Good morning starshine

I’m not sure what it was that woke me up.

It was before sunrise and still dark.

But when I looked out the window to the east, there was a stirring sight I hadn’t seen for months.

The constallation of Orion the Hunter, with his distinctive starry belt and dagger, the ghost of the shimmering summer dawn.

According to the website EarthSky, that apt description comes from a poem by Sophia C Prentice which was published in Popular Astronomy magazine in 1924, and is reproduced below. The poem celebrates the mighty hunter, whose distinctive shape figures prominently in the winter night sky of the northern hemisphere.

Orion is one of the easiest constellations to spot, a reassuring presence on crisp and cold nights in winter, yet a surprise summer visitor for those, like me (who could sleep through a herd of elephants traipsing through the bedroom), who are not usually awake before the sunrise.

The sight of Orion right outside my window reminded me of an encounter I had a few years ago. I’d made contact with an astronomer during what turned out to be an unsuccessful campaign to remove a plethora of dazzingly bright street lights in my village, which had been imposed suddenly by the local authority with no consultation with residents.

I sought help from a man called Bob Mizon, an active member of the Wessex Astronomical Society. He was a dark skies champion.

We arranged an appointment to meet a few days later in the village square.

‘How will I recognise you?’ I asked on the phone.

‘Oh, you’ll know me,’ he said.

As I stood on the pavement waiting for him, a van came into sight, signwritten with the words Mizar Travelling Planetarium emblazoned across the side.

It was like a scene from a Ray Bradbury short story and something I have never forgotten

Bob was a gentle man, knowledgeable and passionate about the night sky, and kind and generous with his time.

His involvement didn’t do much good in getting the local countil to adjust or get rid of the new streetlights, but the long campaign did lead to an apology for the lack of consultation in the first place.

Sadly, Bob Mizon died suddenly last year. Here’s a tribute to him from Dark Sky International.

If you’re fascinated by stars, planets and moon phases, I thoroughly recommend Bob’s beautifully written and fascinating monthly guide to the night sky, The Stargazer’s Almanac.

In the meantime, here’s the poem about Orion by Sophia C Prentice:

Across the winter sky by night
Orion proudly strides;
The rising moon in silver state
His splendor scarcely hides;
His jeweled belt, his glittering sword,
In brilliancy combine,
Great Sirius and Procyon,
His loyal followers shine,
The Book of books records his name,
Of him the poets write;
From nursery windows, children’s eyes
Greet him with gay delight.

The soft breeze stirs to greet the dawn,
The summer stars grow dim,
When lo, a mystic shape appears
Above the Ocean’s rim.
The form so faintly shining there
No royalty can boast,
Yet with a thrill my heart proclaims,
‘It is Orion’s ghost!”

Alone and pale he trembles there
A moment and is gone,
While radiant couriers of the sun
Announce the coming morn.

Orion, greatest of the tribe
That pace the starry heights.
Ghost of the shimmering summer dawn,
King of the winter nights!

Use your vote

It’s the local elections this coming Thursday and, for the first time ever, I won’t be voting.

Not for any reasons of self-righteousness, although my political fire has dimmed over the years to the point where it’s barely a spark. This is not surprising, given all the corruption and arrogance of our elected politicians in Westminster. That lot have ceased to have relevance to me, with so many of them only in it for themselves, which is something I never thought I’d hear myself say.

The local elections, though, are different. Or should be.

Our elected councillors are the women and men who can make a real difference to our everyday, local lives, although hamstrung by central government which has a habit of taking away funding and then blaming any shortcomings on the local council.

And, on the whole, local councillors get involved to make things better for their local area. It’s easy to criticise and make unfair assertions about their motives. It can be a thankless job but someone has to do it on our behalf. That’s what democracy is all about. They work for us (as do the MPs, but that’s another story).

This year, I’m in France, and, although I registered for a postal vote in good time, the paperwork hasn’t arrived. Time is ticking away and I fear I will not be able to cast my X in the box, as I have been doing since I was an eighteen-year-old firebrand.

These days, I am a lapsed revolutionary but I still make a point of visiting the polling station on election day, particularly as women fought so hard, all over the world, for the vote.

This year, however, I’ve been disenfranchised by the vagaries of the British and French postal system.

To be honest, though, it solves my dilemma. My heart would dictate I vote one way, which would be a waste of time. I could never vote another way, as it’s not part of my DNA although I am sure the candidate would and could do a very good job on behalf of the local community.

I would have been tempted to vote another way apart from the candidate, who, frankly, I would not go near with a proverbial bargepole, except perhaps to use it to knock their ego into touch.

So, at least I have an excuse for my lack of enthusiasm.

There’s also the vote for the police and crime commissioner which, I think, leaves most people cold because we don’t really understand the role. Now, if the candidate for police commissioner was Tom Selleck as Frank Reagan (below) in the American police procedural drama television series Blue Bloods, well, that might be different.

