I've just been watching some of the 'highlights', if that's not an oxymoron, of yesterday's State Opening of Parliament. Amongst all the glitter, uniforms and ceremony, you'd have though that either the Earl Marshall, the Usher of the Black Rod, the Rouge Dragon Pursuivant, or the Clarenceux King of Arms, could have arranged for a car big enough to carry the gold maces without them having to stick out of the open windows:





It's a wonder they weren't stopped by the police for dangerous driving or for having an excessively wide load. I also wondered whether this was the Imperial State crown being discreetly smuggled into Parliament carried in a squaddie's knapsack because whatever was in there was evidently big, heavy and important given its military escort:

That was embarrassing, surely in the fleet of vehicles available something more suitable could have been found.

I can't remember if I mentioned that I have been a bit 'dopey' literally of late as I was taking strong antibiotics  because of a dental infection (needs a couple of extractions but my dentist says she wants an expert to do it because I'm on alendronic acid which can impede healing so I have to wait it out).  Anyway, while I sip some orange juice, I'll mention that I've been resting a lot.  I've listened to some of YouTuber, Dr Ludwig's channel of German music.  One song I listened to was Muss i denn which Elvis Presley sang in English (though not really a translation - more words that would fit the tune) as Wooden Heart.  I can't find the thread about mishearings and malapropisms but I always thought when Elvis sang some of the song in German he was singing "Rosie Denn" and singing to a girl called Rosie.

I was wondering and starting to worry where you were LiR. I hope you get well soon.

Muss i denn ("must I, then ... from the village, must I then go? And you my dear, stay here?") is a German folksong about a man departing on a journey and so leaving his sweetheart behind, but he promises to remain faithful and marry her when he returns. I learnt it in German class at school, when I was about thirteen or fourteen. In the 19th century it was popular on German merchant ships as a sort of sea shanty when hauling ropes and the like; it then became a patriotic military march; and it is still traditionally played whenever a German naval ship leaves port for a tour of duty.

To new comers to this board this is where we come to have a virtual drink and ramble chat about whatever. It used to get quite crowded one upon a once but not now.

However, I am creeping in to order a pint - glass marked with Imperial Crown - of quality tawny Port.

This I shall drink slowly and reflect on what might be said to me - an English person - I blush with embarrassment at that admission - if I should ever wax - even only 10% of the lyrical pride about my homeland as I have read in a thread on site as another does about his. Actually dredging up 1% pride might be an effort and then only to be put down would be on the clobber scale of jack boots size 12. 
National pride is an odd thing - Irish Welsh and Scots can have it and be admired for it but the English just cannot cope with it at all, in my experience and certainly never endeared for revealing a glimpse of it.
Port in pint pots for me then and shut up.

Since it's apéritif time here in France, I'll happily join you for a large glass - whether in millilitres or gills, I really don't mind - of chilled rosé. Are there any nibbles? We used to have some really interesting bar snacks here, like the pickled gannets which were so popular I'll bet there are still some mouldering away behind the bar.

Or, having just been reading about engastration (see The Groaning Board thread), might I suggest some kiviak? This is a traditional food from Greenland that is made with whole auks, feathers and beaks included, stuffed into the hollowed-out body of a seal. The seal is then sewn shut and hermetically sealed with grease to discourage bacterial growth, and left to ferment. Several months later, once the birds have turned into a pungent liquefied mush, it is ready to be served at weddings, birthdays and other 'special' occasions. Kiviak anyone?

The pickled gannets are doing just fine but I think I will give the kiviak a go - what's the worst that can happen? To make sure it stays down, though, I'll think I'll need some vodka (but not Russian). Maybe Ukrainean or Polish or Finnish or Swedish or Icelandic or even Greenlandic of course. Yes, a jack (not a jack boot) just a jack of vodka from Greenland:



Some Siku vodka to make sure the pungent liquified mush doesn't come back up again.

P.S. Whatever you do don't touch the landcrabsticks. I wouldn't even feed those to the pigs.

Ha, am I the only one who remembers that the pickled gannets were first stored back when our then BBC Bar was attacked by evildoers who wanted to bring in extreme censorship.
In order to defend ourselves trebuchets were constructed and buckets and even small barrels could be launched.

In one of latest recorded battles, a bare armed Caro directed our fire and the wicked assaulters withdrew to where they came from. Since then 'bare arms' have been the dress of the day in here - at least for me.

The pickled gannets have since evolved into a local - very local! - nibbet for connoiseurs, if on the morning after you could eat such, there were arguable no chance of pregnancies [at least for men]!


