tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90118632024-03-23T03:17:57.179-07:00Quiet DaysJust A Hobby On The Internet.Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.comBlogger818125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-38692125939369404192024-03-16T19:18:00.000-07:002024-03-16T19:18:58.541-07:00Happy St Patrick's Day. Van Morrison & The Chieftains, 1987<iframe style="background-image:url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/IZYSPBgRIKs/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/IZYSPBgRIKs?si=dCZYZscvSMpf-jNf" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-53980652295621075102024-03-14T06:52:00.000-07:002024-03-14T06:52:33.573-07:00Robert Plant & Saving Grace, Bristol Beacon 13/3/2024<iframe width="480" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/V8bZre4SvEQ?si=3lwWNbiO9eHKy3aQ" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-72212310836517782582024-03-07T04:31:00.000-08:002024-03-07T04:31:01.695-08:00Townes Van Zandt Was Born 80 years Ago Today, March 7 1944.<iframe style="background-image:url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Kc6AsDmuD2U/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/Kc6AsDmuD2U?si=xhWsySN7ue21HGKi" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-48039527989394462562024-03-02T16:18:00.000-08:002024-03-02T16:18:34.165-08:00Jackson C. Frank - I Want To Be Alone.<iframe width="480" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/_DxBx4FyTqY?si=dOTHq6aCZOznXcaB" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-82007784194031745872024-03-02T10:18:00.000-08:002024-03-02T16:03:34.119-08:00Blues Run The Game: The Story Of Jackson C. Frank.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif"> Jackson C. Frank died 25 years ago today on March 3rd 1999. He was a great and very underrated singer-songwriter, so I thought I'd dust off this piece I wrote about him several years ago.</span><br />
<span face=""arial" , sans-serif">I am indebted to an internet friend for bringing
this influential singer-songwriter to my attention because I had never heard of
him before. I think he must have read some of my previous stories of
musicians who had faded into obscurity and are only now being re-discovered and
thought I might be interested in listening to Jackson C. Frank.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" lang="EN-US">I
am really pleased I bought this album because some of the songs are as good as
any I have heard in the folk genre. The story of Jackson C. Frank is also one of
the saddest I have ever read about any musician. Although he</span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" lang="EN-US"> released only one official album in his lifetime he was very influential on the likes of Paul Simon, Sandy Denny, Al Stewart, Dave Cousins, John Renbourn, Bert Jansch, Nick Drake and Roy Harper. It was only a series of misfortunes that stopped him from being remembered as one of the great folk singers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif">Tragedy struck early in his life at the age of eleven. He was attending elementary school in a suburb of New York when a heating furnace exploded which caused a fire that killed fifteen of his classmates including his first girlfriend Marlene Du Pont. He later wrote a song about Marlene which is on the album. Jackson survived the fire but had burns to 50% of his body. It was during the long recovery process that he learned to play the guitar and began writing songs. In 1965 while studying journalism at Gettysburg College he received $100,000 in insurance compensation for his injuries. He dropped out of college and sailed to England to try his luck on the folk scene. It was on that voyage that he wrote the song </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Blues Run The Game.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif">Jackson soon made a name for himself in the Folk Clubs of London and made friends with Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel. Paul Simon was so impressed with his talent that he offered to produce an album. The whole album was recorded in only three hours. Before long Jackson became quite famous in Britain. He persuaded his girlfriend at the time Sandy Denny to give up her job as a nurse and concentrate on singing. We should be grateful to him </span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif">for that act alone because Sandy became arguably the greatest British female singer of all. Sandy recorded three of Jackson's songs for her first solo album in her pre-Fairport Convention days.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif">The following year though things began to go wrong. Firstly, he developed writers block and was never happy with the songs he came up with, and also he began to suffer with really bad stage fright. It was the beginning of the mental illness that was to haunt him for years to come. His money ran out. In only two years he had managed to blow the lot. He returned to the states and moved to Woodstock which was a haven for many artistic people at that time. He landed a job as a journalist and married a former fashion model. New songs were written and he was just about to relaunch his music career when disaster struck once again. His infant son died of cystic fibrosis and the marriage fell apart. These events drove him over the edge and he descended into an abyss of depression, finally ending up homeless on the streets of New York. Things got even worse when he was shot by a gang of street toughs which left him blinded in the left eye. For twenty years he was virtually forgotten and had lost all touch with family and friends.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="font-size: medium;">A guardian angel then appeared by the name of Jim Abbott who was an American folk music fan who managed to track down the long lost singer. Jim took Jackson to see sympathetic doctors and his condition immediately began to improve. He had been mis-diagnosed as paranoid-schizophrenic but what he was actually suffering from was post-traumatic stress disorder caused by the terrible fire of his childhood. As soon as was taken off the anti-depressants and given trauma therapy instead there was a remarkable recovery. His music career was revived and his work was issued for the first time on CD with previously unreleased material.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif">Sadly, in 1999 Jackson C. Frank caught pneumonia and died of a cardiac arrest at the age of only 56. He has left a small but great legacy of music, and his influence continues to grow. His songs have been covered by Simon & Garfunkel, Counting Crows, Laura Marling, Robin Pecknold of the Fleet Foxes, Marianne Faithful and many others. His songs have also appeared in movie soundtracks such as Daft Punk's Electroma. Only today I discovered there is a book about him by Jim Abbott and a documentary film is a work in progress at the moment. His legend is finally beginning to grow.</span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif">The album I am listening to at this very moment contains all the songs from his eponymous album of 1965 plus five unreleased songs from 1975. I must say I love it, you can see the influence he had on Paul Simon on songs like <i>Dialogue. </i>To hear these haunting songs live in a folk club back in 65 must have been an amazing experience. The five songs from 1975 make me think what a shame it is that he left such a small body of work. One song called <i>Madonna Of Swans </i>I find particularly powerful.</span><br />
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<span face=""arial" , sans-serif"> <i>Marlene,</i></span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif">the song about his girlfriend who perished in the fire is also very moving. To give you a taste of the album I have put a video of </span><i style="font-family: arial, sans-serif;">Blues Run The Game </i><span face=""arial" , sans-serif">below which I urge you to listen to. </span><br />
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Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0Western Europe55.578344672182062 -19.61718320846557635.045592172182062 -60.925777208465576 76.11109717218207 21.691410791534423tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-47393014821720174232024-02-28T07:51:00.000-08:002024-02-28T07:51:10.787-08:00"A Cloud Never Dies". Documentary of Thich Nhat Hahn.<iframe width="480" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/DRObW9noiVk?si=IvxkL84WO3jSI1jY" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-2957525904303802412024-02-21T10:37:00.000-08:002024-02-21T10:53:48.890-08:00Blue River by Eric Andersen.<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIaboiXDEy2rS1z1FN3y5MmMi1Yt1jiCdjKzqB_GE4ng8ZwrSur8d2247dVix85WUNhFHGPWbmjQsDGiMGdGLdEw_lXXFjxuhVPLgv7hWQ7qTNL_OBvMM4aB_uEUFk4cyf_NAG3RWlwqCE1yAAzPO4E1fFo8RmFbqK3gsUm4gff3X0Z3G7bAi/s922/Scan0056.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="922" data-original-width="912" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinIaboiXDEy2rS1z1FN3y5MmMi1Yt1jiCdjKzqB_GE4ng8ZwrSur8d2247dVix85WUNhFHGPWbmjQsDGiMGdGLdEw_lXXFjxuhVPLgv7hWQ7qTNL_OBvMM4aB_uEUFk4cyf_NAG3RWlwqCE1yAAzPO4E1fFo8RmFbqK3gsUm4gff3X0Z3G7bAi/w198-h200/Scan0056.jpg" width="198" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">It was a lovely day yesterday, almost like Spring had arrived.
I even managed to get a bit of gardening done. However, today is another story, back to
grey skies and rain, so I thought I’d pass the time by telling you about an
album I have been listening to recently. It is called </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Blue River</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> by </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Eric
Andersen</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, recorded in Nashville in 1972. I am amazed that I hadn’t
discovered this music decades before now because this album is excellent. I first became
aware of Eric a few months ago when I bought a 2CD compilation called </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Greenwich
Village In The 60s</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. It contained a song by Eric called </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Close The Door
Gently When You Go</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> which I thought was great. Then more recently on youtube
I heard another song I loved where Eric sang with </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Judy Collins</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> called </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Thirsty
Boots</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> (See video below). This prompted me to read more about him. I learned
that his most commercially successful and critically acclaimed album was </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Blue
River</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. One reviewer compared it to </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Astral Weeks</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> by </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Van Morrison</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">.
“That will do for me”, I thought, and bought a copy on eBay.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOPvC-qguxM1e3IJ40p48IzJyC06YntLQBmehSdJVIpPDoY4fXSruMmVbz8wEMNiF43RrBuY8O1UO0efO-_AKoeIHSK7xu_epXv52TqnXpYhfCE0zvkz0LoU2qnN5lbOZTpfkzve4ssm2hvvTR1t3bRSozB4w5f2NVlJLTG02_MHWM1PQxQar/s936/Scan0059.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="936" data-original-width="929" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPOPvC-qguxM1e3IJ40p48IzJyC06YntLQBmehSdJVIpPDoY4fXSruMmVbz8wEMNiF43RrBuY8O1UO0efO-_AKoeIHSK7xu_epXv52TqnXpYhfCE0zvkz0LoU2qnN5lbOZTpfkzve4ssm2hvvTR1t3bRSozB4w5f2NVlJLTG02_MHWM1PQxQar/w199-h200/Scan0059.jpg" width="199" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I am listening to the opening track <i>Is It Really Love At
All</i> at this very moment. It is wonderful, but I don’t know where that
reviewer got the Van idea from. The singer I was most immediately reminded of
on this album is <i>James Taylor</i>. The production by <i>Norbert Putnam</i>
throughout all these songs is first rate. This opening track has a very
tasteful string and woodwind arrangement. Eric’s wife of the time <i>Debbie
Green</i> sounds perfect on backing vocals. Debbie contributes a lot to several
tracks on guitar, piano and vocals. I have read that Debbie taught <i>Joan Baez</i>
how to play guitar and Joan imitated her voice and stole her repertoire. I don’t
know how true that is though. <i>Pearl’s Goodtime Blues</i> is a tribute to
Eric’s friend <i>Janis Joplin</i>. This track sounds Like <i>The Band</i> and
even has ‘Rag, Mama, Rag’ in the lyrics. I see <i>Kenny Buttrey</i> who I know
from his playing with <i>Bob Dylan</i> and <i>Neil Young</i> plays drums on
this track and several others. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><i></i></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDq1ofOYgU_V4qj175-ma3buQW32jIzCzneZ3t_RXYtm0T3kVRt0w0n7wZEDRKny3jCQFDJgdeBDj_aZw5zsA6puVQn0ogVEI5_uA9MDPar61RK5QxxPQPJyL_vec67IIQ-_QINL7eXzKpWoj5Ix_M5QCc6kkI3fLZT1mgySMv1O_JLObn-FQw/s320/EricAndDebbie.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="247" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDq1ofOYgU_V4qj175-ma3buQW32jIzCzneZ3t_RXYtm0T3kVRt0w0n7wZEDRKny3jCQFDJgdeBDj_aZw5zsA6puVQn0ogVEI5_uA9MDPar61RK5QxxPQPJyL_vec67IIQ-_QINL7eXzKpWoj5Ix_M5QCc6kkI3fLZT1mgySMv1O_JLObn-FQw/w154-h200/EricAndDebbie.jpg" width="154" /></a></i></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Wind And Sand</i> is much simpler with just
Eric on piano and Norbert on bass. Simple, but very moving and effective, a melancholy
meditation on the passage of time. <i>Faithful</i> is another wistful emotional
song, but immediately accessible with a catchy chorus, quite country influenced.
