A Mothering Sunday bunch of flowers

This Spring

This Spring is a dull, drear grey;
Where is the sun?
With hope we open each new day,
Hoping that this will be the one
When the sun shines bright
With a golden glow
And a sapphire blue. Summer’s near.
Soon will come warmth,
Winter will go.

MSK

A Green Man in our garden

A Child of the Thirties

I have just recently realised where the England is that is in my heart. It is the England of my early childhood, a place of magic. It is a feeling that has somehow come into being in my old age. It comes from my childhood, probably continuing until twelve years old. My world was one of freedom. There was no war, my home was happy, we were not poor as so many were in those days, I felt I was part of the village where I lived and all was well. My love of woodland, fields and open spaces developed during that time. I had friends to explore with and a bike to ride. I had a mother, father and a little brother to love. What more could I want?
I have not mentioned school. I did not hate it but I must confess that I preferred the holidays. That is a dreadful thing to say these very serious days, I believe.
England is a very different place these days but still a good place to live. There are so many interesting people here. I am a long way from the fields and woods of my childhood. That world no longer exists. Also the child I was no longer exists. I have always lived in the present with no longing to go back.

A Day in the Brecon Beaons

Reaching the mountain top
Was a worthwhile attainment.
Aching footed and out of breath
We sat enveloped in the joy of it
While the winging larks filled
The air with their summer song.
The surrounding azure vault
Stretched away to infinity,
And we were replete with satisfaction.
Maternal ewes with attendant lambs
Roamed the green distance
While far below diminutive vehicles
Sped on their frantic, fuming way,
Leaving the hills to us.

The Jarvis family in 1935

We are fifty five years married today.

Yet more snow in April

When is Spring going to begin, though I must say that there is blossom on some of our trees and

there are plenty of leaves developing.

Storm Clouds over Middlesex

Woodland

Here is a scrap of wild wood at the end of our suburban garden.

Thirty Years in Town

Thirty years of urban life
And still the fields they call,
The wild woods they pull.
The salt marshes send forth their feelers
And fill my heart with an anonymous ache,
Why can’t I let them go.

Or do their pagan gods still cling,
Put out their invisible threads,
Hold me with a grinning satisfaction
In their primeval power.
Oh, let me cut the threads.

But no, I would not cut those threads,
Destroy the unforgotten,
Anaesthetise the ache.
The tremulous spirit needs to stir
To far off music.
I will not close my ears.

MSK

Peggy and the Methodists

I must start this bit of scribble by making one thing quite clear. No one forced me to go to the Methodists. At the age of five I discovered from a friend that when starting at the Sunday school one was given an exercise book, a pencil and a rubber plus a folder in which to put them. The friend was older than I and I was able to go to the chapel with her. This started a connection with the Methodists which continued until ww2 started and I went away with my family.
On looking back I must confess that I don’t think my reason for going was quite as it should have been. However, I remained with the Methodists and who knows, I might have still been with them had the war not started!
I am amazed when I remember that I went Sunday mornings and afternoons for so many years. Of course, the fact that we were given a text every week, and when we had collected a certain number which I can’t remember, we could choose a book, which did not necessarily have to be a religious one, made one good reason for such a regular attendance. I have always been a bookworm. Another reason was the outing in the summer and the Christmas parties.
At the parties we played games. One I can remember was ‘The Farmer Wants a Wife’. Another I think was ‘Poor Jenny Was ‘A weeping’. Those were old folk games, or maybe dances.
One of the summer outings was to Theydon Bois and another to Clacton. I fell off a donkey at Theydon Bois and grazed my arm. At Clacton I could not find my way out of a mirror maze. Also at Clacton there was a roundabout which startled me by suddenly putting a cover over everyone.
We were all given a bunch of violets each to give to our mothers on MotheringSunday.
I remember the Methodists with affection.

Memories of my Great Aunt Alice.

Aunt Alice Jarvis suffered with her health. I don’t know what the problem was. My Mum said that she loved to go out and she always recovered from her problem if there was talk of an outing. During her last years she lived in a cottage provided by some member of the “gentry”. As a child in the 1930s I remember thinking that “gentry” was a very old fashioned and rather snobbish word which I was surprised to hear still in use. Nowadays it is used again to describe improving old houses, “gentrifying” them. I have been surprised all over again!
I remember visiting her in my childhood when she was still living in the family home. There were chickens wandering in and out of the kitchen. The smell of an oil stove always reminds me of her kitchen.
A Mr. and Mrs. Becket lodged in the house at that time. I remember Mrs Becket. She was tall and gaunt, and she wore a man’s flat cap. I think she may have smoked a pipe but I am not absolutely sure of that. I can see her clearly standing at the foot of the stairs.
Aunt Alice stayed with us sometime before the war. While there she bought me a mussel shell with a ship painted in it. This was purchased at one of the cockle sheds in Leigh, not far from Hockley where I lived. Leigh is on the Thames estuary. I had the shell for years but now I don’t know where it is. She sent me a book for the Christmas of 1939, and she died not long after that.