The ramblings above re records of times gone past, reminds me of the story of the new entrant into an abbey.
As he already had a fine writing hand he was assigned to the librarian as a scrivener.
After some time he requested an audience with the librarian caused by a problem with some old texts, "You see, some texts are unclear in the meaning, and I think this may have been because of slovenliness among old scriveners."
The librarian thought this possibe and raised the question to the abbot who himself had been a librarian.
The abbot considered the matter seriously and then decided to do some research himself.
"I shall go down in the secret cellars and ensure that the Rules by which we live today are the same as our Founders gave us."
The abbott took a new copy of the order's written rules and went down the cellars to find and read the original Rules.
After three days the librarian got permission to go down and search for the abbot.
The librarian found the abbot downside, he was weeping and crying.
"The original Rules say 'celebrate'".

I remember that my former incarnation had to fix the scythes back onto the chariot and refit the armour to the onagers. Wasn't there a point where we nearly had to deploy our Doomsday Weapon aka Miss Frobisher?

re monastery humour :-

The novice was not surprised that each monk, on encountering a brother for the first time in a day would ceremoniously bow and chant "Morning" .
He was more surprised to note that the greeting remained the same even as late as compline. He thought he would vary it, and when he encountered the sub-prior on the way to evensong, he chanted "Evening". To his chagrin, Father Abbot threw up his hands in horror, and chanted "Some monk chanted evening"

I had thought that tonite might be some enchanted evening because we had been promised the lighting of a beacon for Brenda's jubilee but we can't see it. Either it's misfired or we're looking in the wrong direction - or both.

P.S. There could, of course, simply be a cloud in the way.

I went to the lighting of the beacon in my home town. Crowd participation in the singing of the National Anthem was good for the first verse, but tailed away when the choir began the second.

Hats off to whoever it was (the Dean? the Archbishop? the Queen herself?) that fixed it so that Johnson gave the reading about honesty and integrity in yesterday's thanksgiving service in St Paul's: 

Philippians 4-8: "Whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable … think about these things."

Oh the irony.

MarkUK wrote:

That was embarrassing, surely in the fleet of vehicles available something more suitable could have been found.

The Corporation Dustcart was busy collecting the remaining bottles from the speakeasy in Downing Street, I am (unreliably) informed.

Meles meles wrote:

Hats off to whoever it was (the Dean? the Archbishop? the Queen herself?) that fixed it so that Johnson gave the reading about honesty and integrity in yesterday's thanksgiving service in St Paul's

Seconded. When I first heard that he was giving a reading, I thought that in itself was a strange decision but then when I heard the wording it was excruciatingly exquisite. I haven't, however, been able to work who exactly was the master (or mistress) of ceremonies or who decided upon the order of service. I write 'mistress' because 2 other candidates are the Bishop of London and the Canon Chancellor of St Paul's both of whom are women.

With regard to the question of the choice of vehicles for transporting maces to opening ceremonies or ferrying royals to jubilee services, then princesses Beatrice and Eugenie arrived in a light metallic grey Mercedes-Benz V-Class people carrier (complete with sliding doors) whereas everyone else seemed to arrive in black Bentleys, black Rolls Royces or black Range Rovers. Furthermore, when this unlikely looking vehicle was in prime view of the cameras and photographers it was just as Harry and Meghan were ascending the steps before them. In other words someone at Mercedes-Benz marketing seemed to have been very well briefed on exactly the order of guests arriving and when the moment of maximum global interest was likely to be thus position the car in shot at that very moment.

Meles meles wrote:

Hats off to whoever it was (the Dean? the Archbishop? the Queen herself?) that fixed it so that Johnson gave the reading about honesty and integrity in yesterday's thanksgiving service in St Paul's: 

Philippians 4-8: "Whatever is true, whatever is honourable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable … think about these things."

Oh the irony.

Doubt he even registered that it wasn't an encomium on his own performance.

I think they should have announced the result of last night's vote in imperial measures.

It was a gross+ five and a half dozen+1 to a gross +4.

The PM won by five and a quarter dozen (I think - I was always hopeless at maths.).

Am I the only one not really bothered about Partygate - we all broke the rules, I did for sure, should I resign?
High taxes are never popular, but we all know the covid measures have to be paid for, temporary higher taxes seem to be the only logical answer. 
What annoys me the most is Boris' faulty Brexit. We were told it was "oven ready", a great deal, so we rewarded him with a huge Election victory. Now he's telling us the Northern Ireland bit is no good and we'll have to ditch it, so it wasn't such a great deal after all! We were sold a pig in a poke.