This song should have been a big hit. <span face="Arial, sans-serif">The title track </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Blue River</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> is next, with Eric on
piano. This has an epic gospel infused sound with the great </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Joni Mitchell</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
on backing vocals. I’m sure Joni must have been influenced by this song when
she was recording her album </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Blue</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> (or vice-versa, maybe Eric got ideas
from Joni). </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Florentine</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> is another splendid track with Kenny’s percussion
driving the song along, harpsichord courtesy of </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Gleen Spreen</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, guitar by </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Grady
Martin</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. </span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"></i></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVGHR2CFvtv2neN0-qAqO5eU1RgbP0sqaK2Fw2chxwAx0w5cnGq-b076iPZnhZt-5PryuB23IFqt53RnP0AzhSbmVybujIa-sRJfBGrDRvioL1uXzOkFO3varYmzvSJhW2SDvig1LoFNCnnKH0YCFtXXVEcz3-sLs7a1iUUPqKspcW0U_qBi55/s2549/MV5BZTU3ZWQwYjMtZjQ3MC00NGUxLWIxNGYtZjI5MjBiN2UyNWIzXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyNjUxMjc1OTM@._V1_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1434" data-original-width="2549" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVGHR2CFvtv2neN0-qAqO5eU1RgbP0sqaK2Fw2chxwAx0w5cnGq-b076iPZnhZt-5PryuB23IFqt53RnP0AzhSbmVybujIa-sRJfBGrDRvioL1uXzOkFO3varYmzvSJhW2SDvig1LoFNCnnKH0YCFtXXVEcz3-sLs7a1iUUPqKspcW0U_qBi55/w200-h113/MV5BZTU3ZWQwYjMtZjQ3MC00NGUxLWIxNGYtZjI5MjBiN2UyNWIzXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyNjUxMjc1OTM@._V1_.jpg" width="200" /></a></i></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Sheila</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> is the darkest song for me on this album. A wistful world-weary
pleading song, possibly about the effects of heroin addiction. The haunting
electric guitar adds to the feeling of desolation. It isn’t the kind of song associated
with Nashville; it reminds me more of the denizens of New York’s Chelsea Hotel. </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">More
Often Than Not</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> is the only track not written by Eric, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">David Wiffen</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> an
English-Canadian folk singer-songwriter wrote this one. It is more upbeat than
Sheila, but the subject matter is again quite dark, a reflection on loneliness
and betrayal. I see </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Rick Schlosser</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> plays drums here. He played on three </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Van
Morrison</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> albums in this era of the early 70s. </span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRZiFsUba29zQvzxsVCNoW1GTGAa2lbYVZrEY55ijROSvw9PErVdzmA0ipxGg2feekWbHeeWXM2wuynrdqhsovlyVfcJpETeEM9ZqYHiVP0uX-DVC0SmBtKoRU7f4hpBzJ0QlS63pbM1JpxC4c6CefMCyqldUotPEE39oRxiflkfy2DejuC_Y/s468/unnamed.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="317" data-original-width="468" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdRZiFsUba29zQvzxsVCNoW1GTGAa2lbYVZrEY55ijROSvw9PErVdzmA0ipxGg2feekWbHeeWXM2wuynrdqhsovlyVfcJpETeEM9ZqYHiVP0uX-DVC0SmBtKoRU7f4hpBzJ0QlS63pbM1JpxC4c6CefMCyqldUotPEE39oRxiflkfy2DejuC_Y/w200-h136/unnamed.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The final track is <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Round
The Bend</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> which is another introspective song of being alone, ‘stumbling hopelessly,
yes I knew that man well, for that prisoner he was me’. This song has a full
gospel treatment with </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The Jordanaires</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> plus backing singers such as </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Florence
Warner</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> and </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Millie Kirkham</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. Eric plays piano on this truly epic
wonderful song. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">It’s nice to see in the sleeve notes that Eric thanks </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Patti
Smith</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> for her help and friendship. Patti was still quite unknown in 1972. </span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgONadBOo4RJWDXJHpNvu9j4ZgBJ7b6ComUm1mOG-A8wl_UkUnccRWqvGVaCFehZIFoo1x2Y82jbEyghVUA7Q0QPvbc5pVnlZ0TEd0h1TtYsA-_BiaourLSQDR865oby6Tx_5vKhc-9aq-UAyAEXAEfnTozxBAow__NduD2Tit4UKD8_d4AXYLp/s980/179_1024x1024@2x%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="647" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgONadBOo4RJWDXJHpNvu9j4ZgBJ7b6ComUm1mOG-A8wl_UkUnccRWqvGVaCFehZIFoo1x2Y82jbEyghVUA7Q0QPvbc5pVnlZ0TEd0h1TtYsA-_BiaourLSQDR865oby6Tx_5vKhc-9aq-UAyAEXAEfnTozxBAow__NduD2Tit4UKD8_d4AXYLp/w132-h200/179_1024x1024@2x%20(1).jpg" width="132" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">You
will be pleased to know that Eric is 81 now and still singing and performing. The
early 1970s were a golden era for great singer-songwriters like <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bob Dylan,
Neil Young, Joni Mitchell, Carole King, Leonard Cohen</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Cat Stevens</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">James
Taylor, Jackson Browne</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, you could go on and on, there were so many, so that
might be why I overlooked Eric, but I think this album stands up very well
indeed alongside all those people, so I am very pleased I finally discovered Eric
Andersen, even if it took me over fifty years. Cheers.</span></span><p></p>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-42633053490225215772024-02-21T09:39:00.000-08:002024-02-21T09:39:36.441-08:00JUDY COLLINS & ERIC ANDERSEN - "Thirsty Boots" 2002<iframe style="background-image:url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/Q841UwxzMF0/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/Q841UwxzMF0?si=8cgiiSRGXfmAvC8D" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-17064682036711438652024-02-11T17:00:00.000-08:002024-02-11T17:22:01.323-08:00Down By Avalon. (Part 2, In The Church Of St John)<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkq6kGXW9oiJhgnPlKUPNhYKFBAHuq8KKG542SGOX7ZYFJGQO55KKp4Sl7mm1SEVpyoS69YvrzRDZgv07QUiFuU5-Ta0aODHG4gQYMkYpylA_v1VIx9uCsOZnG0mFu-d4pJrIcyjoxpxEAQXq6TFMijVEt5UxchBnDfNjJmsjCx0ebnbmmMYqK/s5152/DSC08350.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkq6kGXW9oiJhgnPlKUPNhYKFBAHuq8KKG542SGOX7ZYFJGQO55KKp4Sl7mm1SEVpyoS69YvrzRDZgv07QUiFuU5-Ta0aODHG4gQYMkYpylA_v1VIx9uCsOZnG0mFu-d4pJrIcyjoxpxEAQXq6TFMijVEt5UxchBnDfNjJmsjCx0ebnbmmMYqK/w200-h150/DSC08350.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I was up and about early on Thursday after one of the best
sleeps I had for ages., and after a leisurely breakfast headed into town for
another day of exploring Glastonbury. Nowhere was open yet and it was drizzling
rain, so I sheltered in the porch way of <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">St John’s church</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. This is
another place associated with </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Van Morrison</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> because it is mentioned in
his epic song </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Summertime In England</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">‘Would you meet me in the
country, In the summertime in England, Would you meet me? In the Church of St.
John, Down by Avalon’</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAScv-L0hOwirIkg0cxhNCqBD_VCNgXDaU5c4SWAcW9D2BjPu9pQCkyQMcd64JidofptP0NcsTu8HxCzwRBjr7i9bAiXXpbodOw1G_JZmKhjdo0hmJemCeRxiayv9Bi0-VsQKDvy8oxLWs-BTxX_AxqNp7Ztk2YH_LMSjQs0y8BpDlrBPagibF/s5152/DSC08303.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAScv-L0hOwirIkg0cxhNCqBD_VCNgXDaU5c4SWAcW9D2BjPu9pQCkyQMcd64JidofptP0NcsTu8HxCzwRBjr7i9bAiXXpbodOw1G_JZmKhjdo0hmJemCeRxiayv9Bi0-VsQKDvy8oxLWs-BTxX_AxqNp7Ztk2YH_LMSjQs0y8BpDlrBPagibF/s320/DSC08303.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>There is a thorn tree in the grounds grown from the <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Glastonbury
Thorn</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">According to legend, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Joseph
of Arimathea</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> visited Glastonbury with the Holy Grail and thrust his staff
into </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Wearyall Hill</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, which then grew into the original thorn tree. Every
Christmas a blossom from this tree is taken to the royal family to decorate
their Christmas table. Suddenly, on the stroke of 9.00 the door behind me
opened, and the verger came out. I thought it was only polite to have a look
inside. There is a beautiful stained-glass window to be admired in the </span></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">15</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> century church, although it is believed that </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">St Dunstan</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> built a wooden church here in the 10</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> century. </span></span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5PJNVqV7IrwC2HZc7S7UDHSyJ5qWCNLsr4XGmC6RCMU4uXy9svbqgEqnt4wqEMi4cuXtdp2OMohJwVTBCqpOSCDoBlrYs7EtoQLne3_nsBHrePiQWEHtSRNSCIv94SSpDTlirMUvNh99H9lGel0trupBwWvbd1RFOV7Mw-hW-bDG6wDydrIv/s5152/DSC08348.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5PJNVqV7IrwC2HZc7S7UDHSyJ5qWCNLsr4XGmC6RCMU4uXy9svbqgEqnt4wqEMi4cuXtdp2OMohJwVTBCqpOSCDoBlrYs7EtoQLne3_nsBHrePiQWEHtSRNSCIv94SSpDTlirMUvNh99H9lGel0trupBwWvbd1RFOV7Mw-hW-bDG6wDydrIv/w320-h240/DSC08348.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">When I emerged from the church it was still raining, so I
thought I had better go back to the digs for my raincoat. I did that, and
although it threatened to, it never rained again all day. When I restarted my
walk, I decided to head up <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bove Town</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> (derived from Above Town) towards
the countryside. </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Eckhart Tolle</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> used to live on this street before he
became famous and used to walk up here to the Tor every day. As I walked along,
I wondered which house he lived in. Winston Churchill’s granddaughter </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Arabella</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
lived here as well. She was one of the driving forces behind Glastonbury
Festival in its early days. I wonder if she and Eckhart knew each other. As I
reached the open countryside there is a steep embankment on either side of the
road. A landslip in the past had exposed the roots of trees growing beside the
road. I was amazed to see that the roots of two trees had entwined with each
other. It was almost as if they were supporting each other in order to stand
up. It makes you realise the wonders of nature. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSZrGcYpjxDZ1ArwJij8JMpcpEpvDkg9CwNLftm3jIot4jipzSGeINXRQn5PAxx25QcVR-2BFn7Qd3KWgzc6xqBgk8U2SMGx0yWIByCVksKZ29Yis8__iAC3Dewekur0wRVKWgNOqSfNg8n9rkqt2yjTXE5S0L4LtgXYBeHQly_ktKJsdtMOW/s5152/DSC08341.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5152" data-original-width="3864" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSZrGcYpjxDZ1ArwJij8JMpcpEpvDkg9CwNLftm3jIot4jipzSGeINXRQn5PAxx25QcVR-2BFn7Qd3KWgzc6xqBgk8U2SMGx0yWIByCVksKZ29Yis8__iAC3Dewekur0wRVKWgNOqSfNg8n9rkqt2yjTXE5S0L4LtgXYBeHQly_ktKJsdtMOW/w150-h200/DSC08341.JPG" width="150" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I wandered along the little lanes following a circular
route until I arrived at the Tor again, on the opposite side to yesterday. <span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I was tempted to climb it again, but in view
of the threat of rain changed my mind and headed down the lane towards town. Near
the </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">White Spring</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> I spotted this man placing bird food on the top of a
wall. There were about 30 or 40 little birds of several species gathered along
the wall gobbling up the seeds voraciously. The man told me that he had fed
them every day for about three years, the birds had got used to him and were
quite tame. Quite wonderful.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoa3hVjjk5ZDM440MR2mwK-UlEWYbCdvv_JXvrvhwYXbVni34C4rObl5Y3KH0aG3eJGnRg1cL_p0NApwWmLPA77WJ7TTh-31Fui7RHMHB39sTumdkjiXfc8zM0a8K53hEHsrVmZGn6PeiQYRoPSYHDlYXJMRdJJFSDKZYoOxj8CV7sGyCzYNbN/s3102/DSC08343.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2876" data-original-width="3102" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoa3hVjjk5ZDM440MR2mwK-UlEWYbCdvv_JXvrvhwYXbVni34C4rObl5Y3KH0aG3eJGnRg1cL_p0NApwWmLPA77WJ7TTh-31Fui7RHMHB39sTumdkjiXfc8zM0a8K53hEHsrVmZGn6PeiQYRoPSYHDlYXJMRdJJFSDKZYoOxj8CV7sGyCzYNbN/w200-h186/DSC08343.JPG" width="200" /></span></a></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I walked down </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Magdelene Street</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> past an incredible
mural painted on the side of a house. There are murals all over the town which
all add to the magic of this place. Then I discovered </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">St Margaret’s Chapel</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
& The </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Magdelene Almshouses</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> which I’d never seen before. The almshouses
were built in the 13</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> century to accommodate the poor men of the
town. What immediately struck me was how tiny the doorways were. People were a
lot shorter in medieval times than we are today. The chapel built in 1250 is
dedicated to </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">St Margaret</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> who was a Queen of Scotland and dedicated her
life to tending the sick and was made a saint by Pope Innocent 1V. </span></span></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBDNzSWrF4NGBlH1cYsvVJbklzKYeH1-CnAfA_90CUeNPoUwGV5zHur1zAAUJUEMiED1Fq8ng02YN9VixuR0eTjRFn1RgBLM7YUCc_M2HZV39scR8CpY_D4zwMckgq47366R5CUxe_mOvgoFtRT6AB1PT9q_uj3TUZvdEpAkJWhyK3jrA0rDx8/s5152/DSC08354.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBDNzSWrF4NGBlH1cYsvVJbklzKYeH1-CnAfA_90CUeNPoUwGV5zHur1zAAUJUEMiED1Fq8ng02YN9VixuR0eTjRFn1RgBLM7YUCc_M2HZV39scR8CpY_D4zwMckgq47366R5CUxe_mOvgoFtRT6AB1PT9q_uj3TUZvdEpAkJWhyK3jrA0rDx8/w200-h150/DSC08354.JPG" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium;">After that little
interlude I crossed the road and entered the Abbey grounds. I have been here
many times before, often for memorable concerts, but I never tire of visiting
this historic site which is steeped in myth and legend. The place is undergoing
a major restoration and development at the moment which will make it even more spectacular
in future years. I was especially pleased to see that the grassy areas were
carpeted with hosts of snowdrops, crocuses and yellow ancorites. A
reminder that Spring cannot be too far away. </span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-YzNfRyuKod1hT0f0W6SeTHn4SwscrjDVLP5UyVz5zHqrtmiHCJ2yybuPrVVzGAKWqOEcZn0cEdz9gIOSlEDNwKfG5keI8s-mF2vayk-a2pWKrwrxvYzLj7N_LOn53Z9GXS1-TDgwaHkD745ZyooGSpfCjbNsvbuAZPTO5LFjxEI9TXTIVQH/s5152/DSC08362.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-YzNfRyuKod1hT0f0W6SeTHn4SwscrjDVLP5UyVz5zHqrtmiHCJ2yybuPrVVzGAKWqOEcZn0cEdz9gIOSlEDNwKfG5keI8s-mF2vayk-a2pWKrwrxvYzLj7N_LOn53Z9GXS1-TDgwaHkD745ZyooGSpfCjbNsvbuAZPTO5LFjxEI9TXTIVQH/s320/DSC08362.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I went back to the Market Tavern for dinner where the
barman told me that they were having a pub quiz and open mike music night
later. I arrived for the quiz at 8.00, but was disappointed to find there was
no quizmaster, you had to download an app to take part, and answer the
questions on your phone. The answers came up on a big screen which told you who
answered first. It all seemed too impersonal to me, so I didn’t bother taking
part. I enjoyed the live music though. It was all local musicians, some of whom
were very talented, singing songs by the likes of <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
