Mrs Elder-Berry's Hedgerow Perambulations

Day trip to Le Touguet

2010-10-09T09:57:00.000+01:00

Friday 14th May 1971

Hmmn, weather forecast from the met office looks pretty promising for tomorrow, little or no cloud, excellent visibility. slight tail wind. Must remember to book in to clear customs on return journey.

Sister's daughter Camilla was duly deposited with me at 6.30pm. Claudia looks fairly well considering she has had a rather close call after falling overboard whilst crewing on a friends yacht somewhere just off Falmouth two weeks ago

Saturday 15th May 1971. Day Trip to Le Touquet

Set alarm for 4.30, as usual it went off 10 minutes early. Must get clock checked. Camilla took some waking up, but by the time l returned from dog walk she was wide awake and attempting to cook breakfast. After feeding the burnt bacon & incinerated sausages to Dog, l suggested a flask of tea might be worth taking with us as it would be a good couple of hours until we arrived in france for lunch.

Departed the house by 8.30 arriving at airfield by 9. Whizzed up the stairs of the control tower, followed by C, checked weather forecast, which was good, then filed the old flight plan, destination Le Touquet, France clearing customs outbound at Gatwick.

Drove across to the hanger & with the help of George pulled the chipmunk out, then, closely followed by C, walked slowly around the aircraft checking for any faults on the fuselage.

10.00am pre-take off checks, warm up the engine, taxi to holding point. Slight hold up as learner practicing circuits & bumps in a Cessna 150 takes a while to clear the area. Quick check of dials then open the throttle right out and we are off, tail wheel lifts of the ground, MPH increases, take off, turn right, climb to 3000 feet.

C seems to be enjoying herself, asking if she can have a go? Like riding a horse, l said, left stick left boot and you go left, right stick/ boot and you turn to the right, keep the wings level & back pressure on the stick. Good girl.

Call up gatwick tower, start approach, can hear radio clearly, can also hear C singing some ghastly pop song, call in for instructions, no reply from the tower. Echo Yankee final approach................ thats us, nothing, then coming in from another pilot, 'turn your flippin' radio on mate, I'm the guy in the 747 behind you!'. Quick check in cockpit, 'C flipp that switch UP on your right', hiss the radio kicks back into life, messages pass to & fro between us & the tower, land at 11.15am, taxi to park.

11.25 sling back hood, air turn blue, outcome a promise of no more singing down the headset by one youthful person! Quick check of aircraft then both put on life jackets as crossing the English Channel.

11.30 cleared for take off and head south for the coast and the sea.

1pm sat upstairs in the airport restaurant eating shrimps and drinking coffee.

Tell C of the story about a couple of English aristocratic ladies who would come here to lunch en route to Monaco. C was fascinated when l told her where they hid the cash. The thought of using bloomers as a wallet caused half the shrimp to leap out of the serving bowl.

Depart Le Touguet at 4, after filing flight plan,

5.30pm land back at airfield, clear customs, return EY to hanger. Head for home.

Sunday 16th May 1971

Woke at 3, damn jackdaw stuck in chimney.

Sad news & an Introduction

2010-08-04T11:40:00.003+01:00

Hello, this is Ms Elderberry, I have just discovered that my late Aunt has been blogging so l thought that l had better update the site as it appears that the pages have remained dormant for rather a long time.
Firstly, l must let you know that the ending was not to bad, no suffering, Auntie died peacefully in her sleep whilst on safari in Tanzania last October. She just went to sleep after a few G & Ts and when her room boy went to wake her the following morning with a cup of Earl Grey, discovered that she was out cold, so to speak. She was buried without too much fuss or attention beneath a flame tree in her cousin's garden out in the bush.

Since her departure, it has fallen to me to sort through her belongings, look after dog, and pass on any items to local museums etc I have also decided to write up here, on her blog, entries from her vast collection of journals meticulously written & kept up to date during her long life time.

I can't leave the place for a mere minute

2009-03-25T17:08:00.004Z

Why is it that when you leave the village for more than a few days, literally all hell breaks loose? You see, let me explain, l had not too bad a week at the Cheltenham National Hunt Festival and decided to spend my meager winnings on a quick trip to Marrakesh. That old romantic, Humph sent me a brief email suggesting a rendezvous in Morocco as he had a few days leave from the dig on the West Bank at Luxor. So here l am back in the village and on my first trip to the Village Stores to collect my newspapers l was bombarded with and updated on the latest village news.

It came as no surprise to myself, that my darling brother was once again centre of attention. Mini bus loads of women had descended on Much Dimley, searching for the 'lonely man in the papers'. Dearest brother had apparently moved in with Taffy Owen to escape the onslaught whilst Miss Knox had set up a temporary base in the lay by opposite Taffy's drive. It was being said that Sybil, Taff's wife, was not amused by recent developments and there had been a heated exchange of words at The Much Dimley Bowling Club's recent AGM. What makes all this so ridiculous is that t he program hasn't even been aired as yet. What will become of Monks then, l ask myself?

The next source of village agitation was the erection of a fine electronic gate heralding the entrance to Longshort Manor. It is said, and l will need to confirm this on my morning's perambulations, a most wonderful piece of iron work containing polo sticks and horses, however the entrance to the Manor has long been a public right of way, the footpath turning a sharp left hander onto an ancient drovers road. Well, it used to be for now theses majestic gates have completely blocked the route taken by horse rider and walker alike. No more access here. Both Mrs Blacker and Old Blaster joyously informed me that the local council had been informed as had the Ramblers Association, but so far nothing much seemed to have happened as the gates were still firmly shut to the hoi palloi.

Well so much for village life and l did have such a delicious time in Marrakesh and I am pleased to say that Morris-from-the-bottom-of-the-Lane did appreciate the little package that l collected for him from one of the little souks.

A chance encounter

2009-03-10T14:43:00.005Z

Miss Knox walked back with me from the village store this morning insisting that l call her Audrey. I must admit that she was strangely chatty, asking all sorts of rather irregular questions about nothing in particular then throwing in a little sneaker about Monks. This, the more l think about it, is totally out of Miss Knox's, l mean Audrey's character, for l don't think l have spoken more than a handful of words to her in the last thirty years as we in all honesty do not have much in common what with her being an ardent evangelical christian and vegan to boot.