Can't say that I am inclined to the 'Orf with His head,' chat I hear about me - this from people in the road who cut down newly installed parking notice metal poles one night - never replaced, who had all manner of garden gatherings during lockdown, and one lot currently ducking VAT of much monies on their building upgrade by paying cash  instalments - and proud of the dodge too. 
Hypocrisy  - like the poor  - is always with us.. and we are all prone to it n occasion. In the glimmer of old age wisdom I have also come to understand just how much envy and jealousy impinges our lives. The 'Tried but Failed' ones are always up for a group Aunt Sally bash.
 It is also my experience that sometimes the odd idiosyncratic types with woefully human weaknesses can also get things done, are innovative and actually see rather clever ways of doing things. I hope that turns out to be the case with the PM. The rest of the discard and possible crowd from which to select a replacement do not inspire much confidence.

MarkUK wrote:

..we all broke the rules, I did for sure, should I resign?

You do not hold the highest office in the land, neither are you the deviser of the laws that, when they have been approved by Parliament, we are all obliged - like it not - to abide by, especially in times of national emergency. And I'm not so sure we "all" broke the rules. Most of us, I think, tried not to. I, for one, was terribly embarrassed and remorseful when I inadvertently strayed from my marked spot in the queue at Sainsbury's, an error which led to a stern but legitimate rebuke from a member of the watchful staff - people who were so at risk working, as they did, throughout the epidemic in that huge supermarket. I immediately jumped back in line and I didn't stop apologising for at least half an hour to all around me. But I'm just a daft old woman.

Yes, we were all sold a  "pig in a poke". I certainly was, although not over Brexit. I thought Johnson, a man with obvious intelligence and a superb education, would be able to run the show better than Corbyn and get us out of the economic hole his predecessors had dug for us. I, like so many others, got it quite wrong. I fell for Johnson's "charm" and undeniable wit, God help me.

The witty little "greased piglet", is now oven-ready himself, or so it would seem, but he'll have the last laugh: he'll make a fortune à la Blair and Cameron out of writing and lecturing performing.

PS Brilliant line from Starmer at PMQ today: Johnson and the entire Tory front bench all wriggled a bit when the Leader of Her Majesty's Opposition remarked:" '24 Hours in A&E' used to be a TV programme: now it's government policy."

Priscilla wrote:

I am creeping in to order a pint - glass marked with Imperial Crown - of quality tawny Port.

I don't know if I could handle a pint of Port but maybe just a Little one. Perhaps the various styles of Port should be matched up with types of owl. Tawny is a given but the Little owl is also known as the Owl of Athena and beloved of that goddess. Up thread Meles mentioned that it's fashionable to serve Port with ice. If with crushed ice then that might give us snowy Port. Barn port on the other hand would be the rustic stuff while Screech port is probably best avoided.

So mine was a Great Horned one in that context.... shudder. I was once attacked by one - in our room in a the 15thC part of a Loire chateau that I had rented. Earlier I had seen several owls and heard calls and very stupidly used a skill I had learned as a child, I called them up.  The very large one seemed to know which room I was in and flew through the opened shutters during the night - scary and with much flapping about and pillow throwing. Never, never call up owls.

Then a couple of years later an escaped 'pet' one spent the night on our roof in UK - they make a distinctive horrid churring growl sound that I recall all to well while I had been owl calling in France. Ii closed the window sharpish and it stayed on our roof until owners lured it down next day. I reckon I am marked in the owl world - and will never call them up again - not even to teach someone how it is done.

Thinking about the mention of jodhpurs upthread, in the 1980s there was an attempt to copy jodhpurs from sport to ordinary wear from ladies.  Suffice to say the trend DIDN'T catch on.  I remember M&S selling them off at a reduced price and even then they didn't go very quickly.  If I'd had confidence in myself as a seamstress to alter them to look like normal slacks maybe I would have bought a pair, but I hadn't so I didn't.  Sports clothes do sometimes migrate into normal wear (thinking of jogging bottoms/track suit pants) which are sometimes worn as everyday wear nowadays.

Re owls & port : Would a Morepork be the port served at a carvery when returning for a 2nd helping? With a Barred Owl the consequence of over-imbibing in a disgraceful manner?

Lookee 'ere' matey. I don't give a hoot as long as the port is good, not ruby and available.

There's a naturally strong red wine from near here in the south-west of France that's made with carignan and merlot grapes and called Grand Duc (Grand Duke). However un grand-duc is also the common French name for the Eurasian eagle-owl (Bubo bubo) one of the largest owl species and hence why there's an owl on the wine's label:

That Grand Duc looks terrific Meles. A stonking blend by the sound of it. I wonder if it's available north of La Manche as I'd like to try and source some. But staying with ruby port P, it could be that George's barred owl after having sobered up for a while might turn into a Ruby owl. To wit - one who dines in an Indian restaurant after midnight.

