Maddie Grigg

Batten down the hatches

Mammatus storm clouds, San Antonio. Picture: Wikipedia Commons

The storm tickled us here in west Dorset, with high winds and rain but nothing we couldn’t handle.

We were lucky. Other parts of the country have had it much worse than us.

Storm Isha is the ninth named storm this season. We have Storm Jocelyn just around the corner. Batten down the hatches.

I don’t know about you but there are so many named storms, I lose track of them all.

Someone told me yesterday that the storms are named by European countries jostling for position in the naming stakes.

I didn’t think that could be right. But there was something in the back of my mind about storm names alternating between male and female.

So I turned to the internet and looked it up.

Thanks to a very comprehensive (and, thankfully, short) article on the BBC website, I am now considerably the wiser.

The male/female names were indeed a thing, but not any more. (And to digress, when did the words any more become anymore? I must have missed that memo.)

The US began naming storms in the 1950s.

Here in the UK, it’s a much more recent phenomenon.

According to the BBC, ‘in the UK, the Met Office names any storm when it has the potential to cause disruption or damage.

‘It believes that it is easier to follow the progress of a storm on TV, radio, or social media if it has a name.’

So how are storms named?

Over to the BBC article again:

‘The UK Met Office and Irish service Met Éireann launched their first Name our Storms campaign in 2015.

‘Most years, they draw the names from a shortlist of favourites submitted by the public. Since 2019, they have been joined by the national weather service of the Netherlands, which also chips in a few suggested names each year.

‘In previous years, storms have alternated between male and female names.

‘However, for the 2023-24 season, the Met Office has altered this, naming a number of storms after prominent scientists, meteorologists and others “who work to keep people safe in times of severe weather”.’

So, this season, it will be mostly:

Agnes, Babet, Ciaran, Debi, Eli, Fergus, Gerrit, Henk, Isha, Jocelyn, Kathleen, Lilian, Minnie, Nicholas, Olga, Piet, Regina, Stuart, Tamiko, Vincent and Walid.

(Storm Minnie!)

We might not get through the whole alphabet and the letters Q, U and Z don’t get a look in. But over the coming months, you may hear some names which aren’t on the British/Irish/Dutch list.

Explains the BBC: ‘That is because storms are named where they originate. Storms that reach the UK are occasionally the tail end of one that started in the US several days earlier – and may have been downgraded from hurricane or cyclone status.’

Keep safe.

It’s our wassail

It was down into Bridport today for the annual wassailing ceremony in the community orchard.

‘Wassailing? What’s that?’ a friend of mine said when she asked about my plans for the weekend.

So, stiltedly (because I wasn’t absolutely sure), I rambled on about blessing the cider apple trees and scaring away evil spirits to ensure a good crop later in the year.

I ought to know, being the daughter of many generations of Somerset farmers.

My father had a small orchard full of Tom Putt apples, Morgan Sweets and Dabinetts. There were other varieties, I’m sure, but these are the names I remember.

Small orchards were part and parcel of farming life for years, certainly in my part of south Somerset. My late grandfather was renowned for his cider. The American troops stationed locally during World War II were regular callers to Grandpa’s Saloon.

But then cider fell rather drunkenly off the wagon and the small orchards were scrubbed out. It took enthusiasts like Nick Poole of West Milton Cider in Dorset for the amber nectar to regain its popularity.

He and pomologist Liz Copas hunted down long-forgotten cider apple varieties and wrote a book, The Lost Orchards: rediscovering the forgotten cider apples of Dorset. It’s a fascinating journey of discovery and, as publishers Little Toller Books say: ‘This hopeful story will resonate widely and inspire others around the country – and around the world – to look closely at their surroundings and take steps to rediscover, celebrate and conserve the orchards that make their locality special.’

These days, as well as the big producers, there are hundreds of makers across the country crafting exceptionally good cider, and, quite rightly, the distinctive drink has a new fan base.

Today, in Bridport’s community orchard, there were morris dancers, mulled cider, storytelling and the biggest audience yet for the annual event, who joined in the wassailing songs to promote a good harvest for the coming year.

The Dorset Ooser also made an appearance but, luckily, there were so many people gathered around that my two-year-old grandson didn’t spot this terrifying creature from local folklore.

The wassailers didn’t sing this one, which is not surprising as Bridport is in Dorset. However, it’s the only such song I know, so here you go:

Here’s to a great week.

That’s about it.

Love, Maddie x

We loved Wonka – pure imagination (and a lovely coat)

We’ve just been to see the film Wonka, the prequel to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

As the opening credits began, along with the very familiar tune to Pure Imagination, which Gene Wilder sang in the original, Mr Grigg turned to me from the next seat and glowered. My thirteen-year-old granddaughter was yawning on my other side.

‘I thought you said it wasn’t a musical?’ he said.

‘I didn’t know it was.’

It’s true, I didn’t.

However, his grumpiness was not very charitable, considering he’d loved The Greatest Showman and I’d hated it. I would have walked out of that film had he not been sitting next to me in the cheap seats, his eyes fixed in delight on the screen. (My singing friends, the Vicar and Mrs Reed, have never forgiven me for my dislike of this movie.)

‘Just give it a chance, please,’ I whispered, as Wonka began.

It had been a long day and, to be honest, a night out at the cinema probably wasn’t my greatest idea. A night in, falling asleep in front of the telly would have been more relaxing.

But I’d been determined to see the film before it left the big screen, especially as parts of it were filmed on The Cobb at nearby Lyme Regis. I’d even paid for luxury seating (still cheap at Dorchester’s Plaza cinema, believe me) just to persuade Mr Grigg he needed to come along too.