The dratted woman was still hovering about when l should be taking Boy out for his mid-morning perambulation, l had been hospitable as it was so obvious to me that she seemed to be waiting for someone by her constant straining of her scrawny neck as she maneuvered to get the best view of my garden path and who was on it. I had a quick peek but could see no one except the blackbird tugging away at a worm that had jammed itself amongst the paving stones. She even declined to take a seat whilst l offered her a cup of Darjeeling with a slice of tea loaf. I thought that the poor woman must be waiting for a visitation from the lord the way she kept bobbing from this window to the next, it made me feel quiet exhausted just watching her.

As many of you will know, my dear brother normally drops in at around elevenses time, just for a chat, cup of tea and a read of my newspapers. today was no different except for the presence of dear Audrey who leaped about a foot into the air, spilling cake and tea as she rose like an incumbent kangaroo, as she saw the old fogey meander up the path, switching his stick from side to side whilst being followed at some length behind by Jack, his lakeland terrier who seem awfully interested in something just to the left of the garden gate.

Well, so much for brotherly love, is all l can say. Miss Audrey Knox completely engulfed Monks as soon as he stepped in through the door, taking his coat, pouring him tea, buttering his tea loaf. The stupid old biddy was positively falling over hersel, fawning around my grinning brother, who showed no objection to the fuss. I, mean while, was annoyed at being so totally ignored, so grabbed the old barbour from the peg behind the scullery door, climbed into my no longer green hunters, grabbed the dog lead and myself and Boy left the two old dotards to it.

As l closed the back door and headed across the vegetable garden towards the kissing gate and path beyond, it struck me quiet squarely, right between the eyes. Miss Audrey Knox, spinster of this parish is out to save the soul of my howler of a brother!

camp coffee and romance

2009-03-03T16:14:00.004Z

Boy and I had a lovely walk this morning down to the village shop to collect our daily newspapers, snowdrops & aconites lining the hedge bottoms and the allotments at the corner of Milksop Lane looking all spruced up ready for the planting of the coming season's vegetable crop. I noticed, as l stopped to re-tie my shoe laces in a double bow, that all the allotments have been taken this year, which is an excellent sign of the industrious nature of our little community and bodes well for the Village Fete and Produce Show.

The Post Office was, by the time l arrived, all of a flutter, Mrs Blacker had swapped the hot chocolate for cups of Camp coffee and chocolate digestives as the weather has become decidedly milder of late. Anyway, as l entered there was a notable silence only broken by the sound of Old Blaster sucking his coffee noisily from, behind which Mrs Blacker had solidly positioned herself proudly handing me an opened issue of the Midshire Daily Post carefully folded to reveal a large colour photo of my dear brother beaming from ear to ear under the caption 'Rural Gent wants a Wife'. Everything sprang into place, my charming brother was obviously the centre of attention here in the village and was, in no uncertain terms, being dissected in minute detail by the seated villagers who between sips of strong coffee and dunking of biscuits were thoroughly enjoying the juicy article.

Without saying a word or taking the proffered cup of coffee, l sat down with thud onto one of the rickety wooden chairs, pulled out my glasses from my barbour pocket and began to read, completely oblivious to the 6 pairs of elderly eyes that watched me with the greatest of anticipation.

The article, which was on page 2 of the Women's Post, had been written by one Cheri Startangler, and featured the 6 gentlemen who had been chosen, together with accompanying manly photos. The ages ranged from 25 to 74, all single and with some tie to the countryside, so for example, we had some farmers, a huntsman, a gamekeeper, a rural GP and then my brother. it was observed & commented upon by Mrs de la Pole, that l re-read the paragraphs concerning my brother's details at least 3 times if not 4.

Old Blaster broke the silence by loudly stating that Monks was at least 82 if not 83 as he was 3 years younger than him so where did the 74 bit come from? Mrs de la Pole erupted in a violent attack of the giggles as she read out from the article, ' this charming, young at heart gentleman is searching for a younger woman to help bring the joy back into his lonely life. She must be slim, attractive, sound in wind and limb and finally be an excellent cook capable of cooking bread and butter pudding and other nursery foods'. Miss Knox sniffed loudly, stood up, smoothed her tweed skirt down and left after purchasing a first class stamp, envelopes, writing paper & a bottle of Parker Quinck ink in bottle blue.

A vicious bite to the thumb

2009-02-27T13:34:00.009Z

I am sat here typing away with just one finger as l am nursing a badly swollen right hand following a rather nasty nip on the thumb by that little gentleman in velvet clothing, the common or garden mole. My garden, especially the vegetable plot is under a full frontal attack by at least one if not two of these subterranean blighters, if they stayed out of my garden that would be well and truly wonderful, but they don't so l have to resort to using traps which l carefully place in their runs, or would have if l hadn't have put my hand straight onto Mr Mole who promptly took hold of my thumb, sinking his long front teeth in the fleshiest part only coming to a halt as they hit bone and then preceded to hang on for grim death, swing from side to side as l tried to shake him off. So now you have it, one swollen hand and copious amounts of yellow pus. In future l think perhaps l will use my elderly Purdey to halt the invasion, but then, no doubt, some do gooder or a concerned person worried about my mental capacity, will complain if they see me taking pot shots at the ground?

Fortunately, Morris-from-the-Bottom-of-the-Lane was hedge cutting in the next field, so he kindly picked me up & took me straight around to the local doctor's surgery which was an interesting experience l can tell you, especially as it would have been a good few years since l had last set foot in the practice, Dr McFadden was in charge then l seem to remember. The place now is awful, to put it bluntly, people sat on uncomfortable plastic chairs listening to some ear-shattering radio noise and wheezing all over everyone else. Not my idea of a healthy environment and as for the receptionists, l ended up having to rap on the glass with my good hand to attract their attention. I do detest having to speak to people's backs!