However, if you care about your local community and you’re registered to vote, please use it, and use it wisely. And don’t forget to take some form of photo ID with you, otherwise you won’t be allowed to cast your vote at all.

A bit of a ding dong

The church bells are still silent in Lush Places.

Meanwhile, I’m in France where the church bells in our village chime the hour twice, every hour (it’s about to strike three o’clock and they’ll go dong, dong, dong. And then a break and then dong, dong, dong again).

But the bells here do shut up at night. However, during the day, at noon and at seven o’clock, they chime until they’re fit to burst, calling in the workers from the fields for lunch and evening meal respectively.

Last week, a former colleague reminded of a notice I’ve seen in many French villages, drawing outsiders’ attention to the perils of rural life.

This is the country where village signs up and down the land have been turned on their heads. This latest farmers’ protest alludes to having their own lives turned upside down by contradictory instructions. See the BBC story here.

I hope a solution can be found to the silencing of our village bells back in Dorset.

And wouldn’t it be wonderful if, in addition to the automatic hourly chiming being restored, a new team of bellringers steps forward to pull the ropes on Sundays and high days and holidays?

The bells aren’t rung on a Sunday at the moment because there’s no tower captain nor regular team of ringers.

It would be lovely if the positive outcome of the silence of the bells story was that volunteers joined forces for bellringing to happen once again.

The sound of silence

Well, that didn’t last long, did it?

This time last week, I was waxing lyrical about the arrival of spring and the long-missed sound of the chiming of the church clock on the hour.

I even wrote about its repair for my not-yet-published editorial in the parish magazine, which has gone to press but isn’t out yet:

It is a joy to see it working again and chiming the hour, too. It’s been a part of village life for so long, it’s like welcoming back an old friend.

And then that ‘old friend’ promptly turned around and fled.

You see, after just two days, the church clock was stopped from chiming.

Apparently, someone new to the village complained that it was keeping them awake.

I’m not angry but I am saddened and upset. Village life is precious and the clock has been there for generations, an aural reminder of the passing of time. It takes one person to complain and then the bell is cancelled.

Now I know there are more important things in the world to worry about right now, and I don’t wish to go all Wicker Man, but the chiming on the hour, all day and all night, has been part and parcel of this village for years.

Which is why it was such a delight to hear it again.

Could there be a compromise? Maybe the clock could chime the hour only during the day. Apparently, though, that comes at quite a cost. I’ve heard £2,000-plus mentioned. And I’m not happy that the church would have to pay that just to satisfy one complainant. I’m not prepared to chip in, either.

I live near the church and I can honestly say that the hourly chiming has never kept me awake. You become accustomed to the sound. Your brain tunes out.

I do hope church leaders can resolve the problem swiftly.

Ruby’s happy place down at West Bay

With Storm Barra battering the country just ten days after Storm Arwen left a trail of havoc in its wake, now is not a good time to visit the coast.

Usually, I would have been down at West Bay this morning, letting Ruby run wild on the farthest beach on the Esplanade to the west, which is open to dogs all year round.

This part of the little resort on the Dorset coast is my girl’s happy place.

But the tide is high today and and the field and hills are wet with mud and rain. So she’s restricted to a quick scoot around the village before we hunker down at home.

On her beach at West Bay, Ruby loves to chase seagulls along the shore. It’s lovely to come here first thing, just as the sun begins its daily journey west.

I’m impressed by the sea swimmers who jump into the water quite often at this time of the morning. But that’s not for me.

At this time of year, though, when the hill and the fields are muddy, the beach down at the Bay is where you’ll find Ruby and me.

I love West Bay. I have done since I first arrived in Bridport as a young reporter nearly forty years ago. My brother, though, just doesn’t get it, preferring instead the beauty of Lyme Regis. My late father used to call West Bay ‘that place with a hole in the middle’ (meaning the harbour). But I love the Bay for its cliffs and shoreline, although I steer clear of going anywhere near East Cliff, which is prone to landslips without warning.

I love West Bay for its harbour, its eclectic mix of buildings of all styles, its mix of chi chi and pleb, the caravan site and its food kiosks, although I would recommend avoiding the two operated by convicted puppy farmers.

There’s nothing quite like starting the day down on the beach with Ruby, feeling the wind blowing through your hair and watching the sun coming up over the water, casting rays of light like an advert for a spiritual awakening.

And then popping into the Windy Corner Cafe for a very nice coffee and cake – or breakfast if that’s your bag. Dogs are welcome here, to the extent that they’ll be offered a biscuit or five within seconds of walking through the door. Lovely. They can have my custom any day.

But today, we’re confined to the house as we watch Storm Barra doing its business outside.

That’s about it.

Love, Maddie x