In Wonka as in life, The Cobb was a magical location, made astonishing by the computer generated backdrop of a city with even more beauty and majesty than Lyme Regis itself. This is going some, considering the seaside resort is known as ‘The Pearl of Dorset’.

Lyme Regis. The Cobb is in the background.

The three of us soon settled into the swing of the film. We found ourselves enchanted, even though the posh seats were so shiny that, when mine was in the reclining position, I kept slipping out of it like a baby banana being born, and with the speed of the explosive seeds of the Himalayan Balsam plant when someone brushes past it. Whoosh.

After the third vertical ejection, I glanced around and noticed two patrons at the end of our row who were using booster seats as foot rests. I decided to give it a go, which made for a much better viewing experience, and no shooting out of the seat. Oh, the joys of little legs.

Talking of little legs, the hit of the film for me was Hugh Grant as the prototype Oompa Loompa. Brilliant. This man gets better with age.

As the final credits rolled and we stayed for the accompanying bonus scenes, we all agreed it was a film well worth seeing. Timothee Chalamet makes a charming Willy Wonka and the actors, set and story were very fine indeed.

I fell asleep only momentarily, as did Mr Grigg – but not at the same time, so we were able to fill each other in on the blanks.

As well as Hugh Grant, the highlight for me was Willy Wonka’s coat. I could see myself in something like that.

‘Yes,’ my granddaughter agreed. ‘It’s exactly like something you would wear, Granny.’

I’m not sure that was a compliment.

That’s about it.

Love Maddie x

I’ve been watching and listening to…

As well as consuming books as if they were chocolates, I am also an avid listener of music, podcasts and watcher of television.

One of my Christmas presents was a set of wireless headphones. You can’t imagine how delighted I am to be working at my laptop, playing my electronica full blast without anyone saying: ‘I’m sorry, but what kind of music is that?’

To be honest, you probably can imagine how delighted Mr Grigg is at not having to listen to my musical choices. I think if he has to hear one more minute of BBC Radio 6 Music, he’ll probably take a short walk off a long pier.

It won’t surprise you, then, to learn that he’s the one who gave me the headphones.

They are very handy for listening to podcasts of my choice.

This week, I’ve been glued to the BBC’s Intrigue: Million Dollar Lover, which tells the true story, in real time, of an 80-year-old rich woman and her 57-year-old companion, who turned up penniless and homeless in her Californian beach town, became her gardener and then her lover.

Hats off to the reporter, Sue Mitchell, who, with the couple’s consent, began recording them, just because the idea of their relationship piqued her curiosity. Little did she to know that an incredible story – with equal elements of love, dark secrets, family discord and manipulation – was about to land in her lap.

You can listen to the entire series on BBC Sounds.

I’m not giving anything away but I thoroughly recommend this podcast, which was scripted by the always reliable Winifred Robinson.

I’m now into Episode 3 of June: Voice of A Silent Twin, which tells the strange and tragic story of Black twins June and Jennifer Gibbons, who in 1982 were sent to Broadmoor after a crime spree in rural Wales. At the age of 19, they were the youngest women to be incarcerated at the notorious secure unit.

It’s a fascinating and sad story with which I’m familiar, but what makes this different is hearing directly from June herself, who now lives a quiet life in Wales. Jennifer died at just 29, not long after the sisters were moved from Broadmoor to a more open clinic in Bridgend.

The series is currently unfolding on BBC Sounds.

On the telly, I’ve been watching, open-mouthed, Mr Bates Vs The Post Office, which has been on ITV every night this week, with all episodes available on ITV X. It’s very uncomfortable to see how a once much-loved British institution completely wrecked the lives of hardworking sub-postmasters and mistresses across the land.

A great British cast and efficient script plonks the viewer firmly on the side of the underdog. How could the Post Office treat people so badly? And doesn’t it show that if you work in isolation, with no-one on your side to turn to, how destructive corporate bureaucracy can be?

It’s an astonishing true story of arrogance and incompetence and now, thanks to television, millions more people know about this terrible injustice. The repercussions are still being felt.

I’m hoping to catch Wonka in the cinema before Timothee Chalamet disappears behind his chocolate factory gates. The BBC says it’s ‘relentlessly wacky and over the top’, which, to be fair, sounds just like my kind of film.

Just before Christmas I saw the Stranger Things prequel, First Shadow, at The Phoenix Theatre in London with my thirteen-year-old granddaughter.

I’ll save that experience for another post

Have a great weekend.

Maddie x

Happy New Year!

It’s blowing a hooley out there and the rain is pouring off the fields down into the village.

The best place to be is inside, in the warm.

We’ve taken down the decorations, the tree (what’s left of it) is going out in the garden before it drops any more needles and we’re just about to go in the pub to collect the DJ equipment and pack it away for another year.

New Year’s Eve went brilliantly, with five hours and 38 minutes of music PLUS singing of Auld Lang Syne in the village square. I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol until after midnight and then I sank into a large glass of cold, white wine, with plenty of ice.

We greeted 2024 with The Staves’ beautiful song, All Now.

I hope you’ve had a good festive season. It’s been a busy and happy Christmas here, with lots of family and friends.

The Nativity set nestled in an alcove, complete with the Baby Jesus in the crib. Last year, I forgot to insert Him into the scene on 25 December and it was only on Boxing Day when a visiting child asked where Jesus was that I realised the baby was missing.

The figures have now joined the Christmas tree fairy and the bags of tinsel and baubles in the cupboard.

Today, I’m charging up my wireless headphones, trying out the de-bobbler on my favourite jumper, doing the washing and ironing and then making a work plan so that 2024 will be the year I’ll get my writing jobs done.

That’s about it.

Love, Maddie x