A couple of days ago my dear brother, Monks, popped in for a cup of tea, slice of battenburg and a chat as he was just passing by & thought he would do a quick check up to see how l was doing, and to laugh unmercifully at the state of my hand. No sympathy there l might add; isn't that just typical, if it had been HIS hand, l would have been expected to race around armed with my first aid kit and a bottle of dandelion wine!

Well, when he turns up at a non-major meal time, it normally means that he has something of great interest about himself to pass on to me, and this was to be no exception. A local monthly magazine, The Hoppington Journal, had run an article on rural encounters of a romantic nature, asking for eligible gentlemen to forward their details for a series of articles to be published over the summer along the theme 'Rural Gent wants a Wife'. Crash, l dropped my mug of Darjeeling with the shock, 'Are you that desperate?' l inquired, for as far as l was aware he had never admitted to a lack of success in that direction, certainly as a younger man with a fine head of hair he was a great one for the ladies, in fact he was know affectionately as 'Dreamboat'! 'Just seeing who is out there', was the rather sheepish reply, adding that he was due to be featured in a local newspaper's women's page next week. Men, l ask you & l dread to think what he has told them about himself and as to the woman of his dreams, my toes positively curl backwards at the thought!

Lost ancestors and rabbit holes

2009-02-18T14:24:00.003Z

You will be pleased to note that l am feeling fully recovered from my slight incapacity of last week, Mrs De La Pole recommended her niece, Kylie who is a mobile beautician, to come and give me a thorough overhaul. I must say that l can thoroughly recommend her for not only did she massage all my aching limbs back into some sort of readiness, she also gave me a pedicure and manicure to boot, all in the price. So now l have matching finger & toe nails in the shade of purple grape. Please don't think that this is something of a regular occurrence as l believe my last 'do' would have been coming back from Brazil on the Queen Mary after a few months spent exploring the Amazon Basin with Sir David.

The village fortunately has suffered no more deaths though we have had a birth, the Blewwits have now a third grandchild, a boy who is to be christened Freddy. No news as yet as to when the christening will take place, but l am sure we will all be having a jolly good party afterwards. It is always the case an old one dies then in pops a new one!

My dear old brother turned up just as l was about to have lunch yesterday, an annoying habit he has always had l might add, clutching some rather tatty looking documents that looked as though they had been the staple diet of a family of rodents. Spreading the papers wildly across my already groaning pine kitchen table, and first pulling one forward and then another, Monks started to babble something about lost treasure and heirlooms. Now my brother can be a bit of a card to put it mildly, but this was something else. For years, well ever since we were children, the family legend on my father's side, was of an ancestor who had to leave the village at very short notice bequeathing the family, on his death, land that he had acquired in South America during his life time. As is so often the case with stories of wealth there was just no documentation to bear this out. Previous generations had scoured bank vaults, searched behind the wainscot, dug up floor boards, all to absolutely no avail. So how come my dear brother had come to think, rightly or wrongly that he had found the key to untold wealth?

After what must have been his fourth cup of earl Grey, apparently he had been out with Jack his lakeland terrier, who had shot off down a rabbit hole at the far end of the garden near to his rhododendron collection, only to bring back not a bunny but a leather packet, the contents of which where now spread before me. Slowly and carefully with both of us wearing a pair of mother's old ball gloves which l brought down from the gown trunk in the attic, we began to inspect the tattered papers. Bills, shopping lists passed through our be gloved fingers, hunt ball programes, knitting patterns and recipes, but no will. the pile grew every larger, black edged death notices, obituaries and a baby shoe. But nothing that even resembled a last will and testament!

So that was that then, my table covered in dirty, vermin smelling papers that contained not even a hint of cash. Such is life but it was fun at the time searching and to see poor old Monk's face as the light slowly dawned that this most certainly was not the BIG ONE!

Sore feet and aching kidneys

2009-02-14T16:57:00.005Z

I am tired. My feet ache and my kidneys seem to be somewhat tender today, I got up at my normal time, let Boy out then fell into the arm chair in front of the kitchen range, l haven't really moved much at all today. Yesterday had been rather a long one, I had been up and out by eight driving the old Royce to Bramley House to meet the Bloxhams who had kindly offered me a mount for a day's hunting with the Markley. The meet was at Bramley House and l must say that the hospitality was marvelous, hot sausage rolls and pork pies plus a good little number in the port field.

There was an excellent turn out for the day's 'hack' l do think that more people are enjoying a good day out on horse back since the hunting ban has been introduced, certainly when riding to hounds across country it is a marvelous feeling seeing no cars or people on foot. I must confess that l stayed out perhaps a little too long, enjoying the glorious sunshine and the comfort of a sturdy cob, you see gone are the days when l lead the field, leaping hedges and ditches in gay abandon! So there you are, l m now suffering for my old age folly, a good glass of sloe gin will no doubt help and perhaps next time l should stick to car following. Never such a fool as an old fool, as they say.

Spring must be coming now, the seed catalogues are starting to arrive through the post and l have rather a long list of vegetables that l hope to be growing this year in my vegetable garden, last year Morris-from-the-bottom-of-the-lane gave me a packet of wonderful seeds which produced lush plants, which on Morris's advice, l added to my carrot cakes, with the most amazing results. These cakes sold out in minutes at every monthly village produce sale, it was a little strange as most of these were bought by the younger members of our community, whilst Old Blaster said that on eating my carrot cake he felt as though he could soar like the buzzard who live in the wood! Very strange. Certainly l noticed that l became very jolly after a slice or two, must have been the freshness of the eggs.

of funerals and fish and chip shops

2009-02-10T13:28:00.007Z

This week has seen a spate of activity in the village church, St Botolf's, now that the snow has cleared & the ground has softened up. Enough, according to Mr Blewwitt the Sexton, to allow Spud Jones to commence grave digging again as there is rather a back log. Today sees the internment of Mrs Fidge at three pm then followed by Miss Page tomorrow at eleven and then the rest will be put to rest at the end of the week. Mrs Fidge's should be a good do as l am taking several bottles of fruit wine plus a selection of last year's vintage sloe gin range to add to the tea urn. I always feel that funerals are such a nice occasion to catch up on dear friends who have left the village and are only allowed out of the care homes for funeral services.