RNLI at Anstruther, Scotland

I was so pleased to see the sea while I was in Scotland last year. It was particularly lovely at Anstruther where the waves were choppy and glittering in the sun. We had to force ourselves against the wind while walking round the harbour but it was glorious.
I am sure that the lifeboatmen of Anstruther will not mind me putting this picture here. It is from one of the Christmas cards that were in a mixed pack I had this Christmas just gone.

Easter

Snowy gardens on Easter Sunday 2008

A Tiny Church

I love miniature things.

Test picture

This lovely daffodil is a test publishing as I have had difficulties getting through today.

A Fox On Our Lawn

Memories of my dear Grandad Samuel

What can I write of my dear Grandad Samuel. I was only eleven on the verge of twelve when he died so my memories are necessarily those of a young child.
I remember him when he used to come and stay with us in Hockley in the 1930s. I remember one morning when I had had my breakfast and he was having his. The post came and there was a small packet for Grandad. It contained a dictionary that he had won doing a crossword puzzle. He had a look at it and then handed it to me. I still have that little red dictionary. It is in the bookcase in the conservatory.
Once he sent me a lovely postcard. The picture was of a big red rose. I had it for many years but now it is lost. Maybe it is in a large case full pf bits and pieces in our loft. I must get it down and see if it is there. There is even the possibility that it is in an old photograph album, but not very likely.
Another memory is of walking across the fields holding his hand. We were on out way to Hawkwell Church. I have a feeling that he was not a regular churchgoer but I am not sure of this. I don’t really know why we were going to that church.
I can see him now walking down the road where we lived in Hockley. He was carrying his old Gladstone bag as he was coming to stay.
My mother looked after him in our bungalow when he had his last illness. She looked after him during the day and a retired nurse cared for him at night.
I would go to see him every morning before I went to school and I went straight to him when I came home in the afternoon. One day I went to the bedroom as usual and I could not open the door. I am not sure where Mum was. Maybe she had gone for a neighbour’s help. Later I found that Grandad had died during the day. He died in my bedroom but I never had any fear of this having happened there. His spirit would have been a very gentle one. I slept in another room during his illness.
There is still a small mystery in my mind about the door I could not open. This door had no lock.

Cruel Necessity

I love the fells of Cumbria and North Yorkshire. Being old people now my husband and I do not get so far from home as we used to. I hope that we may get to Yorkshire some time this year and also to Scotland. We have family in Yorkshire and also in Scotland. I scribbled the following to try and convey something of my feelings.

Amongst the Fells

I want to go to the fells again,
To feel their presence in my heart,
To walk along lonely paths
With only sheep sounds.

I want to see the hawk hover
Along a ridge, searching the far down ground
With eyes of gleaming sharpness
For poor, small creatures.

I want the small creatures to escape
The cruel beak, but the hawk must eat
And feed its young. The only cruelty
Is cruel necessity.

Here is a picture to remind us that summer will come sometime.

My Love Of Essex Rivers

My Love of Essex Rivers


Since an early age these South East Essex rivers and the surrounding countryside have been deeply in my heart, some of the places I love most of all the many parts of England that I know. The glory of the skies, the salt marshes, the small towns and pretty villages, the salty breezy air of the riverside quays and the peace to be found all have their place in my memories. I think I would be a very different person without those memories. All the years I have lived in London have not taken them away.
I have an extremely early recollection of a visit to Maldon. This was a Sunday School treat as far as I remember. I recall a steep hill and a shop full of little souvenirs where I bought a small china kid with a sixpence that I had to spend. I still have the kid in my china cabinet and here it is. I must have been about seven or eight years old when I went on that trip.

Halcyon Days

This is Mr Swanborough rowing Joe and me across the River Crouch
in Essex many years ago. As far as I remember the dog belonged to
Mr Swanborough.

