R.I.P. Gypsy

Gypsy arrived on our doorstep in December about 7 or 8 years ago, when we judged her to be in early middle age - 10 or so. She was absolutely bulging, and we thought she must be pregnant, so we took her in. However, she wasn't and since she never walked more than 50 yds from the house, it was obvious she had been dumped on us . . . She was completely tame and a sweetheart, but had the IQ of ball of cotton wool. She never did learn how to use the cat flap . . . She mixed in well with the cats we had, and was never the least problem. Over the last couple of years she lost weight, drank lots and wee'd lots, so it was obvious that her kidneys were starting to fail. On Monday afternoon I came into the kitchen to find her and the cushion she'd been sleeping on, on the floor, and she'd wet herself (I put it down to the jarring of the fall). She ate her tea and seemed as normal.

Then yesterday morning I came into the kitchen first thing and couldn't see her anywhere. Gosh, I thought, she'd perhaps had a bust up with the latest itinerant arrival (Misery Guts aka Estelle) and been chased through the cat flap. I went outside and called, but no Gypsy in sight.

I searched the kitchen again and found her. She was jammed behind the back leg of the kitchen dresser and I had to move it to ease her out. I put her gently down and she wandered in circles, then keeling over. Poor girl. I think it was a stroke. I quickly got the cat travelling box and popped her in it and phoned the vet to say I was bringing in a cat to be put to sleep. It was obvious that she had come to the end. Poor little girl. She was Danny's favourite, so yet another favourite went to join Tippy, Snowy and Honey . . .

In hindsight, it was for the best, just a bringing forward really of the inevitable because of her kidney problems. Poor Alfie was looking for his Aunty Gypsy today though . . . They were often snuggled up together in recent weeks.

Isaiah Sully and Ruth Tongue (part 2)

As green a picture as I could manage - another from this same series taken looking westwards across the Severn from Frocester Hill near Stroud in Gloucestershire.



....."This is to be sung only when in real danger; it must never be used lightly. many years later, in the middle of singing 'Sweet Primeroses', I grew aware that the ninety-five year old helpless huddle of wraps that Isaiah had become was eyeing me with a piercing and deliberately wicked gaze. 'Chime-child, baint 'ee? Oh ah! Cassn't be ill-wished, eh?" Something overwhelming and terrifying was being projected from the depths of that dark old mind; but the memory of the 'Prayer' rose as a wall between us and I sang it, hoping it sounded as casual as I should have liked to feel. It daunted him, and by the time I ended he sat silent, the magpie-like glint fading from his eyes. On my way home I met Isaiah II (his son), now over seventy, clumping wearily back to his lonely cottage. For once he stopped, looked at me with his faded blue eyes so unlike his father's and said slowly, "Ah. I did a-wonder if the day 'ood come when he couldn't a-bear not to try out his powers. A chime-child be a challenge, Miss Ruth, so you take an' carry salt in your pocket."

Some years later Mrs Isaiah died, and I traced the old man to another cottage where he sat mute before a grand-daughter-in-law as large, solid and fanatical as the rest of the family. When she left us for ten minutes he announced gleefully, "I telled the old missus I'd see her off to her Heavenly Ways afore she drove I Downstairs. Oh ah, an' I done it. 'Tis a true time for singing' ", and he broke into a song for which I had long waited, with a beautiful strange old air. Alas, a married daughter walked in on us, and he stopped in mid phrase. "Tryin' to poach what she'd never no right to", said Isaiah when she had gone down the garden. "My songs bain't for the likes o'' she. Gifted folk be a different matter.!"

"Why don't you let young Isaiah learn a few for you?" I urged.

"No! The bye idn' old enough." (He must have been seventy-five). "Let he go down pub an' sing his songs there. Puppies do like muck."

I never saw Isaiah again; he outlived his second wife by less than eight weeks. But I have pieced together some of his uncanny ballads. Two of the best concern the magic and danger of green, the fairy colour. 'The Gay Green Gown', collected over fifteen years, begins:

The Proud ladye she rode through the wood,
Ad there in her way the Wicked One stood.
'Bow wecome, Proud Ladye! Light down, light down,
For I must give thee a gay green gown.
'Twill punish thy pride, for no honest bride
Wears such a gown,
A gay green gown.'