The snow drops, l noticed are starting to come into flower along the woodland walk which meanders along the edge of 100 acres of deer park surrounding Longshot Manor; l did take my binoculars just in case an unusual bird caught my eye. scanning the tree tops and across the parkland, nothing was out of the ordinary and the manor has not as yet welcomed its new inhabitants. The village awaits with much excitement as to whether the fish and chip shop will reopen in an effort to gain our support?

Yesterday l received a lovely post card from Humph posted in Luxor 2 weeks ago. He briefly informed me that they were making good progress, only occasionally hampered by the overeager tourist. Now Humph and l go way, way back. We first met whilst Monks was still at school, he used to come and stay with us during school holidays, spending most of his time with my brother shooting at anything that moved, certainly we never went short of rabbit whilst he was there!

Oh dear, l must be getting old, l am starting to sound just like an old woman thinking about the past, as long as l don't raise a tear in my eye l will be fine, not much chance of that l can quiet safely say. Now, in about 1936 l think it was, Humph and myself armed with pretty basic camping equipment and elderly map, headed across the channel, boarded the sleeper heading down to Narbonne, and from here armed with our pretty basic kit which did include a compass, headed off across country, with the aim of following the route to Santiago de Compostela. Now, that was one hell of an adventure, sleeping under the stars, toasting croissant in front of the camp fire and hearing that he had just become engaged to the Honorable Caroline Beachamp-Smyth. We did finish the walk but the atmosphere seemed to have changed and l did not see Humph again until after the war by which time much water had passed under the bridge.

Snow shoes and dog galoshes

2009-02-06T15:52:00.006Z

It has snowed all week here, the lanes are blocked and my house has a good 2 feet of snow on my roof, if the snow stays off this afternoon l think l had better get the step ladder out and sweep the stuff off.

Listening to the wireless, l hear that schools and businesses closed due this inclement weather. I can't remember this happening in 1947, everything ran, not always on time, but ran none the less, l wonder if this is a different sort of snow perhaps to that of the 1940's? It is with some luck that l have manged to get out and about with reasonable ease. In my youth l enjoyed skiing in the alps, visiting Wengen on an annual basis, staying in a chalet not far from the railway station. I can't really remember the Swiss infrastructure grinding to a halt back then due to heavy snow fall? No, l haven't had my old skis out but 2nd husband's father had been on an expedition to Antarctica in the early part of the last century and along with his body, preserved in brandy, also returned to his family was a nearly new set of snowshoes, large tennis racket-styled footwear, and dog galoshes, so you see Boy and myself have been walking in the countryside in relative ease.

It was on our walk yesterday that l noticed and pointed out to Boy that there was a string of flapping yellow planning notifications attached to not only the gatehouse of Longshort Manor but also to the gates themselves. I did notice in a comment from that very nice sounding young lady in the South of France warning me about electric gates and such like, well, l did get a little radgy at the thought of hideous monster of a gate, so on my return to the cottage l put my newly found internet skills into use to checkout the county's planning application website.

The yellow notices have not gone unnoticed in the village either, over hot chocolate and sloe gin this morning in the post office we all sat around the gloriously warm stove and discussed the manor and its new owners. We all agreed that no one had as yet moved in but the web site did reveal the plans that were being laid for the Manor's development. Planning applications had been received, l informed everyone, for a large barn which would included stabling for 60 horses and indoor arena suitable for polo, applications included helicopter pad, and change of use from agricultural land to that of amenity land. I can tell you that as we all sipped our steaming hot drinks in silence cogitating. It was interesting when eventually we all found our voices, Old Blaster thought it a good idea as there might be a job available for him, especially as he used to be a horse lad before the war, Monks just sucked on his pipe and shook his head. Mixed opinions then, l suppose that we will just have to wait and see what happens next then.

Village life despite the blanketing of snow has continued pretty much the same, we had another death this week, on Monday old Mrs Fidge died whilst visiting the outside privy during the night, apparently her neighbour, Miss Knox, found her sitting, frozen upright on the lavatory reading a back issue of Peoples Friend. The undertakers had a difficult job getting her into the hearse. I was relieved to hear that, after the postmortem, it was discovered that she had died following a massive heart attack and would not have suffered. Zap and she was gone. I think it would have been truly awful to think that she might have died after becoming frozen to the toilet seat her cries for help falling on deaf ears.

The Manor is Sold

2009-01-29T11:47:00.006Z

The lane into the village is really so very muddy Boy ends up well and truly splattered on our walk up to the Post Office to collect the morning's newspaper. I normally have 2 dailies, The Tellygraff and Midshire Daily Post. These are suplimented on Thursdays by the local weekly, Angelfield Post. The Post Office made a nice warm treat as it was a chilly march through the fog today. Mrs Blacker always has a jug of hot chocolate sat on top of the old stove, just the ticket to revive the numb extremities and today was no different, a drop of glorious gloppy chocolate with a dash of brandy to help widen the arteries.

We were all gathered around the little pot bellied stove, myself, Mrs Blacker and Mrs De la Pole, when Old Blaster comes roaring in blustering like an exploding grenade, hot air erupting from all available orifices, a sure sign of something of outstanding gossip-worthiness. I pulled up a chair for him to fall into whilst Mrs Blacker added an extra slug of brandy to his hot chocolate and Mrs De La Pole wafted an eau de cologne scented lace edge handkerchief. Once the situation had calmed a little bit and Old Blaster had got his breathing under control we all drew our rickety old chairs closer in order to hear, in intimate detail, what was causing Old Blaster to get so excited.

By now the shop was filling up with villagers, and we were all waiting.................... Old Blaster began, " Longshot manor has been sold" he blurted out, spraying spittle from the corners of his mouth. Well this was news to us, how on earth had it been kept so quiet, usually the village gossips, of which l am not one, can smell a rumour before it has actually happened. Old Blaster continued as we by now holding our breath and clasping the edge of our chairs, " It has been bought by a polo playing entrepreneur from up north somewhere. He has made millions in the fish and chip business". Silence. No one made a sound, you could hear the clock ticking slowly in the background... suddenly there was a sharp intake of breath followed by the sucking in on false teeth and then whoosh, everyone was talking at once like a flock of geese flying in formation. Who is it? He's from where? Ergh?