Vizzer wrote:

That Grand Duc looks terrific Meles. A stonking blend by the sound of it. I wonder if it's available north of La Manche as I'd like to try and source some. But staying with ruby port P, it could be that George's barred owl after having sobered up for a while might turn into a Ruby owl. To wit - one who dines in an Indian restaurant after midnight.

quel duc (une référence discworld)

As a rule of painful thumb, I wouldn't mention owls in an Indian restaurant at any time of the day. The urdu/hindi word for owl is a huge insult - and the first word I learned from my teach yourself book because it is so delightfully onamaticpaedic (sp?). Caused quite a stir when I proudly announced my first word...... strange that ....we deem owls as wise but in the subcontinent thought its to be a right numpty.

Ah the quicksand of cross cultural paths are ever tricky.....silence is golden.

Priscilla wrote:

...because it is so delightfully onamaticpaedic (sp?).

Oh, Priscilla, me ole dyslexic mate, your spelling of onomatopoeic did make me giggle (in the nicest possible way); it is worthy of Minette - that other great poster and ardent Richard III fan - who once wrote so compellingly of Henry VII's great gambol at Bosworth.

Here's how I taught the kids to remember how to spell this lovely word (wouldn't work now, because who the hell remembers Yoko Ono?):

ono - think of Yoko Ono
mat - think of the cat sat on the mat
top - you will be top of the class if you can spell onomatopoeia
poe - first three letters of poetry (you get a lot of onomatopoeia in poetry)
ia - just remember add ia for the noun and ic for the adjective (this bit always proved troublesome as they usually didn't know what I was talking about).

Bit convoluted, but, oddly enough, it always seemed to work. I still get tattooed strangers in Morrison's stopping me (usually in the baked bean aisle) telling me, "I can still spell onomatopoeia, Mrs. R." (so, on reflection, perhaps my life has not been a complete waste of time).

I can't punctuate properly any more - my grip on such things is definitely not what it was. But then it never was what it was.

if it will bring you, Temps. back to making more of your always interesting posts on Res His I shall make a whole load more spelling mistakes - even inintentially.... oops that was not. It is very confusing being me. you know. 

Thanks for the aid - but how will I recall that when needed?  For one  best not discuss owls again  and avoid camels because the word for them is also ono....etc.

Can't imagine why we might ever discuss camels on Res Hist but there you go... I bet someone has made a camel wine label and MM will know of it.

PS - Has Larry resigned?

This is an art deco label from the 1930s:



and for an orange liqueur:



Both these images are from e-bay and I haven't found out anything about the drinks themselves,

I have my 'cuppa' at my side (but far enough away so I won't spill it over my keyboard) and I can't find the 'phishing' thread.  I just wanted to warn of a scam that seemed a little more plausible than the usual 'I'm up fertiliser creek without a paddle' ones asking for money.  Something came through from a lady I trust from the U3A asking could I buy a digital Amazon card for a party as  her attempts had proved fruitless and was saying she had a funeral to attend.  I was nearly doing it but I thought I'd phone her and just check.  Anyway the answerphone gave the message that if anyone had been contacted by Amazon it was a scam and not her - I guess she was fed up of having to answer the phone every few minutes to answer queries about the message so the scammer has obviously targeted multiple people.

It's good you double-checked that request LiR. Hijacking other people's accounts and then asking for money by email or even by text has become the scammers' preferred method of late. Always ring up and check. Nothing is that urgent that it can't wait for confirmation. I'm not sure which was the 'phishing' thread but the Technical adjustments / announcements / assistance thread on the Introductions board has periodically discussed scams and online security.

As today is the 12th of July then a toast to William of Orange would be appropriate. In the British Isles we tend to think of William III of Glorious Revolution fame when someone mentions 'William of Orange' while in the Netherlands it's William the Silent of the Dutch Revolt the previous century. There have, however, been no fewer than 16 Williams of Orange over the centuries. One such was King William I of the Netherlands. He started off as Prince of Orange-Nassau but was stripped of his title and territories by the Emperor Napoleon as he began the carve up of the Holy Roman Empire with the Treaty of the Confederation of the Rhine on this day (12th of July) in 1806. William would have the last laugh though as following Napoleon's defeat he would be restored to his lands and titles and more, becoming the first king of the Netherlands. These included the Dutch West Indies among which is the island of Curaçao with its orange liqueur. Personally I'm not a fan of liqueur so I'll top a Grolsch instead:

The mention of various Williams of Orange struck a chord with me because in the 1980s I studied A level History at night school and borrowed a book from the public library about William of Orange only to find out at home that it was about William the Silent.

Oddly the House of Orange so closely associated with The Netherlands has its origins in southern France near Avignon hundreds of miles away.

