Day Thirty Six

Unite and unite and lets us all unite, for summer is i-cumen today

I lived in Cornwall for a decade in the 80’s and took part in many of its old traditions, such as hurling the Silver Ball in St Columb Major; singing around the Midsummer Bonfire atop Castle an Dinas;  attending Helford’s Furry (Floral) Dance on 8^th May;  and  consuming with great pleasure the authentic Cornish pasty on every occasion.

And every year, the boys and l went to Padstow to take part in the  ‘Obby ‘Oss celebrations on 1^st May

In 2020, most of these wonderful event have been cancelled and just after midnight on 30^th April, when May Day traditionally begins, there will be silence in that lovely old fishing town.

It will also be a huge disappointment to the 40,000 who come from every corner of the world, to watch the dipping, diving antics of the ‘Oss.

May Day begins  at the Golden Lion Inn with midnight singing to the landlord.

At 8am, Padstow’s children,  leading their ‘Obby ‘Osses are followed by The Blue Ribbon ‘Oss (added in 1919 as a temperance ‘oss, now Peace ‘Oss).

An hour later, ‘Old ‘Oss appears and led by teasers, who dance around the ‘oss, cavorts through the crowds to the sound of the traditional tune.

The 'Oss tries to catch a maiden and tradition has it that if you're caught, you'll be pregnant within the year.   Some maidens will rush towards the 'Oss, hoping to be caught.  Others, to much laughter, run away.

The Master of Ceremonies, with top hat and decorated stick , leads the two parades to the accompaniment of a band with accordions and drums.

The traditional May Daysong is an integral part of the festival and pamphlets of the words used to be given out so visitors could sing along.  Now, with 40,000  spectators that’s  no longer possible.

You can hear it here:

https://padstowobbyoss.wordpress.com/music/

Only those whose families have lived in Padstow for at least two generations can take part in the actual  'Obby 'Oss procession but anyone can follow and join the singing as they make their way round the narrow streets towards the Maypole.

The celebrations continue all day with fairground rides and games for children and every shop and restaurant in Padstow, including Rick Stein’s, offering something special.

During the 1837 celebrations, some young rowdies fired pistols into the air, no doubt forgetting, in those crowded streets, that ‘what goes up (like a bullet) must  come down (possibly on someone’s head).

At dusk,  around 9:30 pm,  the ceremony to return the ‘Osses to their stables begins.

Both teams sing the ‘Farewell Song’.

"I go where duty calls me,

I go what ere befalls me,

Farewell Farewell, my own true love."

That isn’t the end of the festival.  The tourists go back to their hotels and everyone else returns to the pub, orders another pasty and a glass of something fizzy and talks and laughs well into the next day.

Good days, great memories.

More excellent information at: Padstow Museum.

https://www.padstowmuseum.co.uk/mayday.html

If you would like to see how May Day in Padstow has changed over the years, it's all been well captured on YouTube.

In 1932:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y84DhJ6EIQk  1932

1953:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GA_e3LV6z0E 

And 2019:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SpCFHFmAmS8

 Day Thirty Five

Every now and then I pop into a UK-based, online Forum.  It has numerous sections and anyone can put up a question, game or problem and hope others will respond.

The members are mostly women based in Britain, although Europe, USA, Canada, Australia and New Zealand are also represented.

It’s interesting to see all the different personalities emerge: the friendly, funny, helpful, stroppy and argumentative.  This last lot would argue black was white and whatever subject comes up, they find reasons to moan or snipe.  

But in the main, the posts are enjoyable and I could waste a lot of time there.

When self-isolation is the norm for many, it’s fascinating to see how couples who usually spend little time together are coping with close proximity.

 ‘I told him if he didn’t wash his feet, I’d do a Lysistrata. He said he’d had it once in a restaurant and didn’t like it.’

 ‘I said to her, “Once we had something beautiful and precious. Where’s it gone?” she said, “You spent it.” ‘

One lady from Scotland said she’d been nagging her husband to fix the faulty lock on the lavatory for months.  When he got stuck in there and was banging on the door to be let out, she decided to teach him a lesson.

She went into their large garden and spent the rest of the afternoon blissfully tidying and weeding.

As predictions in the UK are that lockdown may be extended and the ‘release date’ seems every further away, I’ve seen a decline in spirits. 

Everyone is fed up of being stuck in the house.  They’re angry and frustrated, unable to live their normal lives. 

There’s also the anguish of not seeing, playing with and hugging beloved grandchildren.

 ‘Enough is enough!’ one lady wrote, in fury,  ‘I’m going to break this bl***y lockdown.’