By now Old Blaster had risen to the occasion, a captive audience, a rare event nowadays indeed. The new owner had bought, sight unseen from the previous incumbent on meeting with her son in St Morritz a few weeks ago at an ice polo match. The new owner a Mr Oily-Clarke, apparently well known in the polo world having been featured in gossip columns escorting numerous super models and fathering many children, all of whom lived with him, and were part of, according the the Prattler, his entourage. Mr O-C, so we were informed by Old Blaster, who was settling comfortably into his role as storyteller, held himself in very high esteem, with a full PR Team churning out fabulous features about him and his family. Myself and the villagers were stunned.

What on earth was happening to our haven of piece and quiet amidst the turmoil of the outside world? As old Blaster came to the end of the 'known' facts, we sat there, Mrs Blacker brewed up a large pot of hot chocolate to which she added a good bottle of damson gin........

Old friends and troublesome brothers

2009-01-24T14:16:00.006Z

I have been home now for about a week and it would appear little has changed in the village. The gates to the Manor have been re-gilded and Mrs De la Pole has pulled a muscle in her back after attempting to limbo dance at the Old Folks New Year's Eve Party held in the village hall, Mr Frankish died suddenly whilst out walking his dog on Hampton Hill, so it's much ado about normal. It is such a relief to know that when you travel, things at home remain unchanged.

It is some time since l did a rapid drop of the hat and exit promptly, well this time l can blame in on my dear old brother, he always was a cheeky one even as a child. This Christmas he really lived up to his nick name 'Monks' as in Monkey! To fill you in on the fun, Christmas Eve saw all us villagers invited to the grand house for a cocktail party, l ask you how exciting was that? Anyway, the Post Office was full of gossip about who was going whilst the nearly new shop in Little Dimchurch was doing a roaring trade in the used dress department. Christmas Eve arrived and l had arranged to go with Monks. He duly arrived looking extremely dapper in his black tie although he did look a little odd wearing his black carpet slippers, anyway l digress, he also had tagging along with him, one of his old chums, Humph. Well, l haven't seen Humph for more years than l care to remember, l think the last time would have been in the early 1950s when we flew an old tiger moth to Le Touquet for lunch? Such a surprise especially as he was last heard of digging an old site in Peru.

The party was l am afraid to say all bling and pink champagne. The Prattler photographer was everywhere. Not to my taste is all l can say really as l do find jacuzzi and home cinemas just a little common, but we did all have fun chatting about the' good old days' when people knew their place. The outcome of this rather heavy topic of conversation was that Humph announced that he was hiring a dahabiya at Luxor and would Monks and I like to come on over to Egypt with him and help set up the new excavation on the West Bank, the departure date was the 27th.

On the morning of the 27th we duly checked in on the British Airways fight to Cairo.

In the bleak mid winter

2008-12-14T11:08:00.008Z

At last, a few moments to my self, l have shut the curtains, turned off the lights and am sat here in the dark, pretending that l am out, even Boy has joined in the game. This is you see, an absolute must this time of year, tonight sees the local young farmers club holding their carol singing event, screeching loudly at every front door between here and Little Dimchurch in the hope of a] money and b] something to nibble on! In my eyes this is money with menaces, 'if you don't pay up or feed us we will sing'! Hence my strategy for playing 'Gone Out'.

The Christmas Food Fayre was very well supported this year, with a deluge of shiny 4 x 4s descending on the pub car park. The fancy photographer from The Prattler showed up and was snapping gaily away at the groaning tables of food, celebrities and villagers, Mrs De La Pole, embarrassed us all once again by wearing her leopard skin coat, which although somewhat scabby around the edges was photographed a plenty and even more so when the hussy opened the coat to reveal a very small polka dot bikini, not exactly what the poor man was expecting, and most certainly not a desirous sight on a woman of Her age, who has lived on nothing but coca-cola for the last 60 years!

As l was walking to the Post Office this morning, l thought that under the 6 inches of snow, the village looked incredibly festive. Sparkling lights, inflatable Santas Christmas wreaths. Strolling back through the woodland path that meanders past Longshort Manor, l caught a glimpse of what l can only describe as the most shocking thing l have every seen coming from the place in all the long years that l have lived in the area, even worse than the various elopements or card game frauds. The wonderful Elizabethan house, which had survived, Civil War, murder and shortage of funds, was bedecked in enough lights to drain the entire grid of electricity. Every gable, gutter, down pipe and window was dripping in white fairy lights, whilst perched a top the very highest roof was Santa, resplendent in his sleigh and complete with all his reindeer, Rudolf with his neon red flashing nose leading the entourage. I was indeed so disturbed by what l saw, that l had to desperately race home to down a good half a bottle of sloe gin to restore my equilibrium.

Cranberry-Mince Shortcake

makes 12

shortcake:

175gr unsalted butter, diced

73g golden caster sugar

150g plain flour

1 teaspoon baking powder, sifted

100g ground almonds

4 medium eggs, separated

Topping:

400g mincemeat

150g cranberries

icing sugar for dusting

Preheat oven to 180C/gas mark 4 / bottom shelf AGA. Butter a 30 x 23 x 4cm baking tray. Mix butter, sugar, flour, baking powder & ground almonds to a crumb like constancy, add egg yolks and mix to a sticky dough. Press dough into base of tin and smooth using your fingers. Bake shortcake for 25 - 30 minutes until lightly golden and slightly risen.

Whisk egg whites until stiff. Spoon mincemeat into a bowl and fold in the whisked white in two goes. Fold in 100g cranberries and smooth the mixture over the shortcake base. Scatter the remaining cranberries over the top and bake for 20 -25 minutes until slightly coloured on the surface.

Allow to cool then cut into 12 squares, approx 7cm, then dust with icing sugar.