Indeed and it remained a nominally independent enclave within France until William of Orange (William III of England) died in 1702 whereupon Louis XIV of France annexed it. William of Orange died childless and his title to the principality was disputed between his two cousins, Johan Willem Friso, Stadtholder in the Dutch Republic, and Frederick I of Prussia, with both of them claiming the title of Prince of Orange. For his part Frederick I eventually recognised France's possession of the territory as part of a wider settlement (the 1713 Treaty of Utrecht) but he insisted on retaining the title. Meanwhile the Dutch descendants of Johan Willem Friso agreed to "share" the title with their German cousins. So while the monarchy in the Netherlands styled themselves Princes of Orange, so too did the Prussian kings and German emperors right up until the kaiser's abdication in 1918.

Thinking of William the Silent, the book I read many years ago told the well-known story of the pardon of  father of Peter-Paul Rubens, the painter, (at that point in time not having been born) for  alleged adultery with William's then wife as an example of William's mercy.  Mrs Rubens interceded with William for her husband who pardoned her.  However, I did a bit of surfing on the internet and a blog I came across says that Rubens Senior confessed under torture, so I can't help wondering how guilty he really was.  Rubens Senior was legal advisor to Anna (William's second wife) which was how he came to spend some time with her.  Anna did admit the adultery it seems but said that Rubens wasn't the person she erred with.  After William divorced her Anna was sent back to her family in Saxony "where they imprisoned her until her death in 1577".  Poor Anna.  I'm providing the link in case anyone wants to look at it where the events are explained in more depth and with more eloquence than my wording.  https://www.unofficialroyalty.com/willem-i-the-silent-prince-of-orange/

A simple post about the bisto gravy, a product that is a classic for many British people. Read on to find out where you can still buy it.

For anyone stuck in a traffic jam on the A20 or the A2 and browsing the net on your phone or pad or laptop etc and happening across this forum, then my question to you is this – why? Why have you got yourself stuck like this?

Instead, you could be having a wonderful holiday right in the beautiful land just outside your windows called Kent. It’s not just a ‘drive-thru’ county on the way to the continental mainland you know. It's a great destination in its own right. Take Dover Castle, for instance, which you can probably see on the hill to your left if you’re on the A20 or A256 or on your right if you’re on the A2. It’s only slightly less historic than the Tower of London and only slightly smaller than Windsor Castle but is probably better value than either because there are hardly any queues for admission. Also, neither does London nor Windsor have a still standing Roman lighthouse – Dover does. And if you’re into military architecture then there’s neighbouring FortBurgoyne. One of Lord Palmerston’s follies, it was built in the 1860s as though the castle wasn’t deterrent enuff against Napoleon III who had no designs on Britain anyway.
 
Beyond Dover, and away from military architecture, then there is an embarrassment of riches in terms of church architecture. There’s Canterbury with its famous cathedral and also St Martin’s Church on North Holmes Road which, with its Roman chancel, is over 1400 years old, is even older than the cathedral, predates St Augustine himself and is believed to be the oldest church in Britain. And it’s still in use.
 
Not far from Canterbury is Reculver, with the twin towers of its church standing over the remains of a Roman fort in its isolated setting on the north Kent coast. With huge skies and a breeze coming in off the German Ocean, it’s a great place for a walk or a cycle ride in a dramatic landscape. If you’d prefer to travel on horse-back then there are several pony-trekking stables and bridlepaths in the North Downs and the Weald offering delightful rides thru downland, lowland and woodland. Watersports are also a big thing is Kent. There are myriad beaches on Kent’s three coasts where you can hire windsurfs. Sailing is also hugely popular on inland lakes such a Bewl Water and St Andrew's Lake. Needless to say that both saltwater and freshwater fishing spots are similarly widespread. 

If you’re looking for some culture, then the Turner Contemporary art gallery in Margate is second to none. In fact it's not uncommon for locals to be stopped by tourists asking for directions to “Tate Modern”. Margate has certainly re-invented itself over the last 20 years with the Turner Contemporary leading the way. That said – it still retains its old-fashioned seaside attractions which have drawn generations of day-trippers from London made famous by folk singers Chas ‘n Dave. Nowadays, as well as Punch & Judy shows and donkey rides, there is also Shakespeare on the beach. You can you sit on a deck chair and watch an outdoor performance of one of the Great Bard’s plays. There are also indoor shows put on at the nearby Winter Gardens theatre. Away from Margate, other theatres in Kent include the intimate Hazlitt Theatre in Maidstone, the Sinden Theatre in Tenterden (named after its patron the late actor Donald Sinden), the Oast Theatre in Tonbridge (in a converted oast house), the Leas Cliff Hall in Folkestone (set spectacularly on the side of a cliff overlooking the sea) and the Marlowe Theatre in Canterbury (named after the Elizabethan playwright Christopher Marlowe who was a son of the city).   
          