and </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">John Prine</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. I ended up drinking about five pints of cider which is a
lot for me these days. It was a fun end to a most enjoyable day. </span></span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_9SrsDQG7TSVnM4mUaEaSf9WouO6WZaHEe27y6BiKTJStI2ZNG0FI7FTb_Yu15tN35YkjhPbzYapAOJMWGhF11v34KF0W5YTDPX3DGKbXWolPmED10JVNNLwf4TtiVteL-LDv_-7mEBbVkn68_Su3HoalpVR7YXN30Sk_L47SoEQ4ejG-U9W/s5152/DSC08356.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk_9SrsDQG7TSVnM4mUaEaSf9WouO6WZaHEe27y6BiKTJStI2ZNG0FI7FTb_Yu15tN35YkjhPbzYapAOJMWGhF11v34KF0W5YTDPX3DGKbXWolPmED10JVNNLwf4TtiVteL-LDv_-7mEBbVkn68_Su3HoalpVR7YXN30Sk_L47SoEQ4ejG-U9W/s320/DSC08356.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I thought I would feel a bit rough the next morning due to
the cider, but I felt great. After breakfast I went for a last walk around town
and had a good browse in the bookshops. I ended up buying three books, <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">After
The Ecstasy, The Laundry</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> by </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Jack Kornfield</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> who is a Buddhist writer
and teacher I have long admired, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Echoes Of Memory</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, poems by </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">John O’Donohue</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
and </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Daily Wisdom</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, 365 Buddhist Inspirations. I might tell you all about
these books in due course. Finally at 11.30 Michelle drove me back to Castle
Cary which was the end of my too brief visit to mystical Glastonbury. I hope
that I return before too long. THE END.</span></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EhTWRS-seL_etfkMowM0U1cuUK1g8z7DiN52EBDMgxRwx_q1jFkR1fTbMfntRveKHe5teOKosTGOm-kcZVUtnrI3uB7CXFpznO5L41s-cMgOZFkDCqSdlRInWtMHfGxGo9p-QkG-VCGzlUoA5Sz9rC84WO5XzKbuWWYU9OqNLXuA-ojPLxpo/s5152/DSC08326.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EhTWRS-seL_etfkMowM0U1cuUK1g8z7DiN52EBDMgxRwx_q1jFkR1fTbMfntRveKHe5teOKosTGOm-kcZVUtnrI3uB7CXFpznO5L41s-cMgOZFkDCqSdlRInWtMHfGxGo9p-QkG-VCGzlUoA5Sz9rC84WO5XzKbuWWYU9OqNLXuA-ojPLxpo/w640-h480/DSC08326.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br /></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><o:p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></o:p></span></p>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-33584142338009315642024-02-11T07:35:00.000-08:002024-02-11T08:30:04.059-08:00Down By Avalon (Part 1, Enlightenment)<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: 12pt; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCwWoRo5MHRVnljiV3PWbFvAoeXKSqrKyoOaaca57rEBu-CSX0jFYxSoe1M6RX8hxKjIrrZ_3eUKiBaH68j_2E7gc6nWQ2FnXFwvVAS8XeWfkYAHOMCuAJtCCeIkg-vVdNLbkvlcFy7YoegVsprRq3ta5GpWnG5MTNpLGQQX3-FMVzvS-6a-s/s5152/DSC08306.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyCwWoRo5MHRVnljiV3PWbFvAoeXKSqrKyoOaaca57rEBu-CSX0jFYxSoe1M6RX8hxKjIrrZ_3eUKiBaH68j_2E7gc6nWQ2FnXFwvVAS8XeWfkYAHOMCuAJtCCeIkg-vVdNLbkvlcFy7YoegVsprRq3ta5GpWnG5MTNpLGQQX3-FMVzvS-6a-s/w200-h150/DSC08306.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As my reward for doing Dry January, I thought I would treat
myself to a couple of days away in my favourite small town in Somerset. Although
<i>Glastonbury</i> is only 30 miles away it is quite awkward to get to if you
don’t have your own transport. Luckily for me the B & B landlady Michelle
kindly offered to meet me at Castle Cary railway station and drive me to
Glastonbury. It was nice to see her again, and stay at her cosy little B &
B. The weather forecast wasn’t great for the next few days, so I was keen to
see as much as possible before the rain arrived.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_oS4ZhZ444W3KC6ucCOSMGbegKW_nEq6_sDGyzOpWcAGv1y9HDDH8yUT5wY4lV_0PJrkImxVWutdZeJc7YcgTqHX4qxP91Qp5xu6awZuqYulxrEpNMlRMfJ-ibYXqy-pOzc1tjt2oEMdngxvxuUgYc8el_WnxVyyKeQ7d-yko9wz5WZMicsd/s5152/DSC08314.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_oS4ZhZ444W3KC6ucCOSMGbegKW_nEq6_sDGyzOpWcAGv1y9HDDH8yUT5wY4lV_0PJrkImxVWutdZeJc7YcgTqHX4qxP91Qp5xu6awZuqYulxrEpNMlRMfJ-ibYXqy-pOzc1tjt2oEMdngxvxuUgYc8el_WnxVyyKeQ7d-yko9wz5WZMicsd/w200-h150/DSC08314.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">As soon as I had unpacked my stuff, I headed out again to
explore the town and revisit my favourite places. My first port of call was <i>The
Chalice Well</i> and gardens. I was pleased to see that some flowers were
already blooming in early February. The well is also known as the Red Spring because
of the high iron content of the water which leaves a red deposit on everything
it touches. I drank a few sips of the water at the Lion’s Head drinking
fountain because it is said to have healing properties.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUI4bxFEZp2tpU4ff_UExEXifeRQKAyT2SlLWTmwOyfjCyDWbxdFrqXCsjqCl4wNVUqZkWrv18nMpeMTPUs5X_t-9baVAq1PxwuzuMAx4TjKS_xTXEexA-eOU7Qh5XalZnqpNyZMGJQbAi_n1ejR4FUy0FFZu-Vp_2nj4UKzKRzUOFcXslomRJ/s5152/DSC08309.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUI4bxFEZp2tpU4ff_UExEXifeRQKAyT2SlLWTmwOyfjCyDWbxdFrqXCsjqCl4wNVUqZkWrv18nMpeMTPUs5X_t-9baVAq1PxwuzuMAx4TjKS_xTXEexA-eOU7Qh5XalZnqpNyZMGJQbAi_n1ejR4FUy0FFZu-Vp_2nj4UKzKRzUOFcXslomRJ/s320/DSC08309.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">There is a meditation
space at the Chalice Well called <i>‘The Upper Room’</i> which is exclusively
for silent contemplation. The lyrics of <i>Van Morrison’s</i> song <i>Avalon Of
The Heart</i> came into my head, <i>‘In the upper room. There the cup</i> <i>does
stand, In the upper room, Down by Avalon’</i>. Van’s songs often enter my consciousness
in Glastonbury, and he is well acquainted with the myths and magic of this
area. Legend has it that Joseph of Arimathea buried or washed the cup from the
Last Supper here. At 3pm a bell was rung for the Silent Minute which was
established during the Second World War and observed here for decades. <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4Fo2IddJ2hR2Yy1y4K53KxDDK2mOhiTWzXHZMttpVeTDNbdCdeI_USoCzELapH4jgfNv0L0NO0kcaXfnNXEHtCkrxnphwqaPEtYc4K9TRQNLolXj2uNohy30AleXBVP2l9i2NbNp1UvcFM7826DGIoTbM9xsV8HR3H044xS4RqDUHNbq4QPk/s5152/DSC08325.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU4Fo2IddJ2hR2Yy1y4K53KxDDK2mOhiTWzXHZMttpVeTDNbdCdeI_USoCzELapH4jgfNv0L0NO0kcaXfnNXEHtCkrxnphwqaPEtYc4K9TRQNLolXj2uNohy30AleXBVP2l9i2NbNp1UvcFM7826DGIoTbM9xsV8HR3H044xS4RqDUHNbq4QPk/w200-h150/DSC08325.JPG" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Time was moving on; it would be dark in two hours, and I
wanted to climb the Tor. I began the ascent just around the corner from the
Chalice Well, before you get to the <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">White Spring</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. There were dozens of pregnant
sheep grazing on the hillside, which reminded me that it will soon be lambing
time, always a great time of year. I always think it is quite a biblical
pastoral scene which reminds me of that great visionary </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">William Blake</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. I
stopped every few yards to observe the view over the Somerset countryside. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3iPVr47FM2nE4VKnn2Q49Mxv6uIiKzt6oVMpANvmjTsFnikpgd2vB0lyDV3RCsxshNa5Ll4k6HJ_YkxbJ4jZ6N50si2HRwPlLZHS1dIlfZe_EYTtLfxVJ-Xj0hP5G9PrqizZFiTJqHKQdTqtcUl8CkKHbe4N8VVTMZnMleA6JtmuLhQoDBgNW/s5152/DSC08329.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3iPVr47FM2nE4VKnn2Q49Mxv6uIiKzt6oVMpANvmjTsFnikpgd2vB0lyDV3RCsxshNa5Ll4k6HJ_YkxbJ4jZ6N50si2HRwPlLZHS1dIlfZe_EYTtLfxVJ-Xj0hP5G9PrqizZFiTJqHKQdTqtcUl8CkKHbe4N8VVTMZnMleA6JtmuLhQoDBgNW/s320/DSC08329.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Even
late on a February afternoon there were quite a few other people going up or
down the ancient pathway. Finally, I reached <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">St Michael’s Tower</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> at the
summit. Surveying the Somerset levels below you could see a mist arising in the
distance. The Tor can be seen from miles around above this mist. It is a phenomenon
known as </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Fata Morgana</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> which takes its name from </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Morgana Le</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Fey</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
a sorceress in Arthurian legend. The tower is roofless, so sitting on a bench
inside and looking up you get a free artwork of nature, namely the heavens above. As I gazed upwards I
thought I saw a tiny angel descend, but sadly it was only a pigeon coming home
to roost. 😊</span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqM_kY2E0uyM8euapY3iUzjr8t-ctfs1SPUd5ejlH6p2Gx6Se9eR3IFQhqKFRhzq6rzGSAW189W1g_r859kwi520io0PqSeKhVQygqaTwH4PwMaBXgY3oVYkkRJfb92U3Wv0dGzYgbkUAaNE-Km_KjL8SXTwGfuhpKf6AQQibjOojPjb6JOum5/s5152/DSC08338.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqM_kY2E0uyM8euapY3iUzjr8t-ctfs1SPUd5ejlH6p2Gx6Se9eR3IFQhqKFRhzq6rzGSAW189W1g_r859kwi520io0PqSeKhVQygqaTwH4PwMaBXgY3oVYkkRJfb92U3Wv0dGzYgbkUAaNE-Km_KjL8SXTwGfuhpKf6AQQibjOojPjb6JOum5/s320/DSC08338.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">After half an hour or so of mindful contemplation I thought I better
be heading back down to the town below. I had some food at the <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Market Tavern</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
and called in at </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The George & Pilgrim</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> for a glass of wine as other
pilgrims have done for hundreds of years. Back at the B & B I thought I’d
have an hour’s nap before the evening, but when I woke up, I couldn’t be
bothered going out again, especially as it had begun to rain. I slept soundly
until 6.00 the next morning, little realising what a great day lay ahead. (To be
Continued)</span> </span><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP7NvrZ9wFhxn39XK8oYVeByUtYr8H8apUI5ep37FMm6Ak0-I5Inhyphenhyphenzrk_aZUXKpSlFnklhoMSPyu-RJ88aQRKJyZBD2FauL_8XxPyFYyrn3pEtmT9qRCd5SpF34JyA6XLVTpONiBILEN_ReCVXyqACIAZrhEzUjYqRPpsw1SNWLdZP7HUS-EL/s5152/DSC08346.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP7NvrZ9wFhxn39XK8oYVeByUtYr8H8apUI5ep37FMm6Ak0-I5Inhyphenhyphenzrk_aZUXKpSlFnklhoMSPyu-RJ88aQRKJyZBD2FauL_8XxPyFYyrn3pEtmT9qRCd5SpF34JyA6XLVTpONiBILEN_ReCVXyqACIAZrhEzUjYqRPpsw1SNWLdZP7HUS-EL/w640-h480/DSC08346.JPG" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The George & Pilgrim.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><br /></p>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-14375800205018248792024-02-04T07:01:00.000-08:002024-02-04T07:10:41.289-08:00Girl With A Typewriter.<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtRRJC3FyVCbV0Ad1WyY6vOVwgbQikGEIGau_DEvjJLAYM-ouyMpgnSM5cQnHczWnkO9vWTs2_RN8r1aQPQu3DzJNah0HuqqqMKCYgeCyqBE4t0qGx0Z_gf0qsVgll5FHYqIlXLiAodgi-Mk0w0CDBZtTMb48q0e1PnjKvMLd5i9bHXmKJ81tH/s658/emma_smith-658x600.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="658" height="584" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtRRJC3FyVCbV0Ad1WyY6vOVwgbQikGEIGau_DEvjJLAYM-ouyMpgnSM5cQnHczWnkO9vWTs2_RN8r1aQPQu3DzJNah0HuqqqMKCYgeCyqBE4t0qGx0Z_gf0qsVgll5FHYqIlXLiAodgi-Mk0w0CDBZtTMb48q0e1PnjKvMLd5i9bHXmKJ81tH/w640-h584/emma_smith-658x600.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">It is possible that you are unfamiliar with the name </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Robert
Doisneau</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, but I am quite sure that you have seen his work. </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Robert
Doisneau</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> (14 April 1912 – 1 April 1994) was a French photographer. From the
1930s onwards he roamed the streets of Paris looking for interesting subjects
to photograph. He once said, ‘The marvels of daily life are so exciting; no
movie director can arrange the unexpected that you find in the street’. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNwM8SLnqJyEz74hraD_jtSCXQM5uriYcUJB_QRfAyi1EdwbMvjpo3rG1Dk31QWB1IF2NyAgbdGb267HHf5ckUfLepl8N6iLlDhUiqmE-ch_MPyNq8sv7MjSBFo_SLOEp06zNL2iRyy3N5LjvBL3z4d_eI0i6_Bgb8NDfgdWyrZgkrvcsPG0OD/s990/The+Kiss,+Presse+f%C3%A9minine+-+devant+l'h%C3%B4tel+Napol%C3%A9on+%C3%A0+Clamart-1969.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="990" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNwM8SLnqJyEz74hraD_jtSCXQM5uriYcUJB_QRfAyi1EdwbMvjpo3rG1Dk31QWB1IF2NyAgbdGb267HHf5ckUfLepl8N6iLlDhUiqmE-ch_MPyNq8sv7MjSBFo_SLOEp06zNL2iRyy3N5LjvBL3z4d_eI0i6_Bgb8NDfgdWyrZgkrvcsPG0OD/s320/The+Kiss,+Presse+f%C3%A9minine+-+devant+l'h%C3%B4tel+Napol%C3%A9on+%C3%A0+Clamart-1969.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The
photograph that I am certain you will know is his 1950 image <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Le baiser de
l'hôtel de Ville</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> (The Kiss by the City Hall), a photograph of a couple
kissing on a busy Parisian street. This iconic picture for millions of people
has come to represent the nostalgia and romance of Paris in the post-war years.
It was the first of his works that I became aware of. Very often when I am
listening to the </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Van Morrison</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> song </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Angelou</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> that image will come
into my mind, ‘In the month of May, In the city of Paris, In the month of May, In
the city of Paris, And I heard the bells ringing’. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">However, there is another photo by </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Robert Doisneau</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
that I find just as romantic and intriguing. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7UFF8QbNqN8eRiocZ3W-eeE_gI59VqdGq7d6gjpzpXm3OLiY7wJF7f94wuybaiwObXy2kvbrMQQRi9a7HFKoPs6O8b9FS8Nu4Cm2BVWzJxO3WeopmmuPLK-jQ1t_TzMZu1aMClnof0lD-5DhWpaSbn8focx2jBAFfTC2BbsydMiWuNoWhCZe/s2400/01-%E2%80%93-Robert-Doisneau_0.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="2081" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO7UFF8QbNqN8eRiocZ3W-eeE_gI59VqdGq7d6gjpzpXm3OLiY7wJF7f94wuybaiwObXy2kvbrMQQRi9a7HFKoPs6O8b9FS8Nu4Cm2BVWzJxO3WeopmmuPLK-jQ1t_TzMZu1aMClnof0lD-5DhWpaSbn8focx2jBAFfTC2BbsydMiWuNoWhCZe/w173-h200/01-%E2%80%93-Robert-Doisneau_0.jpg" width="173" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">One day in the summer of 1948 he
was working on an assignment for <i>Paris Match</i> magazine when he spotted a young
woman sitting by the Seine at the Ile de la Cite working on a manual typewriter
and he took her picture. For me that photo is synonymous with the creative
spirit of Paris in the pre and post war years. There were many great French
writers living in Paris such as <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Albert Camus, Jean-Paul Sartre</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, and </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Simone
de Beauvoir</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, but Paris in that era had also become a mecca for many of my
favourite authors such as </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Henry Miller</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">,( His book </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Quiet Days In
Clichy</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> gave me the title of this blog page) </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Ernest Hemingway,</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Oscar
Wilde</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> lived out his last years in poverty in Paris, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">George Orwell</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
wrote </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Down and Out In London and Paris</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> here, </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">James Joyce</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> wrote </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Ulysses</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
which was published in Paris by </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Sylvia Beach</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> at her famous </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Shakespeare
& Company</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> bookshop. </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">James Baldwin</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> also lived here. All these
people were drawn to Paris by the creative freedom and artistic Bohemian
atmosphere. That is why the photo of the girl with the typewriter fascinated me.