Christmas Shopping & Email

2008-11-28T11:36:00.006Z

My life seems to have turned around in the most interesting way since my introduction to the world of the 'web'. I had no idea that there were so many interesting things to be found, l really enjoy Wikipedia, fascinating reading material, keeps me mentally stimulated in between the monthly visits from the county library bus. I have been able to find out all about Great Uncle William, who lost his life in the Veld after an encounter with a large snake, apparently he was still warm when his servant cut open the creature, but unfortunately he had expired due to asphixiation, so the visiting Doctor wrote in 1889. He lies buried on a remote corner of land underneath a banyan tree, home to a great colony of baboons which, whilst he was alive, were the bane of his life, forever steeling into his house and making of with his whisky, specially imported from Jura.

Now aren't emails interesting? I have received correspondence from several banks informing me of monies that has been paid into my account by persons completely unknown to me, but as l don't have a bank account, l think they must have got their information wrong. I have tried to contact them by both telephone and email, but have not been able to either speak to anyone or get a reply. Very strange considering the Post Office is always so very helpful.

Some of my emails have helped with my Christmas shopping; normally l travel up to town on the annual village Christmas shopping trip, but this year l have managed to find a few items by Internet shopping. It does seem so much easier than fighting through the crowds of elderly ladies in order to find the appropriate article for the relevant relation. The only difficulty with the Internet shops was not having a credit or debit card. Fortunately Morris-from-the-bottom-of-the-lane has proved my saviour once again by providing me with a card, thus allowing me to shop whilst comfortably seated at the kitchen table. The slight inconvenience has been postage and dispatch. Morris has advised me not to use either my address or his for delivery but another. l do find that a little bit unusual but he assures me this is quite normal procedure for Internet purchases, allowing the costs to be kept down by only delivering to only one establishment.

Yesterday l bought some rather nice liver from Mr Haddock, the mobile butcher and today's lunch will include one of my favourite meals, faggots.

Faggots

1 1/2 lbs pigs liver
6oz bacon
2 onions
7oz white breadcrumbs
3oz shredded suet
2 tsp sage
1 tsp basil
salt and freshly ground black pepper

Mince the liver, bacon & onions. place all the ingredients together in a bowl & mix well. Form the mixture into 8 balls and roll in flour. pack closely together in a baking tin. Bake in the center of the oven at 180'C or bottom shelf of AGA for 30 minutes. When cooked, divide with a knife and serve with a rich brown gravy and pease pudding.

So much to catch up on

2008-11-21T13:10:00.006Z

Morris-from-the-bottom-of-the-lane, was a kindly soul and did collect my newspapers the other day, but today l had to brave the weather plus the old fools, and walk down to the post office myself. Boy accompanied me, only being distracted by the odd rabbit or two in its last throws of life, dying miserably from myxomatosis. l have to say that this is why l always take with me on my hedgerow ramblings my father's good old heavyweight stick to end the poor animal's suffering, a good thwack saves the creature from an unpleasant death. There is such a thing as sporting chance and myxi removes that option.

It certainly seems that l have missed a great deal of comings and goings in the village since my accident. The drama group manged to cope without me, Mrs De La Pole kindly offered to do a tasteful dance with her pet python, which apparently is now past its best being of a great age , according to Mrs Smith-Dowson, a bit of a disappointment to her fans who can remember the dance being staged in the West End during the late 1940's. The manor's restoration is continuing at a fast rate of knots, Mrs Eastern informs me that the new owners are hoping to be 'in' in time for the Christmas holiday, certainly, the villagers lives have been interrupted by the constant whirl of helicopters that seem to be forever landing and taking off, Bertha, the Manor's former cook has heard that the new owners are looking to establish a polo club as their son is a keen player. Well that means more traffic, more paparazzi, it has been bad enough since l have returned home, the press keep knocking on my door asking for the exclusive rights to my encounter with poachers. Now that is daft, l was only protecting my own, so to speak, nothing wrong with shooting or hunting in the right circumstances and conditions but a definite No to snares, traps, arch lights and dogs.

Next month's village produce sale has been featured in a very upmarket magazine, The Pratler, my niece, Lettuce, who is office tea lady there, has informed me that a society photographer is coming to takes some snaps. I certainly have a good stock of preserves all ready to take and the evergreen foliage, protected from the birds under swaths of old net curtain, look in excellent condition. I wonder if l ought to make some potted rabbit as a little something for festive fayre, certainly the skins do make rather cosy slippers.

Potted Rabbit
1 jointed rabbit
2 oz butter
1 lump of sugar
1 onion
12 cloves
12 allspice
6 peppercorns
ground nutmeg to taste
8 oz butter
1 dessertspoon Worcestershire sauce

Soak the rabbit joints in salted water for two hours and dry well. Put them in a casserole with a tightly fitting lid and add 2 oz butter, sugar, the onion stuck with clioves, allspice, peppercorns & a good sprinnkling of nutmeg. Put the lid on and cook at 150@C or bottom of AGA for 3 hours. Cool and remove the meat from the bones. Put the meat through the mincer twice and mix with the juices form the casserole, most of the 8 oz butter and Worcestershire sauce. Put into small pots & cover with a little extra butter.

Serves 4 -6

poachers

2008-11-19T15:19:00.003Z

It's so nice to be home isn't it? For the past few weeks l have spent time in my local cottage hospital and convalescence home in Much Broomfleet. My wounds seem to be heeling nicely now despite the fact that the nursing staff would try to fill me up with a variety of brightly coloured pills that were supposed to do me good! Bah! A touch of good old Solomon seal root, is just the ticket for bruises and swelling. Heaven knows what l have missed whilst l have been away, but it is nice to sit here in my deep. comfy chair with Dog at my feet, toasting my toes in front of the fire with a large steaming mug of delicious milk posset on the adjacent table.