A Nostalgic Dream of Essex Rivers

Wide open breezy distance,
Tremendous skies, rippling water,
Sailing barges, hard working carriers,
Now rich men’s pleasure or a holiday-maker’s dream,
Muddy creeks, large and small,
Sea walls to stem a flooding river’s ravenous desire for space,
Heat of the sun’s unshaded strength
Or twenty miles on a bicycle in teeming cold rain.
Wild wind, gentle zephyrs,
Skylarks winging their way heavenward
Then flashing down to the nest beneath.
Busy little towns with riverside quays
And mile after mile of banks to walk.
Mud, mud and yet more mud as the tide recedes.
Be careful not to slip!
There’s Othona’s fortress, not visible,
But stones translated into St. Cedd’s dream,
St Peter’s on the Wall.
At Stone empty cargo ships loom through a haze of heat
Awaiting the return of prosperity
While children play on the beach.
Time passes but nostalgia endures.

This poem is a memory of childhood in the 1930s during the Depression. I remember ships empty and laid up during that time. They were high up in the water due to being empty of cargo.

Salt marsh

I am so glad to know that some of the land by the River Crouch in Essex is going to be allowed to revert to salt marsh. It will take a very long time, and maybe I shall not see it, But I am glad to think of it happening. I love that part of the world.

A Collage of everything

I am fascinated with making collages at the moment. How about this one. There are too many little pictures, I know, but, for better or worse, here is another one.

Rosetta and Samuel

My Grandma Rosetta and Grandad Samuel
I remember Grandad but not Rosetta.

A Summer's Day Beside the River Crouch

A Summer’s Day Beside the River Crouch

That day in 1939, such a short time before the second world war started, has lingered in my mind as one of sunshine, the rippling river, and the wide open space of the great salt marsh which stretched, seemingly endlessly, interspersed with little creeks and larger ones too wide to be leapt over.
To start with my friend and I had made up our minds that a day by the river would be something to enjoy. Our mothers gave us sandwiches and we set off. What our mothers did not know was the plan we had in our minds that we did not communicate to them. Looking back I know that we should have told them that we were going to the river, and also the means by which were planning to get there. However, we did not.
We made our way down Plumberow Avenue, not calling on my Grandma and Auntie Maud on the way. Plumberow in those days passed a number of houses and bungalows and then went on through fields to the Lower Road. We took a short cut through the fields, crossing the Lower Road beside a caravan site and carrying on till we reached the beginning of the marshes. This was our great plan; to carry on over the marshes to the seawall that protected the land from the incursion of the river which was tidal. It would have spread far over the land in the past. This was quite a good and exciting plan but could have been a dangerous one as will be seen. We knew our mothers would not have approved of it at all! Our only excuse for this for being so foolish must be our youth.
Anyway, we carried on across the wide and fascinating marsh, peering into creeks to find crabs and jumping across the narrow ones until we at last reached the river. The journey was muddy and quite hazardous at times.
There were the seawall banks, and as we climbed them the beautiful River Crouch came into view. The water rippled and gleamed, the splendour of the huge and cloudless sky above us went on for ever, and there was not a soul in sight. I think we were quite overcome. Our naughty plan had come to pass!
By that time we were both ready for lunch and we produced our picnic. We sat there utterly at peace with the world. Everything was perfect.
After getting rid of the hunger pangs we had to decide what to do next. Paddling seemed a good idea. We walked along to a wide inlet from the river, and we decided this would be a suitable place for paddling (remember we were very young and foolish). There was a wide bank of mud to be traversed before we could reach the water. The mud was sticky and slippery, but we managed slip and slither a little way before my friend slipped right over and was smothered in mud.! Her dress was filthy.
This made us struggle back to the seawall where my friend took off her dress. I have always been somewhat pessimistic about the weather, and I had brought a raincoat with me. This I was able to lend to her. I think she must have bundled up her muddy dress and carried with her. My raincoat pockets were always filled with odds and ends, and were usually unpleasantly sticky, but even they would not have taken a dress however tightly rolled up!
We were very lucky not to be drowned. The water went down and down and we should never have survived paddling in such dangerous conditions. All I can say is that our guardian angels must have been kept very busy that day.
We pottered about for a few more hours and then decided we had better make our way home. As we once more crossed the marshes dusk was falling, and a mist was following us. I remember it as being like the Great Grimpen Mire in The Hound of the Baskervilles. We were luckier than the villainous Baskerville who sank in the bog. We reached home safely.
At both our homes all was fear and turmoil. Both our Dads were out looking for us and my Grandma and also Auntie Maud were there. I think we both realised that we had been very,very bad indeed. In spite of all this I cannot help remembering this as a day of delight.

Here is a poem I wrote in which I have tried to convey something of the feelings of that day.
Salt Marshes.

I remember the marshes,
So wide and sky-roofed,
With creeks where crabs might lie.
Adventure was in those marshes,
Glorious childhood adventure.
On the way to the glittering river
Who knew what wonder might be found
On that wide wind-blown loneliness.