'The Green Lady' is a chilling but fairly complete picture of a dangerous nature-spirit of the vampire type:

Now all you young fellows take heed what I tell
A-down in the wood a Green Ladye do dwell.Her hair it is green and all green is her gown,
And she calleth to all, "Come here! Draw near!"
But she means them no good,
For she drinks their heart's blood;
They never do wed,
For they takes to their bed,
And they dies, yes they dies at the end of the year.


But I hardly gained a footing in his vast storehouse of lore in twenty years, and many of his strange and beautiful songs must be hopelessly lost."


Just in case you have an interest in the folk music, I've found a couple of links for you. June Tabor is one of my favourite folk singers, and here is a link to the words of a spring carol sung by June Tabor, and collected by Ruth Tongue . . .

Here's the link to the Gay Green Gown which is quite possibly written by Ruth Tongue herself. There are onward links here to other of the songs which she claimed to have collected.


As for the story - well, it's a good one, true or no. Perhaps Isaiah Sully was based on someone she knew, but perhaps - enhanced a little bit?

Isaiah Sully and Ruth Tongue (part 1)

This is just an excerpt (or two) from the article in my 1965 copy of The Countryman, which I thought may be of interest. The man that Ruth Tongue was writing about, whom she calls Isaiah Sully, was an itinerant folk singer in Somerset. She mentioned that he had a French surname and was possibly descended from Huguenot refugees from the 17th C, but from what he said his roots may well have been descended from French travelling minstrels. He was an outstanding performer, but apparently wicked with it . . . "he was suspected, and rightly, of 'dark dealings' ". He was a leading mummer and Morris man, but his reputation was such that when he was in a village the menfolk carried salt in their pockets and woman crossed their thumbs when they caught sight of him. We are going back a fair way here as he was performing in the 1840s (when Thomas Hardy was born) and in great demand at every local fair across the south-west, and well known for his pure singing voice, his "quick wit and agile dancing" and his acting skills. Ruth Tongue knew him when she was a child (in Taunton, Somerset), when he would have been in his 80s, but still sprightly and able to throw a leap or two.

"I first met him as a bent crippled figure tucked into a fireside chair, in the spotless cottage where he was living under the thumb of a highly respected second wife. The village said she had collected and married him when he was in a drunken haze, as the only way of rescuing him from Satan; and for their forty years of married life she applied herself with grim determination to the task of saving his soul. He was no longer allowed to sing, act or dance. But he defied her in one respect: he never attended a religious service, either of her own very rigid sect or of any other.

I was often brought down to the cottage and left to amuse 'Dad' while the grown-ups were at the farm. 'The dear liddle soul she do talk so clear an' she do sing her liddle songs, an' it do cheer en up.' When Mrs Isaiah was out of the way I unburdened myself of all the hotch-potch of tunes and singing games I could remember. . . . Isaiah replied in kind with a spate of song fragments, dance steps and ballads; but he would never sing a song right through and became wilier as I grew older. His benevolence had an uncertain edge to it, as unexpected as his lightning changes from huddled cripple to Morris man and back. With the family away in the hayfield he would fling aside his wraps, caper round the kitchen table and be back in his chair like a mummy again, all in a moment.

Once only did I learn anything of real worth from him, and it proved very necessary later on. Whether he foresaw that time and was impelled to pass on a knowledge that would frustrate his own evil intent, I do not know, but one afternoon he interrupted 'Barbarous Helen' to say sharply: 'Liddle chime-child, bain't 'ee? Cassn' be overlooked nor ill-wished, not no-how. Gifted, bain't 'ee? Well, my maid, thur'll come a time when 'ee'd best call this to mind', and we spent a happy half-hour singing this very old 'Prayer of Protection':

First came Lord God
And then come Holy Ghost,
And then come Sweet Jesu
That di-ed and lov-ed men most.

