi (a part of France of which I have many sunny memories), that it occurred to me what I should have asked him: had he been reading much Simenon lately? Now I wonder whether I had been listening to an adventure of Inspector Maigret, Demon Hunter?

The promise is that these will be new stories, but Gail-Nina Anderson produced a previously lost story, Boxes and Books, written some ten years ago, which had recently resurfaced: she took its reappearance as a hint, and certainly it fitted the theme of the narrative. The narrator is definitely not a hoarder (she repeatedly assures us of this) but, obliged by domestic emergency to move the boxes and books of the title, she finds things vanishing and reappearing in a distinctly spooky manner. Definitely not aubiographical, then? said pretty much the entire audience in unison.

So it was left to the guest reader to provide an actual, classical, ghost story. But David Almond is a not-exactly-guest, a revenant at Phantoms, and he knows what is required. His contribution, titled Ghost Story, is certainly that: but is it a spoiler to reveal that the ghosts themselves do not appear until the very end? Up to that point it it not certain that there will be actual phantoms: perhaps it is the story itself that is the ghost, something flimsy and ungraspable, a half-memory from childhood of a tale half-told, half-withheld... As characteristic of its author as the evening's other two stories but also, as promised by the title, an absolutely proper ghost story, it brought the proceedings to a close by tying a big bow around the package.

There was still no sign of Storm Goretti when we left the building, but a cold rain was falling. We felt safe to give S. a lift home across town, and indeed all went smoothly until we were very nearly home. Once we had turned off the main road, though, things got a bit more interesting. The car skidded briefly on the last downhill of the back street, but the ABS brakes did their job, and durham_rambler was able to steer us round the last two corners and into our own street. Where we skidded again, and rather than try to manouevre down to our front door (where the car would be vulnerable to ther drivers losing control on the bend), durham_rambler pulled carefully in to the side of the road just where we were, and we did the last 50 yards on foot. This was an adventure in itself. That cold rain had fallen onto frosty pavements and formed a skin of ice. I was glad that the council had not yet swept away the last of the fallen leaves, which had drifted into the shelter of the garden wall, and I managed, by digging my heels into the soft leaves and clinging to whatever branches the hedge offered (I still have the scratches) to reach the alley, then to cross it. Two houses to go, and the first has convenient railings to hold on to; the pavement seemed less icy, too. Later our next-door neighbour told us he had gritted the pavement outside his house, and that may have helped; he had also put out a Christmas tree for collection, and that didn't - one last obstacle, only slightly bigger than I am, to negotiate before our own front door step! A very small adventure, but quite enough excitement for me.

With Phantoms, Christmas is definitely over. I took down the cards - which are our sole nod to decorations - the next day.

Yesterday morning we said farewell to D. and valydiarosada who had helped us to see in the New Year: we sent them off into heavily falling snow, but the shower passed, and word came that they had reached home safely.

Unusually for us, we were still up to see the new year arrive. In recent years we have simply ended the evening and gone to bed as usual, but this year, for whatever reason, by the time we looked at our watches it was so close to midnight that we decided to wait. It helped that the BBC has been filling our evenings with Only Connect specials and been filling our evenings with Only Connect specials and the University Challenge alumni edition; and Our Friend the Quizmaster had posted the 'missing' quizzes (while there's a break from the pub quiz) online... So what with this and dinner and the crossword, New Year's Eve just flew by.

On New Year's Day we lunched at the Rose and Crown in Romaldkirk: not the first time that we have chosen this venue to meet D's sister and brother-in-law, as it's halfway between us and them, serves good pub food and welcomes their dog. The drive out was drab and grey, but while we were at lunch the late afternoon sun came out, low but brilliant. It hit the windows of the church (the Kirk, I suppose) so tha the little leaded diamond panes gleamed black and brilliant like splintered coal; it picked out the white farms in the green valleys and gilded the tawny hilltops.

( Bedoba )

So that's the year off to a good start. We looked at the snow, which is still lying, and the other things to be done, and decided to skip this morning's farmer' market. But this afternoon we will go to S's Christmas leftovers party, and next week there will be ghost stories at the Lit & Phil, so the festivities are not over yet.