I wanted to know who she was, and also what was she writing? Years ago it might
have been difficult to find this out, but now thanks to the likes of google and
Wikipedia it was quite an easy task.</span></span><p></p>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0cm 0cm 1pt;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ivkuU8s-lmYsKui9wATFLvVPxy2KnBq-9yzDMuPACg8WROev8cAoI1yOQgPIPmk-R_H4NGU3ARcnmssAhHIwuk0T0UAQfwk2W65_dTIc9TT5B25G7BoPt_8yotwbkhXrpatulajdWs090RjNHmDv8OeAGFfQAk-zjrUmpBOKRMhYcGFZ-TcM/s907/31523564891.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="907" data-original-width="678" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ivkuU8s-lmYsKui9wATFLvVPxy2KnBq-9yzDMuPACg8WROev8cAoI1yOQgPIPmk-R_H4NGU3ARcnmssAhHIwuk0T0UAQfwk2W65_dTIc9TT5B25G7BoPt_8yotwbkhXrpatulajdWs090RjNHmDv8OeAGFfQAk-zjrUmpBOKRMhYcGFZ-TcM/s320/31523564891.jpg" width="239" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">It turns out that she was English,
and her name was <i>Emma Smith</i>. She was 25 years old at the time of the
photograph and was living in Paris while working on her second novel. She was
born in Cornwall in 1923. During the Second World War, she worked on the canals
as a boatswoman. Her experiences working on the Grand Union Canal would become
the basis for her debut novel<i>, Maidens' Trip</i>. In 1946, still only 23, she
went to India with a team of documentary filmmakers where she became friends
with <i>Laurie Lee</i> and encouraged him to complete his memoir of his
childhood in Gloucestershire <i>Cider With Rosie</i> which eventually sold
millions of copies. Emma returned to England in 1947 and wrote her first book. <i>Maidens'
Trip</i> which a commercial success and won the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize. With
the proceeds from it, she moved to Paris, where she took a room in the Hotel de
Tournon, and drawing on her memories of India, typed up her second novel <i>The
Far Cry.</i> That was what she was working on when Robert Doisneau came across
her on that fateful day. The book was published to great acclaim in 1949. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCCxCoFxhRNvfRuo-NCKqT7GXSJm4oLKIEbu5UMxi69wCMvfTog8ECIdYm2GVDtbFw9cj_76MUZVwe6-RItqq1GwBg58-HMWvdMJ-RlUgvG1Erwxbce-wZm-Fk8TWO4Hv5p42wotR5ZMmzWiamM8estPl6TQ5CczEL2erPBTAW1_Ms86O5oFp/s300/s-l300%20(1).webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="300" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbCCxCoFxhRNvfRuo-NCKqT7GXSJm4oLKIEbu5UMxi69wCMvfTog8ECIdYm2GVDtbFw9cj_76MUZVwe6-RItqq1GwBg58-HMWvdMJ-RlUgvG1Erwxbce-wZm-Fk8TWO4Hv5p42wotR5ZMmzWiamM8estPl6TQ5CczEL2erPBTAW1_Ms86O5oFp/s1600/s-l300%20(1).webp" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />She
married in 1951 and had two children, but sadly her husband died after only six
years of marriage. She moved to rural Wales with her children and seemed to
have lost interest in writing for many years. Eventually she produced four
books for children and a novel which didn’t repeat the success of her earlier books.
In recent years there has been a revival of interest in her work. The novelist <i>Susan
Hill</i> found a copy of <i>The Far Cry</i> in a jumble sale and wrote an
article full of praise for it in the Daily Telegraph. The book was finally reprinted as
a forgotten classic by Persephone Books of Bath 53 years after its first publication. <span face="Arial, sans-serif">Emma lived in Putney, London
from 1980. In her 80s she published two memoirs </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The Great Western Beach</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
and </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">As Green As Grass</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> which were both received enthusiastically by
critics and public alike. She died peacefully in April 2018 aged 94. For many
people she will be remembered for her books, but I think for me she is
immortalised in that famous photograph of </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Robert Doisneau</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> taken on a
summers day 76 years ago which symbolises the creative atmosphere and romance
of Paris when the world seemed a lot more optimistic than it does now.</span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .5pt; mso-padding-alt: 0cm 0cm 1.0pt 0cm; padding: 0cm;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNM5SR0bEYN65j6kxfYYQdUv98A85LYK8lFURyecZwSE-hSGBCxfhcMbSYSHxSeJ_oCtOEqEfATqh53eVvuHFbeoLaL-WJ9PgXdaPiSeyw65bzhCR9dtX-RAM_aFISlDouKvx1MEIcMHkOh1lK3KmNV6BUTw5bYVpV2vLskQdj9fwF6nQafHUe/s1920/7850850_image_0-4f4c2059c39536833d731c0cf351c1f5.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNM5SR0bEYN65j6kxfYYQdUv98A85LYK8lFURyecZwSE-hSGBCxfhcMbSYSHxSeJ_oCtOEqEfATqh53eVvuHFbeoLaL-WJ9PgXdaPiSeyw65bzhCR9dtX-RAM_aFISlDouKvx1MEIcMHkOh1lK3KmNV6BUTw5bYVpV2vLskQdj9fwF6nQafHUe/w640-h360/7850850_image_0-4f4c2059c39536833d731c0cf351c1f5.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Robert Doisneau.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
</div>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-30208868536867140802024-01-31T15:30:00.000-08:002024-02-01T05:01:23.584-08:00Saint Brigid & Glastonbury.<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3ju-naKzOHyf4MVOeiBQUy3fjqn4ZKDIQiGPx5kg3IqsFZYw9T3u-3B0r_tzmNtzPupc5HNeR1W--Rx9t8e7YPfYzJUYtlnQW3RSv7gVhwbA6h0igtepl_7joiZ8eBKc6KzRhlV5B1R5PDmWUHAlJzJF1jr6efHUE9KkOP-lmjAMJtw5ncQ=s3423" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3423" data-original-width="3357" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh3ju-naKzOHyf4MVOeiBQUy3fjqn4ZKDIQiGPx5kg3IqsFZYw9T3u-3B0r_tzmNtzPupc5HNeR1W--Rx9t8e7YPfYzJUYtlnQW3RSv7gVhwbA6h0igtepl_7joiZ8eBKc6KzRhlV5B1R5PDmWUHAlJzJF1jr6efHUE9KkOP-lmjAMJtw5ncQ=w196-h200" width="196" /></a></div><br />An Irish friend of mine has kindly sent me a <i>St Brigid's Cross </i>(See photo) which reminded me that today is <i>St Brigid's Day, </i>so I thought I would promote a story I wrote last year about <i>St Brigid </i>to mark the occasion.........</span></span><div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">February 1</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">st</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> is the feast of </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Imbolc </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">in
the Celtic world. It is also known as </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">St Brigid’s Day </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">in the Christian calendar.
It is one of four major Gaelic festivals. The others are </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Beltaine, Lunasa,
& Samhain. Imbolc </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">heralds the start of Spring and reawakening of the earth.</span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">
</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Van Morrison fans will know that Samhain marks the start of the </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Celtic
New Year. </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">It is Saint Brigid that I want to talk about today. Along
with </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">St Patrick, </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Brigid is one of the two most important saints in
Ireland. She is called Brigid of Kildare although she is thought to have been
born near Dundalk, County Louth in 451 AD. In 480 AD she founded a monastery in
Kildare on the site of an ancient pagan shrine dedicated to the goddess Brigid,
from whom presumably she took her name. Here Brigid and her helpers tended an
eternal flame. It was kept alight until being extinguished in the 16</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
century and was restored in 1993. Brigid became known as ‘</span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">the keeper of the
flame’ </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">which leads me to another Van Morrison link because in his song </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Carrying
A Torch </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Van sings ‘</span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">You are the keeper of the flame’. </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Did Van get
this idea from the story of St Brigid? Probably not, but interesting anyway. Thanks
to Brigid, Kildare became a great centre of religion and learning. She died in
525 AD.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYKKNInsM_TRLlExmj3TjHKD3NHHJDZ6H8IcOc62hbog_XumQG3R3onot75V28StJ9UEyoV9GEC6FDJgPVeVi7qw8pOprE0f4csYUxVfndFhwQ0Fg_3zdsMcVHirVp7AEd9u-/s294/perpetual-flame_clip_image002.gif" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="294" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwYKKNInsM_TRLlExmj3TjHKD3NHHJDZ6H8IcOc62hbog_XumQG3R3onot75V28StJ9UEyoV9GEC6FDJgPVeVi7qw8pOprE0f4csYUxVfndFhwQ0Fg_3zdsMcVHirVp7AEd9u-/w200-h118/perpetual-flame_clip_image002.gif" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />What I have found personally especially interesting about
Brigid is her links with the town of <i>Glastonbury, </i>which as you know is
one of my favourite places.<i> </i>If you ever climb up Glastonbury Tor, just over
the entrance to the tower you can see a carving of St Brigid milking a cow. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjte14JQfo5mFAmo6Y19yA004u8BHkQ_UciNkDUPzXSi4es_YE3fjRfsHPIzC8FSN6nNWkRdEC4BqgVUWPUYnYxP9E-JwTrkv2OWhiOBqspGkrHX6n5-jZSAtiDNJnsapSKj4Ke/s817/st-b.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="817" data-original-width="809" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjte14JQfo5mFAmo6Y19yA004u8BHkQ_UciNkDUPzXSi4es_YE3fjRfsHPIzC8FSN6nNWkRdEC4BqgVUWPUYnYxP9E-JwTrkv2OWhiOBqspGkrHX6n5-jZSAtiDNJnsapSKj4Ke/w198-h200/st-b.jpg" width="198" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Glastonbury Tor.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />St
Patrick’s connections to Glastonbury are well documented and in <i>St Patrick’s
Chapel </i>in the Abbey grounds there is a fresco depicting Brigid. The 12<sup>th</sup> century
historian <i>William Of Malmsbury </i>reported on her visit. He wrote, <i>’she
left here some of her ornaments; that is to say, her necklace, bag, and
implements for embroidering, which are yet shown in memory of her sanctity, and
are efficacious in curing divers diseases’. </i>In the 14<sup>th</sup> century
a Benedictine monk <i>John Of Glastonbury</i> also reported that there was a
chapel dedicated to Brigid in the area of Glastonbury called <i>Beckery </i>also
known as <i>Little Ireland. Brides Mound </i>in Beckery is named after Brigid
and in 2004 two Brigadine sisters<i> </i>brought the restored perpetual flame
from Kildare to a goddess conference ceremony in Glastonbury.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5j3tbN2L2AeP5MK8Qu8_mWMRejgdXjAYvXXe00hsX7Zxstbv2BFFuz4NJK-6zp7FaunIl3HeGhEoEASF_ESDZYEU-EQWl1pYgj-O9No9WPUHDHsOr1hnLfBJSP6C8GrbP8-mH/s236/170px-St._Brigid_Painting.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="236" data-original-width="170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5j3tbN2L2AeP5MK8Qu8_mWMRejgdXjAYvXXe00hsX7Zxstbv2BFFuz4NJK-6zp7FaunIl3HeGhEoEASF_ESDZYEU-EQWl1pYgj-O9No9WPUHDHsOr1hnLfBJSP6C8GrbP8-mH/w288-h400/170px-St._Brigid_Painting.jpg" width="288" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">St Brigid in St Patrick's Chapel.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;">At the start of the 20th century a man in Glastonbury came across a
tiny bell which experts found to be a Celtic bell, possibly 1,500 years old. It
came eventually into the possession of <i>Alice Buckton </i>who thought it was
likely to be St Brigid’s bell due to the similarity to St Patrick’s bell which
was in the National Museum in Dublin. In 1913 Alice Buckton founded the <i>Chalice
Well </i>in Glastonbury where she used the bell in ceremonies. One of her
friends was <i>Dion Fortune </i>who wrote about her in her book <i>Avalon Of
The Heart. </i>(Notice another Van Morrison link!) I visited Dion Fortune’s
grave a few years ago and wrote a story about it. Alice Buckton died in 1944
and sadly the bell has not been seen since. I hope it is still hidden away somewhere in
Glastonbury. </span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">Finally, In the centre of Glastonbury town there is a