If all that outdoor activity and high culture has given you an appetite then, again, you’re in the right place. Kent, sometimes called ‘the garden of England’, has great food and drink. Whether it’s fish 'n chips in Ramsgate or fine dining in Tunbridge Wells or just a sandwich in Sandwich, there are restaurants aplenty offering Dover sole, Whitstable oysters, Romney salt marsh lamb and much besides. And, of course, beer, cider, perry and wine to accompany your meal are all produced in the county - from Shepherd Neame in Faversham (England’s oldest brewery) to Broadstairs’ micropubs (serving beer brewed on site) to cidermakers in Marden (also making perry) to vineyards in Tenterden (producing white wine and bubbly). 



Hope that traffic jam clears up soon. It must be torment in there with all that’s available just within touching distance but out of reach.

Going back to the late 1970s/early 1980s I went to Canterbury with a chap I was then friendly with.  There was a deal where you could get a train ticket cheap - or was it two for the price of one?  It's so long ago I can't recall.  The deal (well the coupon) was, I think, from the side of the container of a laundry product but I can't remember because it's so many years ago.

The cathedral certainly was worth a visit.

Anyway, I really want to see if I can pick the brains of folk who are a bit more knowledgeable about gardening than myself.  It's been blowy and intermittently rainy here today.  The apple tree in the garden which my Dad planted in the early 1950s is past its best.  It still flowers and produces fruit but but part of it is dying.  A branch (with a number of sub-branches) has virtually broken off - hanging there by not a thread but not really that much thicker than a thread.  I'm wondering whether I should leave it and see what happens (though if no sap or very little sap is getting through I guess it's not very promising) or should I collect the apples (which have some colour but ideally would have been left a few weeks longer) on that branch and do the best I can with them?  I'm uncertain what to do with partly ripened apples - maybe a recipe for crab apples would work.  Any ideas you Res His gardening experts?

I would collect what apples you can and cut off the branch. Just leave the apples for a while on the bench and they may ripen a bit, enough at least to cook with. I don't think apples have to be fully ripe to make a crumble for instance. And fruit does ripen when left on a bench - witness pears or kiwifruit.

Thanks for your thoughts on the apple branch, Caro.  I sometimes wonder if I have the opposite of "green fingers".  I lost a tomato seedling in the recentvextreme heat in the UK; not that I didn't water it but I didn't water it enough.

Apart from a few stalwarts it's been rather quiet here of late. I suppose everyone's either away on holiday enjoying the summer sun, or suffering drought, heatwaves and wildfires - other than Caro who I guess is still in the depths of winter with spring just a remote glimmer on the horizon. For my part I'd lost internet connection for a couple of weeks which I had put down to adverse weather conditions, although I'm not sure how the weather in France affects my connection to a satellite 25,000 km away in geostationary orbit over equatorial Africa. In the end I was forced to bite the bullet and attempt to repoint my satellite dish, a frustrating job which I hate having to do, although in the end it went better than I could have hoped as the dish was only out by about a gnat's thumb. So normal service has been resumed.

I've also been a bit out of sorts as my beloved golden retriever died on 14 July.

Doggy-Dog, aka Dogglet, Doggle, Pooch, Poochje, mijnheer van den Pooch - or Earl du Domaine de Maynard de Argelès sur Mer, to use his formal kennel name - was thirteen years old so quite elderly. He'd been in generally good form until about the last two weeks with no obvious ailments (other than the inevitable arthritis that we all get with age and him being blissfully stone deaf since about two years ago) but he was starting to get a bit wobbly on his feet and sometimes needed some help, albeit mostly for extra support/confidence, just to get up the two steps to the kitchen door. Nevertheless he still seemed to enjoy our leisurely daily morning walks together around the garden during which he could easily spend ten minutes gently smelling a just-opened rose, and then another quarter-hour savouring the freshly-turned soil of a recent molehill, before exploring the sensory delights of some hedgehog crap. And though he was getting a bit wobbly and slow on his paws, we were still able to play the occasional game of ball, albeit at a somewhat sedate pace. 

But in his last few days he seemed to have decided that it was time. He selected a shady place at the foot of a row of tomato plants just outside the kitchen door where I'd be constantly going back and forth, and then didn't move from there except to rouse himself half-heartedly to eat and drink. I was pottering around him between garden and kitchen when he quietly slipped away in the early afternoon of Bastille Day.