We are home from our visit to London: I keep wanting to type 'our weekend in London': it would make a very long weekend, but a very short week. We did pretty much everything we planned to, but had very little time for anything unplanned. Which makes me all the more pleased about that afternoon in Highgate with GirlBear. But the rest of the time was packed with good things:

On Saturday

we had invited helenraven and the Bears to dinner at our accommodation. We spent the morning at Waitrose buying goodies which we could prepare with the minimal resources of our kitchen (actually a good-sized and well-arranged kitchen, minimally equipped, which was a waste); and the afternoon writing Christmas cards. I had a great evening: it was a relief that a flat for two people could accommodate five to dinner, and everyone got somewhere to sit. The plates weren't all the same size, and I had bought wine glasses, because there were none provided at all, but the wine was good (helenraven brought an English rosé, which was a perfect choice; I had bought La Marée orange because I was curious, and liked the label; it did not disappoint) and the conversation was even better. So that was good.

Sunday was all carols

and deserves a proper post of its own.

We spent Monday in Essex

with durham_rambler's family. In the morning we called on the Younger Niece. Her husband was working from home, with the emphasis on 'working', but there was time to say hello, and then the three of us went out to brunch in Walthamstow Village (very trendy). We were given a small but perfect gift, a miniature of 'The Wiltshire Laddie' from niece's father-in-law's cask of Bruichladdich. Then on to durham_rambler's brother and sister-in-law. Sister-in-Law was engaged in wrangling her phone, at the other end of which was Elder Niece (whom we had hoped to see, but who wasn't feeling well) and the garage (which was supposed to be preparing her car for its MOT but whose order kept bringing in the wrong part). But Brother was just back from a bird-watching holiday in Costa Rica, and had plenty to tell us about that; he had barely started to sort out the many photos he had taken, so we saw only a random few, some of which were spectacular. He had been prevailed upon to buy a pack of coffee, which (as not really a coffee drinker) he passed on to us. Whisky and coffee, what do durham_rambler's family think about us? After all this excitement, we were back in London with just time to say goodnight and farewell to the Bears. Because -

On Tuesday we were homeward bound,

though not by the most direct route. Given the uncertainty about whether valydiarosada would be sufficiently mobile for the traditional New Year's visit, we had invited ourselves to Ely for a couple of days en route. While we were in London we were delighted to learn that we were good for Plan A, so we reduced that to a single night stopover. Of which a highlight was that a notoriously stand-offish cat allowed me to hold her comb while she brushed against it (admittedly, I was sitting in the seat which is designated for this activity, but I have sat there before and she has never deigned to participate.

Wedesday: home again!

And despite some delays on the way (traffic; there being no fast charger at Waitrose in Newark) we were back in time to eat, do a first batch of laundry, and win the last pub quiz of the year. In fact, with the aid of our secret weapon (son of a regular team member, home after his first term at Oxford), we won both the main quiz and the beer round (read the message of the semaphore penguins and then - the hard bit - win the tie-breaker!).

That was half a week ago. Since then I have been catching up with a number of things - including writing this post.

We set off before midday (later than I'd like, better than I feared) and reached our destination by 7.00, with a lunch break at The Tawny Owl on the Neward bypass. We didn't intend to stop at a pub, but followed the signs for services and that was where they took us. So we lunched on things with chips, while the car charged at an extremely pricey charger: and since we were done before it was, can't claim that the pub stop delayed us.

Our AirBnB (a new one to us) is midway between the Bears and the Tube. I have been getting quite stressed about it, so was glad just to arrive and confirm that it exists and we could get in. I suspect that the main problem was a cultural one: they asked for additional identification, which rattled me, and then delayed sending instructions: how very 20th century of me, to want this stuff in advance, when I should have been happy to stand on the doorstep, phone in hand, before receiving the passcode. We unloaded, did a minimum of unpacking, and then headed round to the Bears - and then my phone went off, from our host (though not at the number they had given me) demanding to know where we were, because the plumber was trying to get in. So durham_rambler came back here, let the plumber in, and the two of them spent the next half hour hunting unsuccessflly for the fitting he was supposed to attach. This morning I logged on to the wifi and found the message that we whould expect a plumber (sent at 7.15, which must be when, if not after, we left the property) and a second message, sent half an hour later, saying "Just a quick update — the plumber is already at the property now and is carrying out the repair on the shower hose. It will be a very quick fix." Will it, indeed?

Despite all this, we had a mostly) relaxed evening with the Bears, and made plans for the next few days. Right now, durham_rambler has removed the car from the parking space which is not available berween 10.00 am and noon, and taken it away to feed it; he will return to collect me and take me to Majestic, to buy wine for mulling. Then we will meet the Bears at the Rabbit Hole for lunch. This evening we have a date with a great-nephew. So all is good.