courtyard. I think it is called </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The Glastonbury Experience. </i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">There are
little shops in there and a couple of statues. When I was looking for pictures
to Illustrate this story, I remembered I had my photo taken in there with a female
statue. She seemed to be wearing the right sort of Celtic type garb. I wondered if it was a statue of
St Brigid. I googled ‘Brigid statue Glastonbury’ but could not see it. Even if it isn't her, which it probably isn't, I still like the photo, so I left it in. Happy Imbolc & St Brigid's Day.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7o6oukic4q5YkURVLTxRi3p6Dn-qnJWByUQLMVknZxQ3bA0XgmJKIo0Ad4BmLUsctvm2OTktg8OiXZ44pmMT3HE1MqB4r19QQp73tCwX-rpw2OxOEfIlumv2-L0tP_R_nEivMQ1Gy0tye5dr5bJnCcNAo-G_Nf-qP1ZhkRcDFIO5SXk83Mw=s4320" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3240" data-original-width="4320" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg7o6oukic4q5YkURVLTxRi3p6Dn-qnJWByUQLMVknZxQ3bA0XgmJKIo0Ad4BmLUsctvm2OTktg8OiXZ44pmMT3HE1MqB4r19QQp73tCwX-rpw2OxOEfIlumv2-L0tP_R_nEivMQ1Gy0tye5dr5bJnCcNAo-G_Nf-qP1ZhkRcDFIO5SXk83Mw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p></div></div>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-62570920525222584492024-01-31T04:56:00.000-08:002024-02-01T04:55:02.488-08:00Avalon Of The Heart.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFy4dUWG3XCGVw62FAi8lj2Rb-5hpi3ZsVEYKfXml5z2kd08aZHl4jq4I8nHYxsGTKx_o3yQIewW_6vOnLBGIp7f6DLiZgmpNEKJEfy7GIqm3EyQ2NszHtiEZQQjVFIoVUwsfw74JfKC4y52WOCIy_1qSpaeJ7exYSEQJYm_b-BFILsUo5-IN5/s634/a4dc31_abf58e7f1da94333b24bc9e8c247f6f3~mv2.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="634" height="344" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFy4dUWG3XCGVw62FAi8lj2Rb-5hpi3ZsVEYKfXml5z2kd08aZHl4jq4I8nHYxsGTKx_o3yQIewW_6vOnLBGIp7f6DLiZgmpNEKJEfy7GIqm3EyQ2NszHtiEZQQjVFIoVUwsfw74JfKC4y52WOCIy_1qSpaeJ7exYSEQJYm_b-BFILsUo5-IN5/w640-h344/a4dc31_abf58e7f1da94333b24bc9e8c247f6f3~mv2.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjXYwm8PdYo2jf0QTWSwecYcP1k9MHaUfgLyWU2GjQc9pI6lmi3qzeP8MU13I4Iz4YVAgrY1cGv7JDNwupJmPX4HmyEmspodf5EB0wribPSm9oP52iY73vueD5J4i-sDHxrZK/s480/hqdefault.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjXYwm8PdYo2jf0QTWSwecYcP1k9MHaUfgLyWU2GjQc9pI6lmi3qzeP8MU13I4Iz4YVAgrY1cGv7JDNwupJmPX4HmyEmspodf5EB0wribPSm9oP52iY73vueD5J4i-sDHxrZK/s320/hqdefault.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dion Fortune.</td></tr></tbody></table></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm going to Glastonbury town next week for a couple of days, so I thought I'd dust off this old story that I wrote several years ago about a previous visit.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I woke up Tuesday morning and the sun was streaming through the window. It was a beautiful day as I set out for Glastonbury. I arrived there about 11.45 and I couldn't check into my hotel till 2.00, so I wandered the streets taking photos of the shop signs. One shop was called <i>Enlightenment</i> which reminded me of the Van Morrison album. Then I had a look in a museum that I had never visited before. It was all about the Iron Age people that used to live around here. Some of the pottery and tools they used were amazing and they even had an Iron Age canoe which had been discovered locally. The Tourist Information Office was in the same building and I asked the lady if she could direct me to the cemetery. She gave me a bit of a funny look. I think it is because tourist information ladies usually get asked about hotels or bus timetables, not cemeteries. She told me to go to the top of the High Street and turn left and it was about half a mile.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKcrxl7TkRa486IcfHpabjZfXZozhTqAL2CrFca2AptcKaVogapuJW6lnY_akqIQkyR07mkcGr3jLrsSw82oSNS1deKh7YZdYs2GOh7kBSeqQLPdVpIJm4HLzkeUqu_h0rLTExLw/s1600/IMG_1300.JPG" width="320" /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Fifteen minutes later I arrived at the cemetery entrance. Inside the deserted graveyard there was a peaceful atmosphere, not a cloud in the sky and just the sound of birdsong adding to the tranquillity. I had expected my intuition would lead me to the grave like a holy magnet, but after a few minutes I realised that I had a major problem. There were hundreds of graves, a lot of them covered in moss and lichen and so worn that you could hardly read the inscription. I wandered up and down the rows for about half an hour looking for graves that looked about 70 years old. "This is impossible", I thought to myself and was beginning to despair.<br /> Then I noticed a van parked nearby with a man who was eating sandwiches. "He must be a gravedigger or a sexton or whatever you call them", I thought, "He might be able to help". He put down his sandwich and gave a cheery smile. "I wonder if you can help me, I'm trying to locate a grave but I don't have a clue where it is. Violet Mary Evans better known as <i>Dion Fortune</i>". " I know exactly where it is", he replied, "You're not the first person to ask me about that grave, I'll show you it". " Oh brilliant, thanks mate".<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGYar4bwPHuGVMOgxPNb6V5pUiYjqhrisfdeKx79TbMNPMFAOc0pQsipYDlT9bu_NEsUk7kKof2zK18s0oyHpHqCnlUlUgT8i_oSrOlM2Z_7VJxRZNL8DL6hKn8FNyBKWC-v6AVw/s1600/DSCF2827.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGYar4bwPHuGVMOgxPNb6V5pUiYjqhrisfdeKx79TbMNPMFAOc0pQsipYDlT9bu_NEsUk7kKof2zK18s0oyHpHqCnlUlUgT8i_oSrOlM2Z_7VJxRZNL8DL6hKn8FNyBKWC-v6AVw/s1600/DSCF2827.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
He led me up towards the far end of the cemetery and then down a few rows and there it was, my quest was over. I had found the grave of <i>Dion Fortune</i>. I thanked him and shook hands and he left me alone at the graveside. Even after 69 years she obviously still had visitors because there were recent flowers left there and various trinkets and things. I took a few photos and then I noticed just a few feet away the grave of her patron and secretary in the Fraternity Of The Inner Light Charles Thomas Loveday who died in 1948 so I took a photo of that as well.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAou4nW5B63Gc_r4yTnIZ3wc4cYRSmBD2TpxDBkiEc8LJh9yZiRLoFzsNp0qc1v0q9dXXSP0hhIAMzjq6vz6fTmD7bCQBrwVbHcbHE7YBY1qsvr7HUqGE_Tz_lGKg3A7gJWUNbgg/s1600/DSCF2828.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAou4nW5B63Gc_r4yTnIZ3wc4cYRSmBD2TpxDBkiEc8LJh9yZiRLoFzsNp0qc1v0q9dXXSP0hhIAMzjq6vz6fTmD7bCQBrwVbHcbHE7YBY1qsvr7HUqGE_Tz_lGKg3A7gJWUNbgg/s1600/DSCF2828.JPG" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;">
Then I placed the book, <i>Avalon of The Heart</i> (protected inside a plastic bag in case of rain) on Dion's grave. The book she had written all those years ago. I hope that somebody found it and enjoyed it. I left the cemetery feeling quite pleased with myself. Mission accomplished. </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Walking back down the High Street I spotted a second-hand bookshop and thought I would have a look in. There was a huge range of books on all sorts of topics such as the occult, mysticism & theosophy and guess what was almost the first book I saw in there. Yes, <i>Glastonbury,</i> <i>Avalon Of The Heart </i>by Dion Fortune. The rest of my 24 hours in Glastonbury was good fun. The 15th century hotel The George And Pilgrim is nice. Kim and I stayed there a few times previously. I had a meal and saw a band in the hotel next door. Next morning I climbed the Tor which was beautiful and then I sat in the Chalice Well gardens for about an hour basking in the sun which was amazing for February and I had a drink of the cool water to quench my thirst and then I hopped in a taxi to Castle Cary and caught the train back to Westbury. Today it is back to being dark, rainy and miserable so I am really pleased I chose the best days to go away and I have even started writing again, so thank you very much <i>Dion Fortune </i>for inspiring me from beyond the grave.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-KyLm5mHa8VcX6aC5ie0zRtQpHT_jkj7CuHFwP1tXasexxqtHpM3cjTHdF7jK2MLNqkJc_P-5kh4ynrE0FcFIuZkNdWPn8IW2bXLTTyNWjH4CZ7Y_oqrko3JYVE7oTBUzsMsB-Q/s1600/DSCF2831.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-KyLm5mHa8VcX6aC5ie0zRtQpHT_jkj7CuHFwP1tXasexxqtHpM3cjTHdF7jK2MLNqkJc_P-5kh4ynrE0FcFIuZkNdWPn8IW2bXLTTyNWjH4CZ7Y_oqrko3JYVE7oTBUzsMsB-Q/s1600/DSCF2831.JPG" width="400" /></span></a></div>
<br /></div>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-5754106230534203192024-01-27T05:28:00.000-08:002024-01-27T07:07:13.684-08:00Walking In January.<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqpOrl6RcCLA9hmoQKNjtB5UpFLb6rt8zdClYviay6WZ1X_5PaRpW9DbjbbTDaAA9JMwRYXmFP4IyZzpCCtRAk2BM4zR40qGB8pmxmLE4cp_dmvektBHXvma8W0ivcCDCvtBrfH66TCO3A7nCqdCl6V0dXS1dt62rwdsiLGO1LTuPkKpXBDqi/s5152/DSC08255.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgqpOrl6RcCLA9hmoQKNjtB5UpFLb6rt8zdClYviay6WZ1X_5PaRpW9DbjbbTDaAA9JMwRYXmFP4IyZzpCCtRAk2BM4zR40qGB8pmxmLE4cp_dmvektBHXvma8W0ivcCDCvtBrfH66TCO3A7nCqdCl6V0dXS1dt62rwdsiLGO1LTuPkKpXBDqi/w400-h300/DSC08255.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Friday was a good day. The sun was shining, perfect for a
good long walk. I left the house at about 12.30 and headed in the usual
direction towards the countryside. I said hello to some sheep who were grazing happily
in the January sunshine. I didn’t turn left for the White Horse this time but
carried on up a steep pathway through the bare leafless trees to the top of the ridge, The
path was quite slippery with lots of wet dead leaves covering the chalk
underneath, so I had to be careful. It was worth the effort for the panoramic
view of the fields below.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSr5RbrTUQwUx8jaVLrm5IQdjnUW8Y_BqYA7C8p0m-fE1_Le6_hXuTpUvZ1VZP_wpAKZNMT0jppi-6wEFF4EJvh7399h_eZfyUk0IVnLlaqiSUN9iuGzieEpVqcXHlczWpJJuJI8ad8LnfxooXJIlU2FIsV5o9dQgC-c4nvajI42cS7xGuQEv2/s5152/DSC08256.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSr5RbrTUQwUx8jaVLrm5IQdjnUW8Y_BqYA7C8p0m-fE1_Le6_hXuTpUvZ1VZP_wpAKZNMT0jppi-6wEFF4EJvh7399h_eZfyUk0IVnLlaqiSUN9iuGzieEpVqcXHlczWpJJuJI8ad8LnfxooXJIlU2FIsV5o9dQgC-c4nvajI42cS7xGuQEv2/s320/DSC08256.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Then I headed along the edge of Salisbury Plain beside
the army firing range. It was quite breezy up here, but I was grateful for that
after the strenuous sweaty climb up the hill. I didn’t see another soul apart
from one couple out walking their dog. I loved the solitude and being far from
the madding crowd. As <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Arthur Schopenhauer</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> once said, ‘A man can be
himself only so long as he is alone; and if he does not love solitude, he will
not love freedom; for it is only when he is alone that he is really free’.
Anyway, I walked along the trackway for quite a distance. There are footpaths
leading downwards towards the woods, but I walked on further until I thought
that was far enough for one day and headed down the hill and into the woods. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaXpzqq7ebKvDp8QTQcMBeAfwLNu_i0_ntO5Z7TApvw3anpdtIBDBNwRqc01CARpWA4qoPLm6J6Mv527CaZlaEa6mtzlRye5Cx5Iq7VquxO7k2f4N9TqjoPUwleTFha4Nq6erG4YnoZibBXnq8SRLuWtmqwdfsV4h2xSNPZ75A-R9Eb5r_f9C4/s217/420101616_10224220522684464_513188342075882816_n.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="217" data-original-width="206" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaXpzqq7ebKvDp8QTQcMBeAfwLNu_i0_ntO5Z7TApvw3anpdtIBDBNwRqc01CARpWA4qoPLm6J6Mv527CaZlaEa6mtzlRye5Cx5Iq7VquxO7k2f4N9TqjoPUwleTFha4Nq6erG4YnoZibBXnq8SRLuWtmqwdfsV4h2xSNPZ75A-R9Eb5r_f9C4/w190-h200/420101616_10224220522684464_513188342075882816_n.jpg" width="190" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">Along
the way I came to an avenue of beech trees that must have been planted maybe
nearly 100 years ago. Over the years courting couples and other people had
carved their names or initials and the year into the bark of the trees. I
wandered along reading them and taking photos. The oldest one I spotted was
1972 but I bet there are some a lot older than that. Some of the teenagers who
carved their names with pen knives all those years ago would be old people now.