It all happened about a month ago now, l heard a car coming down my lane, which as you know is a dead end, sometime in the early hours of a Monday. Being a good neighbourly sort, l carefully peered around the somewhat faded Sanderson peony curtains to see who on earth was creating such an ungodly din. Couldn't see a damn thing. Now, l am not afraid of the dark, coming from my time spent hiding in ditches some 60 odd years ago in France. Be prepared is my motto! Throwing on my lived-in mackintosh, gumboots and armed with my late husband's well oiled 12 bore, l purposely marched out into the night. By now, the field opposite was a mass of blazing lights whilst the sound of braying hounds unsettled Boy. 'Blurdey poachers', l muttered under my breath, those horrid little men from the towns, armed with powerful lights, riffles and dogs coming here, to my village killing everything within the light. Making sure both barrels were loaded, and l had spare cartridges in my pocket, l strode out across the lane, after making a mental note of the landrover's number plates, and letting down the 2 off side tyres, to prevent escape. Belying my age, l leaped over the gate and with my headscarf securely knotted under my chin prepared to meet the foe face to face. Carefully l raised my gun to shoulder level and released both barrels over the heads of the poachers, just enough to warn them that l meant business. Lights quickly all went out, dogs silenced, all went black.

To my embarrassment, next morning l woke up in a hospital bed with my right shoulder broken in 2 places. The doctor had asked me if l remembered anything of the previous night's events, to which l could only shake my head in bewilderment, had l perhaps fractured my scapula by not preparing for the gun's recoil? No. I had been knocked to the ground by a fully grown stag as it bounded across the field to escape the poachers bullets. Oh well, at least it escaped to rut another day, so to speak.

Do you know, l am really dreading walking up to the village shop in the morning to fetch my papers, perhaps young Morris-from-then-end-of-the-lane will collect them for me tomorrow as l really can't face those gossips fawning all over me when all l did was miss the target.

As a footnote, the police were unable to apprehend the poachers, despite the fact that the criminals vehicle was 'out of action' as they were attending a beetle drive 10 miles away.

Milk Possit

1 pint whole milk
3 fl oz white wine or sherry or to taste
a squeeze of lemon
a little sugar
pinch of ginger
pinch of nutmeg

heat the milk until it froths add the wine or sherry, strain and add lemon juice and sugar to taste, stir in ginger and nutmeg, serve hot.

Amateaur Dramatics

2008-10-16T12:40:00.005+01:00

Goodness me what a week. Longshort manor has been a hive of activity, vans, lorries and cars turning in through the Griffin topped gates from the main road. Morris-from-the-bottom-of-the-lane tells me that the decorators are in, some posh company from London so Mrs Eastern said at church on Sunday. Builders have been erecting scaffolding around the house and men in hard helmets have been crawling all over the place like blue beetles. Apparently, so Morris-from-the-bottom-of-the-lane says, inside everything is either being ripped out or restored. I seem to remember that there was lots of ribbon paneling in the Great Hall and the most marvelous oak staircase with twisted newel post and carvings of fierce, toothy animals staring down at you. Morris, who had been invited inside the other evening brought me back a rather nice silver creamer. He is such a nice boy, despite his facial piercings and tattoos.

Sunday's church service saw the church almost full, something not of the usual. The reason this time was the Village Players, a group of old dears, myself included, who enjoy a good sing along. This season we are doing songs from the musicals. We have been rehearsing for about 8 weeks now, and over the winter take our little show out onto the road to old folks homes around the county. My little performance is from Annie Get Your Gun, l do so enjoy twirling my gun and slapping my thighs. I hasten to add that Mrs De La Poule is doing a fan dance, the last time she exhibited herself in this manner an old gentleman died of heart failure, at the mere sight of her fleshy body. The hussy showed no remorse only adding, ' well he died with a smile on his face'.......... Shameless woman!

This evening l am going out to the monthly Towdry Herbalist Society, we all normally take a selection of nibbles so l had better get my skates on and get baking my apple cake, a nice seasonal delicacy.

Grandma Wilson's Apple Cake

4 apples
3oz butter
1/4 pint fresh milk
2 free range eggs
2ozplain flour
3 tablespoons sugar

Peel the apples, [saving the peel for the compost bucket], and fry them in hot butter. Mix the eggs, milk and flour. Stir in the apples and butter. put in a greased 7 inch sponge sandwich tine and bake at 375'C, 190'C, gas mark 5 or cake oven in the aga for 20 minutes. Turn out , spinkle with sugar, and brown in the oven or under the grill.

Apples and Gossip

2008-10-08T10:27:00.005+01:00

My feet feel a bit sore today, l somehow managed to drop the preserving pan from the top shelf two days ago and it had the misfortune to land on my right foot which promptly swelled up to the size of a small marrow. Fortunately the swelling has reduced a bit now but l am still rubbing my foot in borage oil which seems to be doing the trick quite nicely.

The gossips in the village are having a field day at the moment, l heard, whilst collecting my Sunday newspapers from the Village Shop, that the Longshort Manor has at last been sold for some ungodly sum to an aristocrat who lives so Mrs Smart said, mostly in Monaco.

The Manor's history goes a long way back in time, there are remains of the castle in the park, whilst the modern house was built during the reign on Elizabeth 1, all timber frames with red and black brickwork. The house remained in the same family,the Wilton-Smythes for many hundreds of years, l believe the first incumbents came over with William the Conqueror. The last family members fell foul of the last war, with both sons being killed in North Africa, Incidently Daisy Brown, she of the high kicks and loose morals, ran off with the younger son, Guy, at the age of 14 to Paris in 1934. He returned just before the war to take up a commission in the Camel Corps; where Daisy went no one knew, forgotten until she returned to the village as Mrs De La Poule about 25 years ago.

The windy weather has brought down rather a lot of windfalls in the back orchard. A few years ago now, a rather nice young man from the council or was it DEFRA came and inspected my apples, apparently the trees are from very ancient stock you know! Varieties such s Persh Apple, rusty coat and little Herbert. This afternoon then, well in fact after l have finished my drinkings, l am off out, armed with my wicker baskets to gather the crop before the birds and animals eat them!

Apple Ginger:
4lb apples
4lb sugar
3 pints water
2oz ground ginger

Peel and core the apples and cut them into thin slices. Dissolve the sugar in the water and boil syrup until thick. Add the apple slices and boil until transparent. Stir int he ginger, boil for 5 minutes, pour into jars and cover.

this is good for filling tarts.
makes about 6lbs.