After 87 posts of advice not to do so, she felt calmer and agreed to stay at home.

But that’s typical of what’s happening all over the world where lockdown has been strictly enforced.  People have had enough.

  Sadly, in many cases, those voices of sanity and safety won’t be there.

Spring is well on its way in Britain so there are many postings and photographs of beautiful gardens which have benefitted from extra care since lockdown began. 

The relief of having a garden to walk in has helped many.

 For those in rural and isolated areas where the prospects of meeting others is remote, confinements has not been quite so bad.

As New Zealand moves back to Level Three, nothing changes for me.

I'm still in solitary and will be for many weeks yet I suppose.

With no garden and only a fairly busy suburban road for exercise, it’s not easy to go for even a short walk without encountering someone, children especially.

So I’m grateful for that hermit streak in my character... and at least I’m not locked in a Scottish  lavatory.

Day Thirty Four

In the beginning was the word….

…and the words were taught to me by my mother (who swears I was reading the local newspaper at three years old), and later perfected at Whetley Lane Infants’ School.

From then on, my whole life revolved around words.

After Janet and John,  I graduation to Enid Blyton, oblivious to the subtext, later written into her Noddy and Bigears books.  

Then it was Famous Five and for more frivolous times, Beano, Dandy, Eagle and at Christmas, the annuals.

 Usually I asked for  The Broons and Oor Wullie.  I loved the antics of that rascally boy Wullie and the way Ma Broon took care of her large family.

Books were my life and I managed to read several a week until, in my 60's,  I developed  Macular Degeneration which effectively stopped me reading anything at all.

I had already discovered audio books, preferring them to music while I worked.

Television has never interested me so I’ve never owned one  and as I don’t like music so when my eyes began to go, I was almost an audio book expert.

Reading audio books is an art and best done by a professional, something publishers should acknowledge instead of cost-cutting, a recent trend, by allowing authors to read, and usually ruin,  their own books.

A mediocre story can be brought to life by a good reader such as Tony Britton, Martin Jarvis or the wonderful Anne Dover.   Conversely, a brilliant book can be made dull and mundane by a poor reader.

When Covid-19 hit and the local library shut down, leaving me without any books at all, I thought I may well go completely bonkers but my son gave me a voice operated device on which I can listen to podcasts and audio books. 

 

At the moment,  BBC  staff are working from cupboards under the stairs, bathrooms, attics and garages but somehow the same BBC quality comes through. 

  

If you haven't tried it yet, the BBC has everything from drama to comedy,  science, history, politics, discussion, quizzes and a whole lot more.

 Go on, explore a new world......

https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds

As well as applauding the healthcare staff and other essential workers, I give a standing ovation to the BBC which has kept me company through lockdown and is as essential to my life, health and happiness as sunshine.

Day Thirty Three

 Friends in the UK have written to say it’s increasingly hard to keep up personal standards, especially hygiene and dress codes,  during lockdown.

With no office to commute to, Sarah is working from home and although her husband Julian is self-employed, the demand for a peripatetic chef catering for weddings, has all but dried up.

Sarah says she doesn’t always bother to dress; Julian has not changed for about 3 weeks and of course, not having access to hair-dressers has meant their coiffures have slipped a little.

This has slightly affected their marriage. Julian says he can’t stand the sight of her, Sarah says she can’t stand the smell of him.

The dog has left home.

They sent me a photo.

*************************************************************************************

A recent newspaper article states that many elderly people in lockdown have been acquiring pets to keep them company. 

 In my experience there’d be no point in asking for a cat, they’re a law unto themselves. Company and comfort is not in their dictionary.

This is MissPuss, she takes no prisoners and if you want to stroke and pet her, you'd be wise to book a bed in ICU first.

  

Given the Lockdown instructions to vulnerable older persons: “Stay home and keep your mouth shut”  (the latter part recently relaxed when it was discovered that many older people were unable to converse because their dentures had seized up)  I wonder how actually getting a pet works?

‘Hello? I’d like a dog please,’

‘Certainly Madam, would that be large, medium or small?’

‘Small.’

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like a large dog, we have a lovely Manchester Terrier here?’

‘Oh, I couldn’t take that, my late Albert was from Yorkshire.’

‘A Rottweiler then, excellent guard dogs and when you’re able to go out, you could harness it to your shopping trolley.’

‘No thanks, I’d like a very tiny one.’

‘Shi Tzu?’

‘Bless you.’

‘Or we have a Chihuahua, how would that suit?’