I wondered if <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Ralph</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> still loves </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Sylv</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, or if </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Vikki & Joe</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
were still together. I always find things like that fascinating, like finding graffiti
from the middle ages in old buildings like churches. </span></span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFBnEQK8X7zkLxziW-6CkkyHgZpqpSZf_nIi8oSt0euZ68poMNmnLN3hPNaUXVX7gXFwwr6Vc38-rYK6oMtxCjd7FuxdcKsXO4DsRiLH9BNXBLCk2G0DYyIbPnxkjZaQH_gxymWBGjEnwRrkf9K8RH5uft46OffwE54icPaOKjM-UUP3rw5UM/s213/420092498_10224220503723990_4363214107178738019_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="213" data-original-width="160" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieFBnEQK8X7zkLxziW-6CkkyHgZpqpSZf_nIi8oSt0euZ68poMNmnLN3hPNaUXVX7gXFwwr6Vc38-rYK6oMtxCjd7FuxdcKsXO4DsRiLH9BNXBLCk2G0DYyIbPnxkjZaQH_gxymWBGjEnwRrkf9K8RH5uft46OffwE54icPaOKjM-UUP3rw5UM/s1600/420092498_10224220503723990_4363214107178738019_n.jpg" width="160" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I carried on along a muddy path
that I hadn’t discovered before, but knew it was going in the right direction
and it led me back to the pathway where I first ascended the hill. It was even
slippier going down, but I didn’t come to grief. When I finally got home the
clock said 3.30, so I had been out walking for three hours. Next time I’ll try
and go even further.</span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p><br /></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj00ap2sR4EV1VYPhYLc0neQaK7pZ_M3BB1bN6iB5zKN86R3iEYdGMVYLFlPEAKM1kE9Jl4S6l4gazxoqapRI9kNcxJ7MIp0pyMdqlWly2G8ndjJFIrlGw1h35VvZr9c-0rC78N4tqUXgHN1UztndE76BGlU30z2zxsUqnmDmu83FwifewPwKsY/s785/Hiking-Trekking-Quotes-Captions.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="785" data-original-width="735" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj00ap2sR4EV1VYPhYLc0neQaK7pZ_M3BB1bN6iB5zKN86R3iEYdGMVYLFlPEAKM1kE9Jl4S6l4gazxoqapRI9kNcxJ7MIp0pyMdqlWly2G8ndjJFIrlGw1h35VvZr9c-0rC78N4tqUXgHN1UztndE76BGlU30z2zxsUqnmDmu83FwifewPwKsY/w600-h640/Hiking-Trekking-Quotes-Captions.jpg" width="600" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-12000611108928548972024-01-24T22:30:00.000-08:002024-01-26T00:52:53.993-08:00 Melanie, Cheese & Grain Frome, May 26, 2009<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJ3sxxHdui2WXS4qw5YCk4cgQsWCAt-EVkPpCLeMXX6Zdn7rNiA2j1oWFwALS_nbWNi6m4IsdWKZ3N4vANboBPXoMmUhrKtTXY5jo-_hTSorb-j57ZkAqnStuMFUivs8GKEmuCVru9HKY97jONih9m2LysPHU5SeSPQVECDLG-3eu_JRydOU_/s1000/melanie-GettyImages-1206195337-e1706128066845%20(1).webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="563" data-original-width="1000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJ3sxxHdui2WXS4qw5YCk4cgQsWCAt-EVkPpCLeMXX6Zdn7rNiA2j1oWFwALS_nbWNi6m4IsdWKZ3N4vANboBPXoMmUhrKtTXY5jo-_hTSorb-j57ZkAqnStuMFUivs8GKEmuCVru9HKY97jONih9m2LysPHU5SeSPQVECDLG-3eu_JRydOU_/w400-h225/melanie-GettyImages-1206195337-e1706128066845%20(1).webp" width="400" /></a></div><br />I heard the sad news last night that </span><i style="text-align: left;">Melanie</i><span style="text-align: left;"> has passed away at the age of 76. She was one of my favourite singers back in the 1970s, so as a little tribute to Melanie I thought I'd dust off this story I wrote after seeing her in 2009.</span></span></div><div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">27/05/2009.<br />
I discovered the music of Melanie in the early 1970's when I was at Teacher Training College in North Wales and immediately loved her music and message of peace. I bought all her albums,<i> Candles In The Rain, Leftover Wine, Live At Carnegie Hall, Gather Me, Garden In The City, Four Sides Of Melanie, Madrugada, The Good Book</i> and others that I can't remember right now. She was prolific in the 70's and all her albums were brilliant. What a great songwriter she is. I never did get to see her live though. She was on at Glastonbury in the early 1980's and I was looking forward to seeing her, but drank too much cider and collapsed in a heap somewhere and missed her.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_SZQmdAPZny2YxJkGgGWyXhwc6y0vzSVY6sHa5G-5UzZMut4meLbyGHUCrsHmvWn_TTL-nTakISF_WBN_BbjmU_ullbip3qeoITuFcxswv4Nvga87UyFoSQE1Qj8NE58AaDIUEg/s1600-h/Melanie_Safka_mch3-2b.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340545662258529298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_SZQmdAPZny2YxJkGgGWyXhwc6y0vzSVY6sHa5G-5UzZMut4meLbyGHUCrsHmvWn_TTL-nTakISF_WBN_BbjmU_ullbip3qeoITuFcxswv4Nvga87UyFoSQE1Qj8NE58AaDIUEg/s320/Melanie_Safka_mch3-2b.jpg" style="float: left; height: 236px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></a>
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Decades went by, I don't know why but I guess I just lost interest in Melanie and my vinyl albums gradually disappeared to god knows where. Then a couple of weeks ago I saw a poster on a wall in Westbury which said that Melanie was appearing at The Cheese And Grain in Frome. I decided to start my summer of music by seeing Melanie. I went with Kim and My friend Fred.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqiyKdWjna1PaEAaVbs0iF-WVMSaE5F2SWKAMkytg0lpggQyw-BfnI9JXgNM7jv0-l6bzz2T27D8vtJMtQBsunaNOuIruiSsIG0OB9SOhgdUjuS53SQAi8QHwx-rkc11CuNR5viQ/s1600-h/309013186_1dee440714.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340542491138648274" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqiyKdWjna1PaEAaVbs0iF-WVMSaE5F2SWKAMkytg0lpggQyw-BfnI9JXgNM7jv0-l6bzz2T27D8vtJMtQBsunaNOuIruiSsIG0OB9SOhgdUjuS53SQAi8QHwx-rkc11CuNR5viQ/s320/309013186_1dee440714.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 240px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 320px;" /></a>
<br />The three of us were standing outside the venue having a chat when a van drew up and a hippy looking guy dashed inside. This turned out to be Melanie's son <i>Beau-Jarred</i> who opened the show. He is a wizard on guitar and played some amazing pieces, some of which reminded you of Bach's baroque music. At other times he even played the guitar behind his head a la Jimi Hendrix. Then it was time for Melanie. It was great to finally see her after all these years. After a little chat with the audience she began with one of my favourites, <i>Close To It All</i> and I was immediately taken back to that room at college when I first heard her. The next song was one I didn't recognise or have forgotten called <i>The Sun & The Moon. The Nickel Song</i> was next, one of her more commercial songs and I remember having this on a single back in 71. Then she sang <i>Hi Lily Hi Lo</i> which she told us came from a Danny Kaye film, but I remember it as a hit for Alan Price. Melanie's version is great and was followed by a new song called <i>First Thing I See</i> which is superb and shows Melanie still has retained her song writing ability. This was proved by another excellent song called <i>Little Bit Of Me</i>.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2iatEsVi21bx8yAOylTTcKlzd2D9pCtm3ruUETGov3095zHEGh0ITBfjToky76ogKQ6F85Zlef1UVBqFadUEqwbClqlz2m4_A0FhDH5sebiOFgrgvs6OimLkAeqAg-TPcfuRlWg/s1600-h/melanie-safka_13287230.png"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340541858629836482" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2iatEsVi21bx8yAOylTTcKlzd2D9pCtm3ruUETGov3095zHEGh0ITBfjToky76ogKQ6F85Zlef1UVBqFadUEqwbClqlz2m4_A0FhDH5sebiOFgrgvs6OimLkAeqAg-TPcfuRlWg/s320/melanie-safka_13287230.png" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 265px;" /></a>
<br />
Melanie was ably supported on guitar by Beau-Jarred throughout who then produced an instrument I had never seen before which sounds like an electric cello and reminded me of Nick Drake. Melanie then sang another audience request <i>I Really Loved Harold</i>. This was followed by another new (To me) song called <i>Make It Work For Me</i>. Then a classic, Melanie's stunning version of <i>Ruby Tuesday</i> which I think is lyrically the Stones greatest song which Melanie manages to make even more meaningful. <i>Love Doesn't Have To Hurt</i> was followed by <i>Brand New Key</i> which is Melanie's biggest hit and really good fun. "We're in Wurzel country", said Melanie with a grin. <i>Smile</i> followed and is a profound song Melanie wrote in the aftermath of 9/11. <i>Beautiful People</i> followed which is one of my personal favourites and shows that as a singer/songwriter Melanie is one of the all time greats. <i>Lay Down/Candles In The Rain</i> was next, just to underline what great inspirational songs she has written. It was almost the end, but not before <i>Look What They Done To My Song Ma,</i> one of her most famous songs. The evening ended with another song I didn't recognise called <i>I'd Like To Leave You With Something Warm</i>. She did!
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcReNi0mpMrLyjA-nBWcx6m2ovJUmj_XN3PVWkVxSL-vA3Rhb_XTshcYy-o2Pc5cvF2TLhZlTuWES59-zBK48cvbSxBSnhiqudsVxHM3VVSdAO-KzhnU0zW6b8S79Hpu-tld1ow/s1600-h/melanie.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340541258843919138" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFcReNi0mpMrLyjA-nBWcx6m2ovJUmj_XN3PVWkVxSL-vA3Rhb_XTshcYy-o2Pc5cvF2TLhZlTuWES59-zBK48cvbSxBSnhiqudsVxHM3VVSdAO-KzhnU0zW6b8S79Hpu-tld1ow/s320/melanie.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>Afterwards Melanie patiently signed autographs and spoke to everyone who waited behind. That shows what a nice person she is. Also the concert was for charity in aid of SCOPE. One of the reasons I first liked Melanie all those years ago was that she was beautiful and meeting her briefly after the gig I can confirm that she most certainly still is!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWzGIvKNJ5HC6Y71ncZD83bKOOr7l4Rqrb-iHAjP5eetV3qN7Kk7r3GQSHq2rPD6z4THAcKhM2H-Usyqimj1bt187lqRnkbn0UmFkAFJ15qPgPr2h7Beaqi4F8V48mzPAab6HDQ/s1600-h/scan0014.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340538887753728242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZWzGIvKNJ5HC6Y71ncZD83bKOOr7l4Rqrb-iHAjP5eetV3qN7Kk7r3GQSHq2rPD6z4THAcKhM2H-Usyqimj1bt187lqRnkbn0UmFkAFJ15qPgPr2h7Beaqi4F8V48mzPAab6HDQ/s400/scan0014.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 288px;" /></a>Melanie said she hated the picture of herself on this poster but she was still kind enough to sign it for me.
</span></div></div>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-34569348365343122562024-01-24T15:50:00.000-08:002024-01-24T15:50:57.487-08:00Melanie Safka - Beautiful People.<iframe style="background-image:url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/PoyyZEaDUyU/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/PoyyZEaDUyU?si=2uDOTCmKrBLPMTzR" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-42488374221529000512024-01-24T15:38:00.000-08:002024-01-24T15:38:59.080-08:00Melanie RIP. Close To It All <iframe width="480" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/Gq1arHIQbP0?si=yarA3KZ0dKi6jEu2" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-84609159556113918382024-01-21T09:26:00.000-08:002024-01-21T14:50:55.780-08:00Matapedia by Kate & Anna McGarrigle.<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxL7spRVsOkmSLdi2lAGviyW6lrPxkbFp2WXgvgV8ce2vHkbzvR3CiiUaXlk3syFebXp-27VuqXdC9lyLXKb5glJbKk3diwmRQTHVBzlw-nvCorwmrYhnQldmXXoHb1tFB8anLQ-Uhp-CAetQr6NMqDCBTe_u7CclpF3I_d6-M5fDPO9k8rCQ/s894/71rYslnbe6L._UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="786" data-original-width="894" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwxL7spRVsOkmSLdi2lAGviyW6lrPxkbFp2WXgvgV8ce2vHkbzvR3CiiUaXlk3syFebXp-27VuqXdC9lyLXKb5glJbKk3diwmRQTHVBzlw-nvCorwmrYhnQldmXXoHb1tFB8anLQ-Uhp-CAetQr6NMqDCBTe_u7CclpF3I_d6-M5fDPO9k8rCQ/w200-h176/71rYslnbe6L._UF894,1000_QL80_.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sunday afternoon: The weather has changed here. Yesterday
it was freezing, and suddenly today it is up to 12 degrees C. On the downside however, the 9</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><sup style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">th</sup><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> named storm of this winter called </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Storm Isha</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> is set
to slam into Britain with 60mph winds and heavy rain forecast. Time to batten
down the hatches, so I am hunkered down in my kitchen and listening to music. I
thought to pass the time I’d tell you about the album I am listening to at this
very moment. It is called </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Matapedia</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> by </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Kate & Anna McGarrigle</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">.
I have always loved the McGarrigle sisters, ever since I bought their debut
album in Andy’s Records on Bridge St Peterborough back in the hot summer of 76. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGX6tGEGuJOPtlBgHBCGF5LRrM4uo7S43S_zuhU5qi_VknRhX6Zboj54DaFs4nmKCvnABsEoVcM-BxMc_balyixg7cAY-DrmoSaYuv3VtKjkwP6DeuGsTb9YkgKzxWc-n2iX74wS1lFi10w7xRHjF-d8JGZLsex1uvk2WtTsKmK0hTJ7JjoImd/s1136/Scan0053.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1136" height="169" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGX6tGEGuJOPtlBgHBCGF5LRrM4uo7S43S_zuhU5qi_VknRhX6Zboj54DaFs4nmKCvnABsEoVcM-BxMc_balyixg7cAY-DrmoSaYuv3VtKjkwP6DeuGsTb9YkgKzxWc-n2iX74wS1lFi10w7xRHjF-d8JGZLsex1uvk2WtTsKmK0hTJ7JjoImd/w200-h169/Scan0053.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif">To this day it remains one of my favourite albums of all time. It is a classic,
but to my shame it has been the only one of their albums in my collection until
I ordered </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Matapedia</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> a couple of weeks ago. I also regret never having
seen them perform live. They did headline the Acoustic Stage at Glastonbury in
2002, but I missed that because it clashed with </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Rod Stewart</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> on the
Pyramid Stage and Kim wanted to see Rod. I’ll never get the chance to see them
again because Kate sadly died in 2010. Anyway, no point in mulling over the
past. It is only now that matters.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD2tvZHCFs8c5C5U4DgblbR55fEgxnpk6f_18btIjSP2a0DZZjtkZri3jXTYKcWxnpKxTibRwU7VUTbR4sydPl9pYLiUGinZjquby_IfsYSVd7j7CdqwXk57DBantYhbbX9HGAv-TNnYcToMPwLJdXisvQfVmg3_cvnIHBSi9ox2qPIoGM798s/s923/Scan0032.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="471" data-original-width="923" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD2tvZHCFs8c5C5U4DgblbR55fEgxnpk6f_18btIjSP2a0DZZjtkZri3jXTYKcWxnpKxTibRwU7VUTbR4sydPl9pYLiUGinZjquby_IfsYSVd7j7CdqwXk57DBantYhbbX9HGAv-TNnYcToMPwLJdXisvQfVmg3_cvnIHBSi9ox2qPIoGM798s/s320/Scan0032.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;">The excellent title track <i>Matapedia</i> opens the album.
I didn’t know what Matapedia meant, so I looked it up on Wiki. It is the name
of a river and municipality in Quebec Canada. Kate’s daughter <i>Martha
Wainwright</i> is mentioned in the lyrics and Martha helps out on vocals. Kate
speaks and sings the words. Anna plays accordion and <i>Zoel Zimkin</i> plays
violin. The song is driven along by the percussion of <i>Michel Pepin</i>. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"><i></i></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAw6xKIs3udYLOS9mjqikTuRdgQcmyNQrUqUuDoh_723-Sq73jfpkjOL9AuX8Z4sb0Edk1_NBYRRyAxkyWvefnPXEM6iqo6aERS1FQiF1zAKoXKvMT6m1QzrloypmiouDujT-dEst_CJxWM827hPiIxpHSAiEv1l-h7l_0CS3D0rDIcJ2z70Oz/s800/800px-Matap%C3%A9dia.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAw6xKIs3udYLOS9mjqikTuRdgQcmyNQrUqUuDoh_723-Sq73jfpkjOL9AuX8Z4sb0Edk1_NBYRRyAxkyWvefnPXEM6iqo6aERS1FQiF1zAKoXKvMT6m1QzrloypmiouDujT-dEst_CJxWM827hPiIxpHSAiEv1l-h7l_0CS3D0rDIcJ2z70Oz/w200-h150/800px-Matap%C3%A9dia.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Matapedia River.</td></tr></tbody></table><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"><i>Goin’
Back To Harlan</i> is the song that made me decide to buy this album because I
have enjoyed hearing it many times on youtube. <i>Harlan</i> is a mythical
place of nostalgia, longing, and the bittersweet journey of returning to one’s
roots. (You must watch the video below!) Anna wrote this wonderful song which
has mention of <i>Bells of Rhymney</i> which I know best by <i>The Byrds</i>.
It also mentions <i>Shady Grove</i> which Fairport turned into <i>Matty Groves</i>.
I don’t need to tell you any more about this song if you watch the video. Kate
wrote <i>I Don’t Know</i> which is just herself on piano and vocals. It is a
love song of regret and the sentiment reminds me of <i>Go Leave</i> on the debut album. I
wonder if it was inspired by the end of her marriage to <i>Loudon Wainwright</i>?.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe not because they were divorced twenty
years before this album. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsK_X6hSbLZCMBD2aO4h0y1heoo9CTULcLz-MTJ3KYvbAsU2Bhiq6oe0MpjtGTKDyk-A__fpLBU4kyXdtt2Ovm_W1uY3UErP_PvhG86gNMP_QSgAR7rKtsqNRLgP3_KnumXXsoZeyqRP6OK5wzFFICBxvyjgi2DyjJ3bWcUgKuJF5cQFMqxZy/s512/unnamed%20(1).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="397" data-original-width="512" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDsK_X6hSbLZCMBD2aO4h0y1heoo9CTULcLz-MTJ3KYvbAsU2Bhiq6oe0MpjtGTKDyk-A__fpLBU4kyXdtt2Ovm_W1uY3UErP_PvhG86gNMP_QSgAR7rKtsqNRLgP3_KnumXXsoZeyqRP6OK5wzFFICBxvyjgi2DyjJ3bWcUgKuJF5cQFMqxZy/w200-h155/unnamed%20(1).jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;">By contrast, <i>Hang Out Your Heart</i> rocks out.
