I first saw Alan Bates on the Big Screen when I watched Whistle Down The Wind aged eleven; at the end of the film I wanted to live with Hayley Mills.
I watched Zorba the Greek aged fifteen; at the end of the film I wanted to live with Alan Bates.
In the mid-sixties people were just beginning to travel en masse for foreign holidays but I had never left the UK; watching Zorba with my friends was an almost overwhelming experience, the slaughter of the Widow unsettling my young mind for a considerable time. It was a true culture shock to a female teenager in the burgeoning permissive society where women were openly battling for equality; even though the book had been published about twenty years earlier I did not question that life on Crete was still similar.
Yes, we danced Zorba’s Dance round Oxford, annoying people in general but particularly policemen who had not been trained to deal with young women who were drunk on life rather than on alcohol. Yes, the locations filled my head with dreams of foreign travel. But much more significantly my understanding of adult emotions had lurched forwards in one shocking leap.
The first Quote from the book I have never been able to answer: the second Quote I am trying to prove wrong.
“Look, one day I had gone to a little village. An old grandfather of ninety was busy planting an almond tree. ‘What, grandfather!’ I exclaimed. ‘Planting an almond tree?’ And he, bent as he was, turned around and said: ‘My son, I carry on as if I should never die.’ I replied: ‘And I carry on as if I was going to die any minute.’ Which of us was right, boss?”
“All those who actually live the mysteries of life haven’t the time to write, and all those who have the time don’t live them! D’you see?”
Yew Trees are amongst the oldest living plants and have many folklore associations some of which might be quite offensive to twenty-first century humans so, if you are squeamish, brace yourself for the last paragraph.
The word Yew comes from the Anglo Saxon word Giuli, the same stem word as for Yule. The Yule Log was originally an oversized hard lump of yew wood that was left burning on the fire for 12 days; I do not know at what point in time it transformed into an oversweet chocolate cake that I baked on Christmas Eve when my children were still young and lasted in my larder for 12 minutes. The Gaelic word for yew tree, however, is Ioho or Ioha and the Scottish island of Iona probably derives its name from the groves of sacred yew trees planted there; Iona was once a powerful Druid Centre. There is a famous tree in Perthshire, Scotland, called the Fortingall Yew which is thought to be between two and five thousand years old. Beltane Fires used to be lit every year in a cleft of its trunk and a popular legend claims that Pontius Pilot played in its branches as a child. In Irish mythology the Yew is one of five sacred, and/or magical, trees brought from the Otherworld. In the Celtic Calendar the Yew Tree sat where the Old Year became The New.
The Yew is often described as the tree of birth, death and rebirth. When the tip of a branch touches the ground it frequently puts down roots and another trunk is formed. New vertical growths either inside a decayed hollow trunk or outside of the original trunk may also occur and this ability to renew its vigour is why the Yew is regarded by many as Immortal. Rings of Yew will often grow if the original tree is left to its own devices.
The tree is associated with death in several ways; one example is that English bows were made of Yew and used to kill thousands of men in war.
Many churchyard Yews were growing in that place long before the church was built and not planted to make sure the farmers kept their cattle well fenced in for fear of poisoning, as is commonly suggested. It is thought that Pagans associated Yews with preventing the dead from walking and Christians adopted this belief to bring Pagans into the Church. The shallow net of roots is regarded as impenetrable by the spirits and, more gruesomely, that the roots grow into the eyes of the dead so they cannot see their way back. However, others believe that the berries and bark are red because the roots grow into tongues, thereby giving a voice to the dead. Either view gives the story writer plenty of ideas for a macabre tale.
The Llangerny Yew – photo Emgaol (2010) used under Creative Commons License
Simple post today, suffering from extreme exhaustion.
I was going to write botanical notes about xylem so you’ve all had a lucky escape!
Xylopia brasiliensis – photo originally uploaded to Flickr by Colchicum; used under Creative Commons Licence
Xyris complanata – photo by Eric Guinther (June 2005); used under Creative Commons Licence
Iris Xyphium –
Photo by H Zell (June 2009) used under Creative Commons Licence
“Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast” Lewis Carroll
whimsical has two definitions:
playfully quaint or fanciful, especially in an appealing and amusing way: acting or behaving in a capricious manner
whimsy has three:
playfully old-fashioned or fanciful behaviour or humour: a fanciful or odd thing: a whim
One fictional character associated with this word is Lord Peter Death Bredon Wimsey whose family motto is “As my Whimsy takes me.”