Sitting on the sea wall, eating sandwiches,
The river in front and the marshes behind,
We belonged to the place,
We belonged to the time,
As never before and never since.
Our mud-stained feet and luckily undrowned bodies
Were one with the river.
One with the salt-born loveliness,
And one with Creation’s eternal soul.

MSK

Spring

Now I am looking forward to the Spring, the leaves and blossoms on the trees and the flowers budding,
especially the wind flowers and the bluebells in the woods.

Christmas 2007

This is the last mention of the Christmas of 2007 that I shall make.

I wish a Peaceful and Happy New Year to all the world.

The Christmas tree

I always enjoy Christmas. The child in me comes to the surface and enjoys the decorations, the tree and family visits, Christmas presents and also the hope that the peace it represents will one day come to pass all over the world.

Our Garden Holly

Here is holly from a bush at the end of our garden.

My Thoughts On Christmas

Now where shall I begin? Christmas seems so many things to so many different people that I find it very difficult to get my thoughts on to paper. To me Christmas is a time full of joy, a time when we enjoy the company of our dear ones and remember those who are part of our past. Christmas is so much part of childhood, my own and my children’s that there must surely be the beginning of my thoughts. Some of the Christmas memories are so far back that they can hardly be called memories at all. They are feelings so deep within my being that they probably come from the time when my mother first picked me up to show me the glittering Christmas tree in the corner of the room. Certain things can touch that time such as the piny scent as we walk into the room with the tree. Scent is the most likely to bring back memories from the past. The gleam of the baubles, the twinkling lights, the shining tinsel and the glittering star at the very top of the tree also act on our subconscious. There is something extra special about the act of bringing a tree into the house. It surely must have had great significance to our most ancient of pagan ancestors living in these chilly northern climes. An artificial tree can never be quite the same. This applies to the holly and, of course, we must not forget the mistletoe.
I love the Christian aspect of Christmas with the birth of Jesus in the stable, the Shepherds, and the Star leading the Three Kings, one of whom is always portrayed as being black. This interests me as I do not know where the legend of one black and two white kings came from. I am also fascinated by the great pagan midwinter festival that Christmas replaced, a festival that helped northern people get through the darkest part of winter. To some extent Christmas still serves this purpose.
Music is an integral part of Christmas, both carols old and new, and modern Christmas songs, and, of course, Christmas stories abound. I feel the need to read The Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens every year, and to have a dip into any of the Christmas anthologies I can find. And what about Father Christmas? He must not be forgotten. The children with their sparkling Christmas eyes would not allow that.
None of this delves into the much deeper mysteries of Christmas and these, I think, should be kept for another time. So we shall keep away from such solemn and insoluble questions. Fetch the decorations, the holly, and most of all, remember to bring in the tree. Don’t forget the turkey or the especially festive nut roast, the pudding, the mince pies and the cake, the wine and the brandy. Give and receive presents without feeling guilty, and most of all remember, as John Masefield said, laugh and be merry with the loved ones who are with us.
So, to everyone,

Have A Merry Christmas !!!

Christmas

This is just to show that I am beginning to notice that Christmas is on the way.

Roses in November

Here is a November rose. The roses have been so good this year.

Town Trees

I feel the Lawson's pines should be growing on a wild mountain side.

My Love Of Woodland

This is where my conscious memories of woodland begin.
I was taken to Epping Forest on a Sunday School treat when I was around five or six years old. Unfortunately my main memory is falling off a donkey. My foot being caught in a stirrup I was dragged along the ground, finishing up with a nasty graze on one of my arms. The trees took a second place that day!
As a young child Hockley woods played a great part in pleasurable outings of exploration. With young friends I wandered through the woods delighting in the great oak trees and the thickly growing remains of past coppicing. My Dad took me for walks and explained about the coppice cutting that had taken place in the past, talks which stayed in my mind and was the beginning of my love of trees. Windflowers starred the ground early in the Spring, delicately stirring to the slightest breeze.
There were also huge ants, not so lovable. Their nests were mountains of tiny twigs and whatever else was suitable for them. They got in the way of picnics. I have an idea they were originally put there as food for pheasants. The pheasants were gone and so were the humans who preyed on them, but the ants were flourishing.
While going to Hockley Council School my friend, Jean, and I were allowed to have a picnic meal in the woods once a week, in the summer of course. We sat in what I think were old sand pits surrounded by trees, not far from the school. On other days we went home for our dinner.
There was also the pleasure of eating the sweetest of chestnuts from the massive trees that grew near to the school playground. There was holly to collect at Christmas time, holly that seemed all the more festive due the search in the depths of the woods for bushes with berries.

My second name is Sylvia which seems to have been prophetic on the part of my parents.