Not the Copacobana

As you can see, we were fighting off the crowds this morning. Neither of us are beach bunnies, but both of us had managed to wake up with sore backs this morning, so a long walk was in order. We saw one dog and its owner and a lot of seagulls eating shellfish. It's what passes for crowds on a Monday in the Horowhenua!

Mouse sitting

Ms Ginger is on self appointed mouse watch in the woodpile. After a very sleepy morning, she went out for a walk with my husband. A noise obviously drew her attention to the woodpile, and there she has taken residence, probably until the poor creature ventures out. Gingers are very patient.

A new tenant

I don't think it is a coincidence that the words "toil" and "soil" resonate. I am not a natural gardener, but today I had my reward.

I was busy digging this morning, trying to get the final patch near the strawberries weeded. About an hour into this, I heard my husband call me to come quick! Not sure what to expect I found him on the veranda, pointing to our large gravel driveway. There, crossing with a degree of bewilderment, was a young hedgehog.

My friend who treats sick hedgehogs will be delighted about this new resident of Coneysthorpe. We had discussed releasing some of her recovered treasures into our garden, but as they aren't native to NZ, I wasn't sure how the Department of Conservation would view this (we are close to DOC land and have to be mindful of native species). It seems the research I was going to do on this is now a bit redundant, as Mr Moses Prickles has already moved in.

He looks a youngster, and probably about to hibernate for the first time. I had just removed snails from a plant I was digging out, so I went and retrieved them, put Moses in the bushes (ha ha) and covered him with lots of leaves and a bit of hay. Then I took him breakfast in bed (sorry Mrs snail).

A delightful start to the weekend.

A pea by any other name

In the village where I grew up in N. Yorkshire, there weren't many shops. There were several pubs, a newsagent and a small row of shops purpose built in the late 1950s. If I recall there was a hairdresser and greengrocer in that block then a little further along the main road a fish and chip shop.

Fish and chips for our family was a Saturday treat about once a month. It was still in the days of being able to wrap up the meal in the "York Press". Amazing, no one ever died of an overdose of newsprint in the '60s.

The Saturday lunchtime feast would not have been complete without a dollop of mushy peas. They were gloopy and other worldly, resembling alien cuisine of galactic origin.

But oh the taste! Nowt like it.

This evening, I made soup. Not an unusual occurrence, but this soup originated with a box of Batchelors dried peas (the staple for mushy peas). My husband, being of aristocratic stock AND a southerner, wouldn't have dreamed of eating mushy peas. So I disguised them.

Here is the result. Three ingredients only, dried "mushy peas", onion and vegetable stock. Absolutely delicious and my husband enjoyed the soup.

The remembering

Today I am missing my dad TERRIBLY. The grief hits me at the weirdest times. Today it was in two waves, the first when I found an old photo of him, the second when I imagined him walking around the garden here at Coneysthorpe. He would have loved the garden far more than I ever could. I heard the conversation we would have had together. He would have not been able to help himself. He would have got into his old clothes and got to work. He was a man of the soil.

I was struck today how modest a man he was. He lived simply and modestly. He never boasted, was always hugging or laughing or giving. He couldn't stop giving. And I am ashamed that I didn't appreciate him more and recognise what a man of stature he was - a giant in every way.

Every time I arrived home from whatever part of the world I was working in, his first words were invariably "Eee lass, I have missed you."

Wherever you are tonight Dad, I do miss you. It tears me apart.

A walk to the Post Office

It takes around 40 minutes, but it is a glorious walk, so come along with me.

Nectar of the gods.

There are some events / things / smells from my youth that endure in my brain in a mega pixel, full throttle, hi-fidelity / 3D kind of way. One of them is the memory of eating a LOT of digestive biscuits during my finals at University. Essays on Pope, Dryden, Chinua Achebe and phonetics were usually adorned by the crumbs of the previous night's consumption. At least the addiction was legal.

I live in a country that doesn't make Digestive biscuits right. They are full of cheap and horrible ingredients and leave the alarming sensation in the mouth that I imagine would be left after eating horse oats.

Facebook provided me with a link to a blog which was advertising a recipe for chocolate digestives. Who could resist? I made them sans chocolate (I don't eat chocolate much these days), eh voila, the memories of thirty years ago came thundering back.

They look boring, but take my word for it, my tastebuds were translated.