Jams and chutneys

2008-10-04T10:52:00.003+01:00

Oh it is nice to take the weight of my feet, even if it just for a short while. The Mushroom expedition was not too successful yesterday finding only a few truffles and some wood blewit, a rather pretty coloured dainty which l found growing in several places on its own or in clusters amongst the decaying leaf litter. A lovely mushroom to add to last night's liver and onions.

Today, looking outside through the small, diamond shaped window panes, would appear to be a kitchen day. Over the past week l have been collecting whilst on my perambulations,the brilliant red fruits of the haws and rosehips, the sweet, succulent blackberries and the tart, elderberries. They sit there, in slightly chipped, wicker baskets on my pine scrubbed table, waiting to be transformed into something that little bit special for the monthly village produce sale.

This village feature is held at the market cross in front of the Golden Pheasant Public House on the second Saturday of each month. Over the summer months l must confess to having completely run out of jams and chutneys so to keep my London customers happy, l was forced to buy supplies in from my local Aldi, soaking off the labels and replacing them with my own. The jams received an excellent revue in a monthly food magazine, after a well known celebrity chef bought my entire stock!

Elderberry Chutney: [Grandmother's recipe]
1 1/2lbs elderberries
1 onion
2oz Demerara sugar
1/2 pint vinegar
1/2oz ground ginger
a few cloves
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon pepper
1/4 teaspoon mace
2oz stoned raisins

pass the berries through a sieve, chop the onions finely and boil with the other ingredients for fifteen minutes then pot as usual.

My grandmother always had the most wonderful head of black hair right up until she died at the age of 98. She swore that washing her hair in a mixture of boiled vinegar and elderberry enhanced her natural colour.

High kicks and ripped skirts

2008-10-03T15:53:00.006+01:00

A strange thing happened yesterday in the Village Stores and Post Office when l went in to get my weekly issue of the Anglefield Post. Usually l see very few souls about as most only sleep in the village; there are not many young ones at all, anyway, Mrs De La Poule was in picking up a large paper bag containing her prescriptions, she is a strange one. Rumour has it that she danced at the Moulin Rouge and in Berlin before the war. Certainly she was in a very strange mood, laughing and joking away she was, l did wonder if she had been at the cooking brandy again, when she announced to all and sundry that she had a new man in her life. Poof, she's had more men than l have had cooked breakfasts that one and she's an old woman to boot, does she have no shame? Apparently not,it would seem. When Mrs Blacker, the postmistress, asked wouldn't she rather watch telly with a good cup of tea, she proceeded to throw her right leg way up into the air in a most immodest kick, utter an ungodly shriek, then leapt high into the air landing in full splits. It brought tears to my eyes it did. She refused all help to raise her from the floor, and shuffled out of the shop, tweed skirt ripped from waist band to hem muttering about the English having no sense of amour. Daft bat is English, she used to be plain Daisy Brown once.

I suffered quite a turn l might say, and it was all l could do to drag my wicker shopping trolley home along Blackmoor Lane. The lane is a mess especially after Farmer Dexter and his lads have been muckspreading! Fortunately a nice glass of cowslip wine helped to calm my nerves somewhat and enabled me to focus my energies elsewhere.

As the weather is not to bad today, Boy, Cat and myself are heading over to Longbrow Wood to forage for mushrooms, young Morris-from-the-bottom-of-the-lane often comes with me looking for something he terms magic mushrooms.

Hmm, l think l might be starting to get the hang of this logging now.

Introducing myself

2008-10-01T10:31:00.003+01:00

Well, yesterday's first attempt at typing seemed to go alright, though my fingers after all that cracking were a little stiff this morning, so l have rubbed a generous amount of bone radial horse embrocation into my joints and knuckles which, l am pleased to say, has alleviated much of the pain and swelling although l now smell of old Cesaer my late father's large chestnut plough horse.

It was lovely to meet up with Mrs Snow yesterday afternoon, and certainly her wines and syrups are already showing signs of an excellent vintage, the raspberry vinegar is already secure in my medicine cabinet ready to use at the first signs of a sore throat.

The weather is so much better today so l am planning to walk along the parish boundary hedge at Cross field to inspect the abundance and quality of sloes for harvesting after the first frost. On my perambulations my companions are usually Boy, my elderly and probably the last l shall own, labrador, who although nearly as old as me can still find the enthusiasm to snuffle out the odd hedgepig or two. Boy you see, is the direct descendant of the labrador owned by my late husband, Boy would travel everywhere with him, sitting before him resting his paws on the handlebars of his velocette motor bike or waiting for him to return from a sortie. He was a spitfire pilot. One of the few. He left one bright and sunny morning, one of those with high wispy clouds, in September. He never returned. I have kept the Boy name and line going in his memory.

This raspberry tea is making me all maudlin, on with the wellington boots, coat and headscarf, collect my stick and basket, off we go Boy and Cat. Did l mention Cat or the kites?

Sloe Gin: [ my grandmother's recipe]

Pick your sloes from blackthorn hedges in October or November when they are most ripe
Take a good sized bottle of gin and drink about half
Prick or cut the sloes and drop into the bottle until full
add l wine goblet of sugar and shake well
turn the bottle every week for 12 months

The Beginning

2008-09-30T10:57:00.001+01:00

Well, this is a first. Normally you would never find me seated on a chair before noon tide lunchings, but today l have received a new gift from the young man at the bottom of the track, he mentioned something about the machine now in front of me, that it would be ideal for writing my memoirs, and to be more than truthful l have done no typing since the doodle bug shattered my nerves back in the war, but he is a nice lad, always giving me a little something that had fallen off one of his friend's lorries.

It is wet today so what better excuse than to stretch my fingers, crack my joints and try to remember just something. I find as the evenings draw in, as l sit before my peat fire, that l hear the little pattering of tiny feet as my house mice move back into their warm and snug winter quarters after spending the summer months out in the fields and woodland that backs up to my little cottage. The district nurse tries very hard to persuade me that these dear little beasties are pests, but to me they are my friends, hearing them rustle behind the wainscot reminds me that l am still alive!

Well, l think that is more than enough of words for my first attempt, this afternoon l am out to tea with a neighbour the other side of the copse. We will be sampling the first batch of hedgerow wine made last year.