Now bless-ed be Lord God,
And bless-ed Bright Trinity,
And bless us Sweet Jesu
Who guard us wherever we be.

Glory to Lord God,
Glory to Bright Trinity;
To little Sweet Jesu that sleep under star,
Singen all lustily.

This is to be sung only when in real danger; it must never be used lightly."

Ah, but there came a time when she DID need to sing it . . .


To be continued . . .

Chime children

Another view looking back towards Wales from Frocester Hill near Stroud.


I was going to share with you an interesting piece of writing from The Countryman magazine I got last Sunday. I read through it twice, and had just a leetle hesitation in believing that it might be as much fiction as fact, or the factual bones of the story somewhat frail and much-embroidered. The author was a lady called Ruth L Tongue (1898 - 1981), who was much involved in folk lore and also music and collecting old folk songs - often mere fragments which had survived (and perhaps evolved) over the years.

Of course, I then went in search of some details about a) chime children, and b) Ruth L Tongue.

Chime children are those born as the clock chimes the hour - the really crucial one was midnight which gifted its recipients with the ability of second sight. Others claim that a Chime Child will be able to see ghosts and other-worldly things, develop extra-ordinary herbal skills, control animals and be immune to witchcraft (see HERE). Supposedly the chimes were 3, 6, 9 and 12 - tolled by the church bells and marking those times when religious orders were called to prayer. However this could differ by region, and in Somerset (where Ruth Tongue collected folk lore and songs) and also East Anglia, the chime hours were 8p.m, midnight and 4 a.m. Ruth Tongue herself claimed to be a Chime Child with psychic powers, born between midnight on a Friday and cockcrow on Saturday (perhaps this timing gave special significance in the West Country? ) At all events, Answers.com quotes this from the Oxford Dictionary of English Folklore and also claims that she misled people with her Chime Child claim. Within the story I shall share with you tomorrow, she states that as she was a Chime Child, country people were happy to divulge tales, songs and "magical lore" to her when she was small.

This link will take you to the appropriate page on the appropriately-named "In the Chimehours"
which is an interesting site about folklore, with fabulous photographs.

I have to say I have never heard of a Chime Child before, and none of my Folklore books mention it, so this is quite intriguing.

Mending things

This is just a little make-weight posting as I am currently researching something but not ready to write it up just yet.

The new header photo, by the way, was taken in early May in the Cotswolds near Stroud. I wanted something to remind me that spring really IS nearly here now.



In the past, it was common for a woman - be she married, single or a servant - to sit down in the evening and "relax" with a pile of mending. Things to be hemmed, collars to be turned, socks to be darned, rips to be mended, and that old adage "a stitch in time saves nine" never far from their minds.

In this throw-away consumer age, many people are more inclined to throw away things which need mending, or aren't perfect, and I am sure some either don't know how to mend something or have absolutely no inclination. Of my two daughters, one sews and mends, and the other brings stuff home to me to fix!



As money is tight for us, and we are "olds" now, who grew up with the skills passed on to us by parents who lived through the restrictions of wartime, you will already know that we belong to the "Make Do and Mend" brigade! My husband has been busy this week repairing (for about the 4th time) our ageing wheelbarrow, which got slugged by a 2 cwt chunk of tree trunk a few days back, and flattened! I thought it had really had it this time, but with his trusty drill and some galvanized steel tubing, he has brought it back from the grave, and although it IS a tad wonky still, it is usable once again!


You may remember me mentioning all the frogs out in the pond. Well, here is the wildlife pond with one gigantic mass of frogspawn, just starting to straighten out from round black blobs into more elongated shapes.


And then the frogs decided an overflow pond was necessary, so they moved across to the main (fish) pond, and carried on there . . .

Tail Corn

The expression itself in a country sense means the small, light or undersized grains in a sample. In this case, it refers to country sayings in the magazine The Countryman, which I collect back issues of. I found one from 1965/66 at the car boot sale last weekend, and for 50p it came home with me.

I thought I would share the examples of colloquial chat with you, as such things seem to be a thing of the past these days (they were gradually lost to The Countryman magazine too, so one assumes not enough were submitted by readers to keep the page going). Anyway, enjoy:

Farmer's wife, of sick husband who has lost much weight: ''Couldn't hardly find him in the bed. He were just like a crease in the blanket."