The lyrics about rain and gale-force winds seem very appropriate for today. The
song features some great guitar by <i>Pat Donaldson</i> who I remember from the
band <i>Fotheringay.</i> The drums of <i>Sylvan Clavet</i> are also to the fore<i>.
Arbre</i> is written by <i>Philippe Tatartcheff </i>and sung in French by Anna.
My French is very poor, but I know arbre means tree, so I think it is a love song
of a tree, ‘By the wind, In the space of a moment, I give up my leaves to the
caresses of my lover’. When I first saw the title of the next song <i>Jacques Et
Gilles</i> I immediately thought of the nursery rhyme Jack And Jill but it isn’t
that. It is a song about two French Canadian workers who work in a mill in
the USA and are homesick. Certain words in the lyrics made me wonder if it was inspired by <i>Jack Kerouac</i>. Words like Lowell, Merrimac, and Ti Jean. (See photo
below of Kate & Anna having a book signed by Jack Kerouac’s daughter <i>Jan</i>)
The two protagonists of the song hate their bosses Paddy & Katie Boyle but
realise that they came from Ireland and would like to go home as well. </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSHfyWK-GP4H5saX4pssr8ezmsaI5LarsweQiuXnCygPE53k3YC8P_Fsi3gc-LEp6jbIztthpCD0Ur7w-vapOohXzgYyhs4QDc4WeOMTMybmWFQME5oltoEmPXhYe5uyx9w0bAgi_NNjF6S6QwwYyy7wOYM9NR-vcys4kl7PNr8nbMxQf4vP6V/s200/Kamcgarrigle-st.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSHfyWK-GP4H5saX4pssr8ezmsaI5LarsweQiuXnCygPE53k3YC8P_Fsi3gc-LEp6jbIztthpCD0Ur7w-vapOohXzgYyhs4QDc4WeOMTMybmWFQME5oltoEmPXhYe5uyx9w0bAgi_NNjF6S6QwwYyy7wOYM9NR-vcys4kl7PNr8nbMxQf4vP6V/s1600/Kamcgarrigle-st.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: medium; line-height: 107%;">Anna
wrote <i>Why Must We Die?</i> Which I didn’t like the lyrics of at first. ‘We
are men of constant sorrow, we’ll have trouble all our days’, is a bit
depressing. However, Anna might have still been grieving the death of her
mother at the time because the next track <i>Song For Gaby</i> is a sad song
about the death and funeral of their mother. Sister <i>Jane</i> and son <i>Rufus
</i>are mentioned in the very poignant lyrics, as is their hometown of <i>St-Sauveur</i>.
<i>Talk About It</i> written by Kate is a much more upbeat and fun song with
Kate on vocals, banjo and piano. Finally, the last track <i>The Bike Song</i>
is written by Anna and brings the album to a close on a high note. I don’t know
why it was called <i>The Bike Song</i>, maybe the words just came to her when
she was cycling along. I’m pleased I finally bought this excellent album 28
years after it was released and have thoroughly enjoyed listening to it on a
dark stormy Sunday afternoon in January. Cheers.<o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXVIRY8I-qzWkJ1L0OfD5nrSfIUSXNFJUVblGuVx-E2xMBU6jQVu-l8nxsY9GCicYPqL0_tUXECpW7bVoNg15pdIhwpTmu494jPzIRyoDgO4MaiEfs8MfUhAOfltD7bj39BTC-NrhRdVhT5gqiZLPCVCQYYBeJALwUDrVgUWAVSU4ZcCQSqpL/s843/346456935_262431639480149_4620614801599392891_n.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="843" height="404" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXVIRY8I-qzWkJ1L0OfD5nrSfIUSXNFJUVblGuVx-E2xMBU6jQVu-l8nxsY9GCicYPqL0_tUXECpW7bVoNg15pdIhwpTmu494jPzIRyoDgO4MaiEfs8MfUhAOfltD7bj39BTC-NrhRdVhT5gqiZLPCVCQYYBeJALwUDrVgUWAVSU4ZcCQSqpL/w640-h404/346456935_262431639480149_4620614801599392891_n.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;">Somebody put this photo on Facebook a few months ago (Thank you). It shows Kate & Anna having a book signed by Jack Kerouac's daughter <i>Jan Kerouac</i>. I'm guessing that the book is Jan's autobiography called<i> Baby</i> <i>Driver</i>. It shows that the McGarrigle sisters were Kerouac fans!. You can see that Jan had a very strong resemblance to Jack.</span></span><p></p>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-47992930337380520362024-01-21T06:50:00.000-08:002024-01-21T06:50:26.684-08:00Kate and Anna McGarrigle, “Goin’ Back to Harlan.”<iframe style="background-image:url(https://i.ytimg.com/vi/pR0wkHJ6jd4/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="360" src="https://youtube.com/embed/pR0wkHJ6jd4?si=LLdyADyyn8s746Ul" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-4549249443035056672024-01-20T08:38:00.000-08:002024-01-20T08:38:23.678-08:00Muireann Bradley: When the Levee Breaks & Interview | The Late Late Show<iframe width="480" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/7Mw8lTNq440?si=TjDqImFzUTm1XQI8" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-54445082946700047932024-01-20T03:45:00.000-08:002024-01-20T04:45:06.833-08:00A Few Late Chrysanthemums. <p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: 12pt; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBcMiuIiSEG-y2dWhy36eDR3NOkR6AtwLxXykPCymtsT3D1I2R2rYoGxgzWE7t81vPjHY6JtSXz8Acxg9RpEoSpxdYHjIWFor3vA1n_tkGhoWynbEq_bm59IA-QwB2kVv2lR5QuZ6EOux5_p499ycEuw4P46Ikz1NhvD_Pm7ast29AmMTyrlF/s638/robertplantsavinggracejan2024_638.webp" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="436" data-original-width="638" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBcMiuIiSEG-y2dWhy36eDR3NOkR6AtwLxXykPCymtsT3D1I2R2rYoGxgzWE7t81vPjHY6JtSXz8Acxg9RpEoSpxdYHjIWFor3vA1n_tkGhoWynbEq_bm59IA-QwB2kVv2lR5QuZ6EOux5_p499ycEuw4P46Ikz1NhvD_Pm7ast29AmMTyrlF/s320/robertplantsavinggracejan2024_638.webp" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Robert Plant.</td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Brrr, another cold morning, but hey, its Saturday. I have
always loved Saturdays, especially following the football on Saturday
afternoons. I see some games have been postponed due to frozen pitches. I hope </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Peterborough
v Shrewsbury</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> isn’t postponed because Posh have a chance of going top of the
table today if Portsmouth slip up. There is a pitch inspection at 11.00, so we
shall see. </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">I had quite a good day yesterday. I was up early because
tickets for </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Robert Plant & Saving Grace</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> went on sale at 10.00. I
managed to get a ticket before they all sold out. The concert is March 13 at
the Bristol Beacon, so look out for my future review of that. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjownK88KJTOw2NCEZY-POnQ6myffi7qqFEUKPry52yxJg3uCzPriAEbSXQ3tPXzyJHXFIb8HMuql2R5XgE5qPTRTHfFxZmLlu-gNbCFO-tVM46Nn3dXKLzcr79bu48CEmia6o9abZVSWFHvnPbD5pN_mAohdKhsoGTxLPNe_Vx1cilh_CVWIgT/s1808/Scan0056.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1504" data-original-width="1808" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjownK88KJTOw2NCEZY-POnQ6myffi7qqFEUKPry52yxJg3uCzPriAEbSXQ3tPXzyJHXFIb8HMuql2R5XgE5qPTRTHfFxZmLlu-gNbCFO-tVM46Nn3dXKLzcr79bu48CEmia6o9abZVSWFHvnPbD5pN_mAohdKhsoGTxLPNe_Vx1cilh_CVWIgT/w200-h166/Scan0056.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />After that,
because it was a sunny morning, I decided to catch the bus over to Warminster
to visit Sian. I stopped off at Morrison’s and got her some provisions because
she doesn’t like going out in the cold. When I got to Warminster, I usually
catch another bus to her house, but this time I decided to walk because I’m
trying to have some exercise every day. I enjoyed the walk and had a nice
couple of hours at Sian’s before heading back to town. It was 35 minutes before
my bus back to Westbury, so I had a quick scoot around the charity shops. In
the Blue-Cross shop I found a first edition 1954 book by <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">John Betjeman</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
called </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">A Few Late</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Chrysanthemums.</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> It didn’t have a dustjacket,
but still might be worth a few quid. I like </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">John Betjeman</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">, his poems are
not too highbrow for the likes of me. You can actually understand what he is
saying, unlike some poets I could mention. His poems have humour and pathos in
equal measure and are very English. I don’t know if he is popular abroad, he
might be a bit too parochial. He was inspired by things like churches, railway
stations and small towns, and hated the brutalism of modern architecture. He
even wrote a poem about a small railway station just outside Westbury called </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Dilton
Marsh Halt</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. A few nights ago I watched an old edition of the </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Michael
Parkinson Show</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> from the 1970s where he was talking to </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Maggie Smith</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">
and </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Kenneth Williams</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. He was a great man, and very humorous. I remember
once in an interview towards the end of his life he was asked if he had any regrets.
He thought for a moment, and then said, “Yes, I wish I’d had more sex”. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3N7-y00dLanu1TyNS3rioGTZ-5XyI4Y_OM_TO1nNxm-XBf9TnqjgofLJbUlWVCuk3y1vuaR00jIWD7MdeCVoGTrBWF6ie4x4cSiS51BSvLYwkGincmhqxpGWTctX_OZYmn2XtXj393fgnoEAZd7vc-22K783pq2-31Iadv0S3rwCBMJSrYb4/s1543/Scan0055.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1543" data-original-width="999" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3N7-y00dLanu1TyNS3rioGTZ-5XyI4Y_OM_TO1nNxm-XBf9TnqjgofLJbUlWVCuk3y1vuaR00jIWD7MdeCVoGTrBWF6ie4x4cSiS51BSvLYwkGincmhqxpGWTctX_OZYmn2XtXj393fgnoEAZd7vc-22K783pq2-31Iadv0S3rwCBMJSrYb4/w129-h200/Scan0055.jpg" width="129" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I
started reading the book at the bus stop and continued all the way back to
Westbury. I also found another book yesterday called <i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Firmin</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif"> by </span><i style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">John
Savage</i><span face="Arial, sans-serif">. I started reading that last evening. Its about a rat who lives in the
cellar of a bookshop. He starts eating the books which gives him the ability to
read. I’ll tell you more about that in due course if I get to the end. I can’t
think of anything else to say now. See you later.</span></span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4QCSF65RKNkaYx4vGRF-NmJwmhKlI4agtyruy6ggTo6LBzfyjOiMyuY9WQgIE_asP514MIfCep4y1cfvdn8KZjqBiNqXEkzxsptNxBEFZJHKsRMX_Edixkq8giJZ_VNfeMWfCBt5rcAAwZcrvWRu6i35OkiEt7bJldDD6u4BNe3S9S4ltZrP/s1554/dilton-marsh-halt.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1554" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK4QCSF65RKNkaYx4vGRF-NmJwmhKlI4agtyruy6ggTo6LBzfyjOiMyuY9WQgIE_asP514MIfCep4y1cfvdn8KZjqBiNqXEkzxsptNxBEFZJHKsRMX_Edixkq8giJZ_VNfeMWfCBt5rcAAwZcrvWRu6i35OkiEt7bJldDD6u4BNe3S9S4ltZrP/w494-h640/dilton-marsh-halt.jpg" width="494" /></span></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-44538274899826885882024-01-17T16:13:00.000-08:002024-01-17T16:13:51.710-08:00Beeswing by Richard Thompson: (Photos of Anne Briggs who inspired the song)<iframe width="480" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/31CwzOD1gIc?si=e_v_SRVL72QMWFwr" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-85240446869771065062024-01-16T08:50:00.000-08:002024-01-17T04:11:05.175-08:00Review: I Kept These Old Blues by Muireann Bradley.<p><i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qy8V4fb9QHiPnvyv9sNAiqOtt9BOQq_QG3JKPOMRWzj4jzrwDWvXlugCLDZYMoIAmOU5wEeRSw_fNn3AHN5CW9LHS-a1SBgfyujHXrPluPzHqealBMwlWATlp3uBj4bgiNQc7MYYiFdQZVV4GNfNDu0LffKUkyhjr7sTKKdJwcQJgw3fIopo/s1089/Scan0059.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="991" data-original-width="1089" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4qy8V4fb9QHiPnvyv9sNAiqOtt9BOQq_QG3JKPOMRWzj4jzrwDWvXlugCLDZYMoIAmOU5wEeRSw_fNn3AHN5CW9LHS-a1SBgfyujHXrPluPzHqealBMwlWATlp3uBj4bgiNQc7MYYiFdQZVV4GNfNDu0LffKUkyhjr7sTKKdJwcQJgw3fIopo/w200-h182/Scan0059.jpg" width="200" /></a><i></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt;">County Donegal in the north-west corner of Ireland is famed
for its beautiful scenery, but also for its fine musical tradition. Famous acts
from Donegal include <i>Altan, Clannad, Enya, Moya Brennan</i>, and one of the
greatest blues guitarists of all time <i>Rory Gallagher</i>. Recently another blues
guitar player and singer has joined that illustrious list which is <i>Muireann
Bradley</i> who hails from the small town of Ballybofey. It was Muireann’s perfect
performance of <i>Candyman</i> by <i>Reverend Gary Davis</i> on <i>Jools Holland’s New Year’s
Eve Hootenanny</i> which made her an overnight sensation, and made me order her
debut album which arrived here last Friday. I see that her performance on
Jool’s show has already had 450,000 views on YouTube and the album is number 1
on the Irish charts. Muireann’s dad is a big blues fan, and a guitar player, so
it is no wonder that she grew up steeped in the blues. Her dad gave Muireann
her first guitar at age 9. Music wasn’t Muireann’s only interest growing up.