I could not have wished for a more loyal, gentle, intelligent and loving companion. He was always with me or close by and we were only ever apart when I did my weekly trip to the shops or on a few occasions when he went off on one of his adventures and i was left worrying until he either came home on his own or someone phoned to say he'd turned up at their house. In fact the thirteen years with Doggy-Dog were longest I'd ever lived with anyone (my partner died when we'd been together only twelve years). Dogglet rarely ever barked except through excitement when playing a game or maybe to warn that there were wild boar in the garden. He was always gentle and protective of my cats and even formed a particularly close friendship with two of them. He could be trusted to play gently with children - even once tolerating having a toy saddle and doll strapped to his back - and he didn't usually chew things other than sticks from the garden. He did sometimes steal/borrow small items - socks, teddies, brillo-pads, pieces of lego, toy cars, plastic figurines and once some sexy female underwear - which he'd hide in little caches around the house, although when found out he'd happily surrender his trophies. He was usually friendly to all other dogs - except the small aggressive yappy-types that he just ignored -and he instinctively seemed to know that he shouldn't jump up or jostle very small children, nor those that were elderly and infirm.

He was a very fine dog, a very fine dog indeed, and I miss him.

 

Goodbye old friend.

Oh, MM, I haven't the words to express what I felt when I read your message - only to say it made my heart break for you. Sorry if that sounds over-the-top, but it did. I am so sorry your old friend is gone. The words you have posted are a fitting and beautiful tribute, as are the two pictures you have shared. What a lovely and loving face he had - his nature is there for all to see. He was indeed a very fine dog and we shall miss him too.

It is a shame all is so quiet - perhaps things will pick up soon. I for one will try to make a bit more of an effort to contribute. We all seem to have lost our vim and vigour  - or, rather, I have. The times we are living through, I suppose. 

I hope that perhaps you will think about getting a puppy - a Dogglet Jr. perhaps? But perhaps too soon to be thinking about that.

Dig out a bottle of the most expensive and classy wine in the Res His cellar (there must be such a thing somewhere in the cellar) and let us drink a toast to your old friend. May there be many moles for him to sniff out in the next life. 

PS I love the way Dogglet is looking at your moggy - it's a great photo.

PPS Take care of yourself.

Please accept my sympathies, Meles. If it's any consolation, Dogglet had a peaceful end after a long and happy life, which is the best any of us can have, whether we've got four legs or two.


If you're considering it, there are some bods in the Perpignan Rescue Centre looking for a new home:

SPA Pyrenees Orientales

MM, you have my sympathy.
Seems to have been a bad week for pets. We lost Kelsey, the last of our 3 Welsummer hens, and my mother's dog, Mitzi, too. We don't know how old she was, just that she was chipped 17 years ago (rescue people did that).

To cap it all, our car reached the end of its working life, too. Fixable, but that would cost at least 4 times its value.

Saddened by the news of your loss, MM....  the life and times of Doggy dog often featured here and he became part of our small community; your affection transferred to us and your loss touches us too.

Priscilla's words perfectly express the sentiment. Just to add a visual compliment of some strawberry leaves as befitting an earl:



He had a super kennel name. Heartfelt sympathies Meles for your great loss  - and also to George sympathy and commiseration to you and yours.

Sorry to learn the sad news about your dog, MM.

Thank you all for your sympathetic comments, they're much appreciated.

Temperance wrote:

I hope that perhaps you will think about getting a puppy - a Dogglet Jr. perhaps? But perhaps too soon to be thinking about that.

Well yes, it's too early to seriously plan that, but I've obviously considered the idea. I would love to get a Dogglet Jr. ... especially another golden retriever as they have such a good temperament and as puppies they are undeniably adorable. Here's young Doggy-Dog himself at just a few months of age:



I'd love a golden retriever but they are expensive to buy ... and also morally would I not be better offering a home to a rescue dog? I also have to weigh the balance of my desires/needs (mental health, companionship, a guard dog ha-ha!) ... with the fact that I run a B & B, because you have to admit dogs do drop hair everywhere, they crap in the garden, they often smell, and some people are allergic, fearful or simply dislike them.

But all that is for the future. Nevertheless I have certainly bookmarked Trike's link to the SPA at Perpignan, if only because I'd could also do with another cat or two to serve as ratters.

With Doggy-Dog all the weighty considerations about getting a dog were outside my control as he wasn't originally mine. Olivier, my partner, wanted a dog but I always thought it a very bad idea - at least at that time as we were trying to build up a B & B business, we already had three cats (taken on with the house) and we were getting short of cash. But then one day he simply turned up with a puppy having just paid nearly 1000 euros for him. I was livid - not with the wee innocent pup but because after all our discussions about it, he had just gone ahead anyway. Olivier tended to be great on ideas and often threw himself into the current project to the exclusion of everything else, generally leaving the niggling details and practicalities for someone else (me) to deal with.