Hampshire farmer, of bearded student: "'E looked jus' like a rat peepin' through a besom."

Lancashire woman, to visitor inquiring for her aged mother: "'Oo's sittin' round t' speer. 'Oo's as faust as a boggart.' (She's sitting behind the partition. She's as cunning as a hobgoblin.)

Gloucestershire postmistress, of husband's appendix operation: "'E's 'ad a bit of 'is chitterlin's out."

Kentish farm worker, searching for his lunch bag: "I 'ung a bit of a scran bag 'ere 'smornin'. 'Pears summun's snuk it."

Orra man on Fifeshire farm, bringing news of arrival of laird's first=born: "Naebody tell't me. I saw the hippens hingin' oot. What mair wad ye hae?" (Hippens - nappies).

Yorkshireman, to vet who left medicine for dog: 'Ah give it 'im an' locked 'im oop, an' a couple of hours after 'e was as frisky as a cat an' fit ti roon a mile an' scream murther."

Wiltshire farm worker, describing feverish symptoms of his seven-year-old daughter: "She's all redded up as if she's busting to lay."

Scots straphanger in bus slewing round corner: "Guidsakes, Ah'm bein' ca'ed aboot like a birlie." (Child's hoop).

Herdsman's wife, of husband's employer: "'E's that mean 'e dreads milkin' time an' 'is cows gettin' a feed."

Veteran singer in Lancashire chapel choir, to nervous new member: "Tha'll be aw reet, lad. When Ah guz opp tha guz oop, an' when Ah guz doon, tha guz doon."

I'm getting old . . .

. . . I am aching all over and for two pins would just find a warm place to curl up in and go to sleep! That's what gardening does for you after a winter where you have been just concentrating on staying warm. And being the "gofer" for your husband when it is time to cut wood. Still, we have half a BIG ash tree cut and some of it chopped and already burned as we are low on firewood, having had to light the wood burner just after breakfast most days.

I have been working in the paddock, in the soft fruit area which has raspberry canes, gooseberry bushes, a big loganberry, strawberries,a boysenberry, blackcurrants and redcurrants, and a wee blueberry bush which doesn't know whether it wants to live or die. Anyway, one patch of raspberries is pretty well dug over, and partly-mulched/fed with muck heap. I was working around the loganberry today, which has put on a lot of growth and also managed to tip-root three of its overgrown canes, so I have potted those up to sell on at a spring car boot sale. I have some blackcurrants and gooseberries to do the same with, when I reach them.

As the sun has shone over the weekend, I was out there yesterday too, with the help of the cats - mainly Lucky, but also Gypsy for a while, Banshee, Lucy and today Misery Guts (the latest stray - the grey tabby) came to join me, and also came down the hill to cast an eye over the logging proceedings. Very sensibly, as she noticed large chunks of tree rolling across the lane, she went uphill and behind a bit of netting, where she felt safe.

Progress has been made, though it is very difficult to weed when a little elderly cat thinks you are out there merely for her comfort. First of all Lucky sat on my boots, then on my lap (when I sat on my kneeling mat) and when I was on my hands and knees, she decided she would jump up on my back and make a bed of me!!! Today she quickly appropriated my kneeling mat again, so I had to go and wrap a chair cushion in a bin bag, and use that instead.



I had intended to go for a walk, down by the river, but I was soon aching like an achey thing and abandoned that idea. However, I have put up a couple of photos of a river walk in the 3rd week of March last year, just to remind myself that spring WILL arrive.


Here is the intake area when I was first getting started - path membrane laid out and some Lidl fruit trees planted beside it.

The thrill of a greenhouse big enough to stand up in - the first thing I did was to take a deckchair and sit inside it to read the Hope Bourne book (Exmoor) which had just arrived. . .

This was it last summer, with everything nicely established. Soft fruit to the right and herb garden and overflow flower garden on the left. It was worth all the effort, though my OH thought I was MAD.