My parents loved reading detective novels and Lord Peter was one of my father’s favourite sleuths. I have read most of the Wimsey stories and watched the two BBC series starring Ian Carmichael, screened in the mid ’70’s, which feel a little dated now. I had never imagined myself in the role of Harriet Vane until the BBC filmed a new series in 1987 starring Edward Petherbridge and Harriet Walters. This pairing was so perfect that, as she was saved from the gallows in Strong Poison, I felt completely drawn into the action. I regularly re-watch this ten episode series and it is such a shame the BBC were unable to obtain the rights to Busman’s Holiday in which Peter and Harriet marry and spend their honeymoon solving a murder case.
“Do you find it easy to get drunk on words?”
“So easy that, to tell you the truth, I am seldom perfectly sober.”
D L Sayers – Gaudy Night
“Do you know how to pick a lock?”
“Not in the least, I’m afraid.”
“I often wonder what we go to school for,” said Wimsey.”
D L Sayers – Strong Poison
I’m A Total Tourist In Venice.
It might seem odd for a woman who likes to visit gardens on her travels to be so much in love with Venice; I can’t explain it. I’ve been sung to in a gondola, shopped, paid too much to sit at one of the tables right in front of Florian and got bellini’d at Harry’s. I have queued patiently and gazed wide-eyed upon magnificence. I would do it all again and again. (Did I mention I shopped.) The place that held me enraptured, however, was quite small in comparison to many of the historic masterpieces; the Museo della Musica . The early instruments in the Museum had an extraordinary effect on me; I longed to be able to hold them. There is a section called Antonio Vivaldi e il suo tempo which gives an insight into the life of Vivaldi.
a view from my room
Wondering how Valmont fits in with Venice and Vivaldi? They all feature in my manuscript of course. Oh the joy of writing your own plot (but, for the downside, please also see yesterday’s post “Unfinished” ) and having fun with who does what, with whom and where.
All photos copyright Lynne Revette Butler.
I fall asleep at night thinking about my unfinished projects.
There is a very simple reason why I have so many unfinished projects; I start too many. I love planning projects. Sometimes I start by measuring and drawing up plans, maybe for work in my home involving choosing paint colours and fabrics, maybe for alterations to the garden needing earth-moving and extensive plant lists. I like having several projects running at once, there is always something to suit my mood or the weather.
There is however, one unfinished piece of work that is now waking me up in a state of anxiety. I need to finish the first re-draft of my manuscript and send it off to an editor but I cannot be satisfied with it. It is like an iced cake; I had no trouble deciding on the ingredients and the cake looked nicely done when I lifted it out of the oven. I let it cool off for a while then put on a thin layer of marzipan to smooth over the tiny cracks. All fine thus far, but then came the icing, the perfect glossy finish to present to the outside world. It has lumps in it, it slides to one side and loses its gloss, it will not set firm and let me write “The End” on it in a confident, flowing hand. It sits there, unfinished, mocking me but I will not become unnerved or unhinged, my resolve is unswerving, unsurmountable. I must regain the upper-hand, it cannot remain unpublished.
“This recently discovered unfinished work had all the makings of being her greatest novel” sounds fine for an obit. “This unfinished work finished her” less appealing.
A few years ago I bought a tepee. It is, of course, not made of animal hides but of a sturdy canvas although, from a couple of hundred yards away, it looks just like the real thing.
I am small and have to enlist the help of taller friends to put up the poles and wrap round the canvas; the more extrovert among us then have a dance but the more self-conscious just look embarrassed. There is something very different about sitting in a tepee, it is not like being in a normal tent; I find that it both relaxes and inspires me at the same time. I have a wild area in my garden with a large pond and from spring until late autumn the tepee stands close by it. There is a smoke vent at the top and sometimes I lie face up and watch the clouds float past overhead. Occasionally I use my macbook or iPad out there but this is a place better suited to pen and paper or needle and thread than to electronic gadgets. I am sure that to some eyes my tepee looks completely incongruous in my English Garden with a Victorian Greenhouse , herbaceous borders and formal hedges all within sight but it is another perfect place for solitude and I love it.