And so it proved with the young Pooch. While Olivier ordered a deluxe kennel (which Doggle never slept in as he considered it his right and duty to sleep in the house with the human members of his pack, although the ignored kennel was soon taken over for use as a summerhouse/conservatory/sun-lounge by the cats) it was me that always took him for walks. Don't get me wrong, Olivier loved the dog and so he would never miss-treat nor neglect him ... but it was usually me that had to do the boring, time-consuming or messy stuff like the daily walks, the de-flea baths and lengthy brushing, the garden turd removal, and patiently take the time to do the vital training to get him to walk on a leash and to calmly respond to simple commands. But actually I quite enjoyed all of that, especially the long walks, ball games in the garden, frolics in the river, and especially the longer exploratory walks into the local forest. A young dog can also go at a punishingly rapid loping pace, one that they can maintain for hours/miles, and so I rapidly got a lot fitter too.


With Pooch exploring a local gorge.

My bond with Doggy-Dog got closer when my partner became ill and had to spend periods in hospital. It takes an hour to drive to the hospital in Perpignan (and another hour back) so on returning home after several hours away inevitably Pooch was ecstatic to see me: to be fed, loved and taken for a late walk. For my part Doggle was by then a loyal companion who I could rely on to give unquestioning and unspoken, loving support, simply through his physical presence. So when Olivier finally died (October 2011) Doggy-Dog and I were already mutually supporting each other. It is from then that I started to habitually sleep on a camp-bed in the lounge/salon and also when Doggy-Dog started to regularly sleep next to me ... which soon became across my feet, then next to me on the bed, then on top of me, and finally burrowed under the duvet and sprawled across my chest ... a nocturnal intimacy that we retained until just the last few months of Doggy-Dog's life and only curtailed when he could no longer physically clamber up onto the bed, although he still always stayed close alongside me and within stroking distance.

The first year alone together was hard, not the least because money was tight, but come the Autumn of 2012 I was finally able to indulge both myself and Doggle and we went on our first overnight camping expedition into the mountains. We didn't do any great peaks or routes but simply found a quiet spot to spend the entire night away from everything, above the tree-line, in remote solitude under the stars. I had my small lightweight 'pup' tent but Doggle had to sleep outside and of necessity I had to attach him on a long rope. I simply didn't know how he would react to the open mountains and I didn't want him to wander off and face the perils of scree slopes, cliffs and old abndoned mine shafts. Furthermore I certainly didn't want him to go and bother any sheep grazing on the upland pastures (or rather more importantly to not bother their aggressive Pyrenean guard dogs), nor did I want him lured away by some exotic beguiling female canine - bearing in mind there are now wolves (ie exactly the same species as him) living in the mountains here. Anyway we had such a great time together that we did several other overnight mountain camps over the following years. I would have liked to have gone with him all the way to the summit of mount Canigou, but in all honesty it's a hard climb for both man and dog and it's very rocky, so especially hard on a dog's pads. Humans might appreciate the view from the summit and rejoice in getting there, but there's really little to commend it to any sensible canine. As I say, Pooch and I were perfectly happy to spend the night in a remote spot at lower altitude and well off the beaten track. Even until just last year we did some lengthy, albeit sedate, walks together around the local forest ... me looking for mushrooms, he just savouring all the rich smells of the forest.

And so there we are. I would love to have another dog, but not just yet and maybe it is not the sensible thing to do. We'll see.

Your story of how you ended up with Pooch is uncannily familiar Meles. It was the same with me back in the 1990s. I cautioned against getting a dog with the usual "a dog isn't just for Christmas" line but Mrs went ahead and got one anyway. And a Golden Retriever pup to boot. A cliche upon a cliche. Yet I ended up becoming the main dog-walker and poop scooper etc and loved every minute of it. It took about a year before the dog realised that she wasn't a human. At first she was petrified of other dogs even to the extent of once jumping onto the lap of a stranger sat on a park bench seeking salvation when another dog was coming along the path. But after she had become properly socialised with other dogs, she then went to the other extreme and would go tearing off at the faintest hint of any other dogs looking for them to say hello to, sniff, and flirt with etc. She was pedigree, however, and developed cancer so we only had her about 5 years.

Later we had a Kerry Blue (also female). A very elegant and ladylike dog whose abiding memory I have, is of her daintily skipping thru the bluebell woods in springtime. She was still being mistaken for a puppy even when 7 years old. It came as something of a surprise to me, therefore, to notice that some other dog-walkers were wary of her with regard to their own dogs. I hadn't realised that they had a reputation for aggression by dint of having been bred as fighting dogs in the past. And I suppose that male Kerry Blues can have impressively muscular haunches and be potentially intimidating for that. But our Meg was a pet lamb and very well behaved. Sadly she too developed cancer and only lived to about 7. If you're wanting a dog which neither malts nor smells, however, then the Kerry Blue is just the breed. The unique oils in the skin acts as a self-cleansing agent and although they occasionally need bathing, they almost never smell as such. Being a terrier, of course, also means that any rats you may have, once they realise who has moved in, will soon be seeking alternative accommodation themselves.