‘Perfect, can you post it to me?’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, they don’t fit into the $5 envelope. I can deliver it though’.

‘But how can you do that when we have to stay at least two metres apart? If you put it over my gate it might just run next door.  They had a dog until we found out supermarkets couldn’t deliver.  I haven’t seen it lately.’

‘Do you have a bucket?’

‘Eh?’

‘A bucket. You see what we do, now  everyone is in lockdown, is fire the dog over the hedge using a large catapult, or we call it the Dogapult, but you’ll have to catch it in a bucket.’

‘Oh dear, I’m not sure I can do that, I wear bifocals. Perhaps you could just post me a gerbil?’

Day Thirty Two

Day Thirty Two

Just before lockdown, I foolishly left my cash card in a small, local vegetable shop. By the time I realised and  rang them, they too were locked down.

'Sorry, all our vegetables in lock up now.'  I was told.

I can imagine carrots and spuds being locked down, they are, after all root vegetables and locked down in the soil until harvested -  but Spring Cabbage and Spring Onions?  Far too lively.

The staff, who know their onions,  won’t be idle during lockdown. They’ll be mopping up after the leeks and making sure the golden coaches turn back into pumpkins after midnight.

I contacted my bank about the card and they said they would put a temporary suspension or what they called, ‘a warm hold’ on my card.

This sounded far too cosy for a calculating institution like a bank however hard they try to inject friendliness into what is, essentially a business designed to make vast profits from our anxieties. 

My great Aunt Jessie, and most people of her generation, were braver: they kept all their money at home.  Hers was neatly stored in a Victorian chamber pot beneath her bed. 

 She called it  ‘a guzunder’ and had one in every bedroom. 

At home when I was a child, we had several potties because, despite having a bathroom,  our lavatory was outside.

We were allowed to use the po-po, a green enamel thing, not at all like Auntie Jessie's beautiful chambers, only for wee-wees.

During one of my stays with her, I needed the facilities in the night, so hopped out of bed, lit the candle and pulled the po from beneath my iron bedstead and was scared half to death by a gigantic eye looking up at me. 

 Some wag had decided to make it well night impossible to pee on a peeper.   

This pot is called The Good Companion anti-splash Thunder Bowl.

There are various theories about why eyes were once  popular. One of which was to defy the evil eye.  It was necessary to destroy its power by defecating on it.

Eye pots were once popular wedding gifts. In Stockport, Cheshire, the groom's friends would have an eye pot inscribed with his name and that of his fiancee.

 The night before the wedding, they repaired to a tavern where the  pot would be filled with beer and the groom encouraged to chug until he needed the pot for its original purpose.

In France the pot was filled with chocolate.   Can't say I fancy eating from even a pristine potty, I'd be ganaching my teeth.  

Day Thirty One

Lest we forget

ANZAC DAY

Traditionally on this day, right across New Zealand and Australia, people gather in their hundreds of thousands to stand in reverent silence to honour those who served and are still serving in war zones.

This year, we can’t do that and for most of us, that’s heart-breaking. 

Pride and gratitude still fills n our hearts so we stand apart but together and Remember in silence.

We remember, in this devastating year of 2020, that we have other heroes to thank; other sacrifices to honour; other deaths to mourn.

I was five years old when I first went to a Remembrance Day service.

It’s commemorated on 11^th November in the UK but the services themselves are held on the 2^nd Sunday.

November is a dismal month, cold and often wet and in those days it was generally only men who attended, ex-servicemen  who still had the memories and horrors of war sharp in their minds.

They waited in heavy overcoats, mufflers and trilby hats, with pride, sorrow, gratitude or guilt, unaware that I, small and insignificant, stood amidst a crowd of giants.

My father was probably reluctant to have me as his companion at the Cenotaph, as afterwards, with his comrades, he doubtless hoped to share memories over 'a swift half’ in the pub.

  

I had no understanding of what was going on as the poppy wreaths were laid but the emotion and sense of loss was so palpable that tears ran freely down my cheeks.

The men sang ‘Abide with Me’ in stoically controlled voices and  I clutched my father’s hand in utter misery when The Last Post was played.

As an adult, I attend an ANZAC Day service each year.  It used to be at Dawn but as the veterans grew older, someone took pity and organised later gatherings. 

I’m taller now but as I stand weeping in the crowd of Returned Service personnel I still feel I am in the presence of giants.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,
We will remember them.

I te hekenga atu o te rā
Tae noa ki te arangamai i te ata
Ka maumahara tonu tātou ki a rātou

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=McCDWYgVyps