She was also a very keen and promising boxer. It was only at the start of
lockdown when boxing training was out of the question that she began seriously
learning how to play her favourite songs. She was only 13 at the time and I
think she is only 17 now, so her progress has been phenomenal in such a short
time. She must be gifted with a huge natural aptitude for playing the acoustic
guitar.</span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU13ZvmySG8Uwhnv0bY-IcstK7xdvs-WZmd8kEtzP9rT8EPpk_YfSObPE-Rzv6rSDWggofCeQJbLjtMZqJCq4tZW_U4c3-36Q9l9itwdKZ2tnwgCUmXiyHw1jo3kPM9N5QBGwIupi135XdRd3tTnoXKvnfjika4aacDDdSk0tY2eqvhp4dkL6V/s889/c372a2e9-2a61-4a43-8a15-b7d94bba3bb6%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="889" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU13ZvmySG8Uwhnv0bY-IcstK7xdvs-WZmd8kEtzP9rT8EPpk_YfSObPE-Rzv6rSDWggofCeQJbLjtMZqJCq4tZW_U4c3-36Q9l9itwdKZ2tnwgCUmXiyHw1jo3kPM9N5QBGwIupi135XdRd3tTnoXKvnfjika4aacDDdSk0tY2eqvhp4dkL6V/s320/c372a2e9-2a61-4a43-8a15-b7d94bba3bb6%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">The first song she learned was <i>Police dog Blues</i>
by <i>Blind Blake</i>. I think if Muireann ever meets <i>Ralph McTell</i> they
would get on like a house on fire because whenever I have seen Ralph perform,
he always plays a song or two by <i>Blind Blake</i> and <i>Gary Davis</i>.
Anyway, Muireann was filmed singing <i>Police Dog Blues</i>. The video was put
on YouTube which was spotted by <i>Josh Rosenthal</i> of Tomkins Square records
which led to her debut album being recorded. I have listened to the album several
times since Friday, and I love it. I’ve already played it twice today while
writing this! It is a very sparse recording, just Muireann singing while simultaneously
playing her guitar. I think this adds to the album’s authenticity because it is
exactly how these old Blues singers would have recorded their songs nearly 100
years ago.</span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5QPYObbTsD0ahyOkG3ncOvCJFmxnEfymvSKOUYJDFJb6qb1HrfJIOChTBfipQmoUiUm86tf36l-Ba1lCMlHfoMbQcjWHwQDDC_iA6cqKOYRwLzUcQ6mokOeeYAG710LbCyNV3wJzZq9tE4u0lSXAyaXf-DYg2jr-ErPFv2rDcmRE0DbpPRkIK/s842/img.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="742" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5QPYObbTsD0ahyOkG3ncOvCJFmxnEfymvSKOUYJDFJb6qb1HrfJIOChTBfipQmoUiUm86tf36l-Ba1lCMlHfoMbQcjWHwQDDC_iA6cqKOYRwLzUcQ6mokOeeYAG710LbCyNV3wJzZq9tE4u0lSXAyaXf-DYg2jr-ErPFv2rDcmRE0DbpPRkIK/s320/img.webp" width="282" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> The album opens with <i>Candyman</i> which is followed by <i>Richland
Woman Blues</i> by <i>Mississippi John Hurt</i>. Muireann also plays <i>Stagolee</i>
and <i>Frankie </i>by Mississippi John Hurt on later tracks, so she is
obviously a big fan of Mississippi John. He was born in 1893 and worked in
obscurity as a sharecropper farmer until being discovered in 1963. He only had
three years of relative fame before he died in 1966. After the
aforementioned <i>Police Dog Blues</i> we are treated to <i>Shake Sugaree</i>
made famous by the great <i>Elizabeth Cotten</i> who I have written about
previously on this blog. As you know Elizabeth had her own
unique upside down left-handed <i>‘Cottenpicking’</i> style. Muireann’s version
has an arrangement by <i>Stefan Grossman</i>. (Listen below) Stefan also contributes the
arrangements of the instrumental <i>Vestapol</i> and an emotional version of <i>Delia</i>
to the album, and Muireann thanks him on the sleeve for all his help and
encouragement. </span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqO2FrGq0zUmyQUeiat-ujMOo-jg9zxVg105uC4lJuDj-akTB_mAXN2HdrDgyC3dc2M7fZCEhFOHX_wGBtrlueUWPBVXw7QKSJVih1RRigeZ9CzE-pDAQOAO7sonNTw8kZZwr6TJuprU6_n5mINgmsCRgs0IiAdBJPfedXxoB97uv13FWq30a2/s526/419386655_891698659629471_1112471333736311097_n.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="526" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqO2FrGq0zUmyQUeiat-ujMOo-jg9zxVg105uC4lJuDj-akTB_mAXN2HdrDgyC3dc2M7fZCEhFOHX_wGBtrlueUWPBVXw7QKSJVih1RRigeZ9CzE-pDAQOAO7sonNTw8kZZwr6TJuprU6_n5mINgmsCRgs0IiAdBJPfedXxoB97uv13FWq30a2/w200-h193/419386655_891698659629471_1112471333736311097_n.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />I love her treatment of <i>Dave Van Ronk’s</i> signature song <i>Green
Rocky Road</i>. I have heard a lot of versions of this song in the last few years (and put most of them on this blog page) by people like Dave himself, <i>Van
Morrison</i> and <i>Karen Dalton</i>. Other great songs on the album are <i>Police
Sergeant Blues</i> by <i>Robert Wilkins</i> and <i>Buck Dancer’s Choice</i> by <i>Sam
McGee</i>. I don’t know anything about either of these people I’m afraid, but I
do know of the arrangement on the latter song by a great guitarist <i>John
Fahey.</i> The album ends with Muireann’s own take of <i>Elizabeth Cotten</i>’s
most famous song <i>Freight Train.</i> I thoroughly enjoy listening to this
album. I slightly wish <i>When The Levee Breaks</i> by <i>Memphis Minnie</i>
had been included because Muireann does a nice version of that song.</span><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSd2xuhrh5KdgnN7SxKk7HOrt7RSr4pUdU5I4oU-ruV_EQQyx6SNc2pzf980hYOIDeEN-6PbZ1pjnMJN0-wx9DosRidhD9G2hZatnsKzFMRvKyxqZ1S3TWTSTq82TUx1K8XeoY-bW4lFeY18s60PlDhbdAAgmVY0iw5Q1o8yT4fwqESQAuYtJ/s800/Muireann-Bradley-BBC.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="800" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjSd2xuhrh5KdgnN7SxKk7HOrt7RSr4pUdU5I4oU-ruV_EQQyx6SNc2pzf980hYOIDeEN-6PbZ1pjnMJN0-wx9DosRidhD9G2hZatnsKzFMRvKyxqZ1S3TWTSTq82TUx1K8XeoY-bW4lFeY18s60PlDhbdAAgmVY0iw5Q1o8yT4fwqESQAuYtJ/s320/Muireann-Bradley-BBC.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Last night on <i>The Blues Show</i> on BBC Radio 2 Muireann guested with <i>Cerys
Matthews</i> and I enjoyed her version of <i>Dylan’s Don’t Think Twice Its
Alright</i>. You can listen to that show on BBC iPlayer. It is a bit
early to wonder what the future holds for Muireann. I see she has some sold out
dates in Dublin lined up soon. I hope they book her for the Acoustic Stage at <i>Glastonbury</i>
this summer. Muireann hasn’t written any of her own music to date as far as I
know, but maybe her greatest contribution might be in helping to keep alive and
bringing to public attention the great blues music of the past before it slips
into obscurity. We can be very grateful to Muireann for that.</span><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eT53CNDHXoqpr0mvnACZjytwV-T7gFdxzlPCoRWtriXVU4-7ZJYfm2e_1Tx0dZXFMT-gfwU6t0baju3piz68xBeg7yHo-Jv9ekN1OHuhsrWmujVmVKElkd0SV6SXHZnVA4TmC8tGjUBpYCEPQwIyTSmmf1xdhasXGg49Dc1sb0qjR4km2fDU/s750/Muireann-Bradley-2023-750x450-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="750" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eT53CNDHXoqpr0mvnACZjytwV-T7gFdxzlPCoRWtriXVU4-7ZJYfm2e_1Tx0dZXFMT-gfwU6t0baju3piz68xBeg7yHo-Jv9ekN1OHuhsrWmujVmVKElkd0SV6SXHZnVA4TmC8tGjUBpYCEPQwIyTSmmf1xdhasXGg49Dc1sb0qjR4km2fDU/w640-h384/Muireann-Bradley-2023-750x450-1.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-38008107473811952612024-01-16T08:07:00.000-08:002024-01-16T08:07:18.970-08:00Shake Sugaree<iframe width="480" height="270" src="https://youtube.com/embed/9R7ZNG0XKRA?si=_J65c5yMVlwUnLoo" frameborder="0"></iframe>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9011863.post-798072114715208522024-01-15T09:01:00.000-08:002024-01-15T09:02:39.708-08:00Farewell Apollo Highway.<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; font-size: 12pt; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09r2eqnH4vzgcG1DsJEhW7HyrVsVp1Gakcu0jYEAiWC7rCl7lG4vZCScTzm4a0NKv6UCh3vjGkb6pI9brbhzGTVDGp4F_MqNM-9OF2b98alBpBPz2WhArqNlTcaSnEQHHFNJKRBoh6ZrYHIM10xSkqp4IvNiA5sQUlr2vj2L9UMALPzC6Et5D/s400/DSC05069.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg09r2eqnH4vzgcG1DsJEhW7HyrVsVp1Gakcu0jYEAiWC7rCl7lG4vZCScTzm4a0NKv6UCh3vjGkb6pI9brbhzGTVDGp4F_MqNM-9OF2b98alBpBPz2WhArqNlTcaSnEQHHFNJKRBoh6ZrYHIM10xSkqp4IvNiA5sQUlr2vj2L9UMALPzC6Et5D/s320/DSC05069.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Apollo Highway (Having a rest).</td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">Last week when I was uptown, I spotted this nice swivel
chair in a charity shop. “That would be perfect for me”, I thought, because I
spend so much time on my laptop every day I deserve a decent chair to sit on.
So, I bought it. The man in the shop said they would deliver it on Monday
morning. Then I had an idea. “Would you like a bicycle?”, I asked. I had been
thinking of getting rid of my bike for at least a year but hadn’t done anything
about it until now. He was pleased to accept it and said they would take it
away when they delivered the chair.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjxRchgOEOKy7Dck9fPsqOHrMhyBXhLPpNvN9zk8fg4G2stpYiSiOrcizpWU2uQFdZPnUsMNSwP8tyKTAHWJRVq0qFiGoI6RybO3_jKxDwmbxAuN6mLSCp0II_RJtl9NUTvSmNVHPa-T9MeXUHH1I695HOExgmp-MhKlinjQM7TdzNCCRNWXI/s5152/DSC08251.JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijjxRchgOEOKy7Dck9fPsqOHrMhyBXhLPpNvN9zk8fg4G2stpYiSiOrcizpWU2uQFdZPnUsMNSwP8tyKTAHWJRVq0qFiGoI6RybO3_jKxDwmbxAuN6mLSCp0II_RJtl9NUTvSmNVHPa-T9MeXUHH1I695HOExgmp-MhKlinjQM7TdzNCCRNWXI/w200-h150/DSC08251.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Chair</td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />This morning I was up and about early to wait for their van
to arrive. They came at about 11.00. I’m really pleased with the chair. Compared
to the old wooden one I was using; this is very comfortable. I feel like
Captain Kirk on the flight deck of the USS Enterprise. I felt a bit sad when
they took <i>Apollo Highway</i> away though. (I called the bike <i>Apollo
Highway</i> because that’s the model’s name on the crossbar) We had lots of
adventures together over the last ten years or so, exploring the local highways
and byways, and the surrounding villages. We went uphill and down dale together.
However, I had been finding the uphill bits a bit of a struggle in recent years.
I don’t think I had been out on my bike for about two years. I guess I just
lost interest and found walking a lot easier. Another consideration is that the
main road through here is so busy with lorries and cars it is quite dangerous
for cyclists, So it is probably for the best that I have given away the bike. I
gave the man a bag full of extras as well such as the helmet, pump, lock, puncture
repair kit and spanner. So, goodbye to <i>Apollo Highway.</i> </span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGS6BTOqjVVQAq2zy3SrLCzd4-oHvucXZQyc47baqQH5qslNw2noWBhOiCusE1cf9phP312e8a8GNLZ4ofgTFe_lTL_HlOKBmBkiQB225Bu3YXtRRfoGGb3W5_qKmxAc79wPBYE3m-7DbVVyh9P-ULIuEjF4wfzVR4PFVEc-vvvc8OcvAc1v7/s5152/DSC08241.JPG" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3864" data-original-width="5152" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcGS6BTOqjVVQAq2zy3SrLCzd4-oHvucXZQyc47baqQH5qslNw2noWBhOiCusE1cf9phP312e8a8GNLZ4ofgTFe_lTL_HlOKBmBkiQB225Bu3YXtRRfoGGb3W5_qKmxAc79wPBYE3m-7DbVVyh9P-ULIuEjF4wfzVR4PFVEc-vvvc8OcvAc1v7/s320/DSC08241.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">On My Walk</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />As I was up and
about already, and it was a beautiful sunny morning I decided to go for a good
walk. It was very cold, but I soon warmed up once I got underway. This time I
turned right at the Equestrian Centre and walked along the bridleway to
Wellhead. It felt great to be out in the countryside enjoying the fresh air and
saying hello to the occasional dog walker that I met. Reflecting on Apollo’s
departure I remembered the words of <i>Flann O’Brien</i> in his hilarious book <i>The
Third Policeman</i> where he is discussing <i>De Selby’s Atomic Theory of</i> <i>Bicycles</i>,
how if you spend too much time on a bicycle you can eventually start turning
into a bike when your atoms start mingling with the bike’s atoms. <o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGonWAwqh-BFha7iXRsydF0TZnCEm336FA2uPKwBR6l9Ymm4E6UqYCLHRpIgQTi-N6L193FAU9t80vCmpp1u98pHU0S7CwT6RdGTIcOwdN2iR0TRXkzBD9xoxNR5Ln30vOWJRTJok8crvjTGlVyo3MEWAjKhz2hqKC1zXJ34XJCasOAUauPZBq/s333/s3780.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGonWAwqh-BFha7iXRsydF0TZnCEm336FA2uPKwBR6l9Ymm4E6UqYCLHRpIgQTi-N6L193FAU9t80vCmpp1u98pHU0S7CwT6RdGTIcOwdN2iR0TRXkzBD9xoxNR5Ln30vOWJRTJok8crvjTGlVyo3MEWAjKhz2hqKC1zXJ34XJCasOAUauPZBq/s320/s3780.jpg" width="288" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;">I quote, “The gross and net result of it is that people who
spent most of their natural lives riding iron bicycles over the rocky
roadsteads of this parish get their personalities mixed up with the
personalities of their bicycle as a result of the interchanging of the atoms of
each of them and you would be surprised at the number of people in these parts
who are nearly half people and half bicycles...when a man lets things go so far
that he is more than half a bicycle, you will not see him so much because he
spends a lot of his time leaning with one elbow on walls or standing propped by
one foot at kerbstones.” <o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;">So, It is just as well that I stopped riding bikes before I
turned into one! </span><span face=""Segoe UI Emoji", sans-serif" style="line-height: 107%;">😊</span></span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>Pathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09117192766330939568noreply@blogger.com0