The Geate A-Vallen To

With Covid or whatever it was having only just flown the nest (it took nearly a whole month), we’re now back in Dorset to lovely weather (I jest) and a warm welcome (I do not jest).

This morning, I walked out along the lane with Ruby and Edgar to a gate which reminded me of a poem by the Dorset dialect poet William Barnes (1801-1886).

The Geate A-Vallen To was apparently Barnes’ last dialect poem and it’s one I love because it was a favourite of older family members who, although from rural south Somerset, could do a pretty good rendition of the Dorset dialect.

There’s a YouTube link at the end of this blog to a chap reading the poem. His voice is far too posh but you get the gist. But I recommend trying it out yourself first by reading it aloud:

The Geate A-Vallen To

In the zunsheen of our zummers
Wi’ the hay time now a-come,
How busy wer we out a-vield
Wi’ vew a-left at hwome,
When waggons rumbled out ov yard
Red wheeled, wi’ body blue,
And back behind ‘em loudly slamm’d
The geate a’vallen to.

Drough daysheen ov how many years
The geate ha’ now a-swung
Behind the veet o’ vull-grown men
And vootsteps of the young.
Drough years o’ days it swung to us
Behind each little shoe,
As we tripped lightly on avore
The geate a-vallen to.

In evenen time o’ starry night
How mother zot at hwome,
And kept her bleazen vier bright
Till father should ha’ come,
An’ how she quicken’d up and smiled
An’ stirred her vier anew,
To hear the trampen ho’ses’ steps
An’ geate a-vallen to.

There’s moon-sheen now in nights o’ fall
When leaves be brown vrom green,
When, to the slammen o’ the geate,
Our Jenny’s ears be keen,
When the wold dog do wag his tail,
An’ Jean could tell to who,
As he do come in drough the geate,
The geate a-vallen to.

An’ oft do come a saddened hour
When there must goo away
One well-beloved to our heart’s core,
Vor long, perhaps vor aye:
An’ oh! it is a touchen thing
The loven heart must rue,
To hear behind his last farewell
The geate a-vallen to.

The Summer Solstice

It’s the summer solstice today, when the path of the sun in the sky is farthest north in the northern hemisphere.

It’s the longest day and the shortest night.

I’m in France at the moment and the scene yesterday evening was the calm before the storm.

Last night, it chucked it down, enough to fill up the wheelbarrow in the garden.

And it’s been raining on and off all morning. Not just drizzle but great big stair rods, drumsticks and knitting needles.

In England, there are blue skies and warmth, which makes a change from the wet conditions and cold nights that have resulted in a deluge of slugs and snails.

Strange happenings with the climate have got everyone talking, all over the world.

Yesterday at Stonehenge – the creation of which is inextricably linked to the summer and winter solstice sunrises – the ancient monoliths were sprayed in orange powder paint by climate activists demanding that the new government elected on 4 July legally commits to phasing out fossil fuels.

The climate emergency and the role of humankind in doing something about it is the biggest crisis facing our world today.

But to deface an ancient monument, albeit temporarily (protestors say the paint will wash off in rain) is probably not the best way of getting people to sit up and take notice. It’s counterproductive. All it does is outrage people, which is actually how we should be feeling about the climate crisis and the inability of our so-called leaders to save the world.

We must all do our bit. Rather than glue myself to a motorway, I’m currently allowing great swathes of mullein to grow in the garden in the most inconvenient places.

‘They’re weeds!’ a friend scoffed.

‘A weed is just a plant in the wrong place,’ I replied, rather self-righteously, gazing at all the mullein moth caterpillars chomping on the leaves and the bees buzzing around it in total ecstasy.

I’m lucky to have the space for the mullein but I think anyone with a garden does their bit for nature, with proper grass (not fake turf), flowers that the bees and butterflies love and inventive ways of dealing with slugs and snails rather than using the dreaded blue slug pellets, which killed off Edgar’s little sister when she was only a pup.

It’s easy to be overwhelmed with the magnitude of the climate crisis. But small things can make a difference, and do.

On the summer solstice, here’s to peace and harmony between nations, individuals and to all of us who want to leave the planet in a better state for the generations that follow us.

The arrival of Spring

There are rooks flapping overhead, twigs in their beaks and heading for nest-building central.

A pair of male blackbirds are sparring vigorously, spiralling in an upward and downward dance which goes unnoticed by drivers on their way to work and children who are late for school.

The daffodils and narcissi proclaim ‘we are here‘ and the tulips emerge from the soil, ready for their chance to shine further down the line.

In Lush Places, someone has mended the church clock. It’s been stuck at the same time for ages and its chiming of the hour has been a thing of the past.

But then, on Sunday morning, I passed by just as it struck nine o’clock. It was if I’d suddenly been hurled into the present, the bell an aural reminder of the arrival of Spring.

After a sunny day here yesterday, with garden clearing a priority before the waste bin is collected this morning, the weather has turned grey and dismal. A meh sort of day.

But still the blackbird sings his joyful and mellow song, ostensibly to impress potential lady friends but, in our world, causing us to stop, close our eyes and soak up the sounds of nature.

In the garden, the hellebores are doing their thing, which is truly wondrous.

Count your blessings

I remember thinking, during the first and second lockdowns, that at last people were going to be nicer to each other.

It was as if being cut off from family and friends and stopped from doing the things we all took for granted would somehow make us appreciate just what we had.

With the potential for global annihilation from a surprising source and the world stopping, just for moment, it was as if, suddenly, our short time on this earth had been put into perspective.

#BeKind was the mantra. So we were, embracing the thought that life is too brief to squander it on being mean to others, whether it’s backbiting and point scoring or all-out war between nations.

To say I was being naive is an understatement.

After the threat from covid lifted, the nastiness on a micro level started almost immediately and, through a macro lens, the all-out war just got worse.

It didn’t take long for the human race to go back to square one – manipulative, cruel, unfeeling and deadly.

Are people angrier towards others than they were before Covid 19? Or were we always angry and lacking in patience and empathy?

There are so many horrors going on right now that all any of us can do as individuals is count our blessings and work together for a better world.

In the meantime, there’s a blue sky out there and I’m rejoicing in beautiful days conversing with nature.