Halloween

I don't really do Halloween. We used to do quite spectacularly spooky events in France, but that's when there was still a gaggle of small children living nearby; and they expected it of us.

Here in England we don't bother. I bought a Pumpkin simply because I want to make Pumpkin Soup; but even that I'm not very keen on.

So, I'll ignore all the over-hyped decorations in the shops, I won't be buying Halloween crumpets, and I certainly won't answer the door if I get 'Trick-or-Treaters' tonight. Like everyone else around these parts, I'm rather looking forward to Bonfire Night which is a much more serious event here in Sussex.

My meagre contribution is above. A Spider Pumpkin, and a Spider Plant.

 

A strange love story.

Living in Brighton.

Photo by Michael Brittain.

Most English people will know the name 'Brighton'. The town (city) is famous for 'Mods-n-Rockers', dirty weekends, lots of celebs, The Royal Pavilion, kiss-me-quick hats, and the pier.

What they might not know about is the wonderful Regency and Georgian architecture we have here. This (above) is a classic run of Georgian homes that look out over the sea. Luxury living at it's best. Eaton Square but with sea views.

Behind such buildings are the 'mews' properties, where coaches, horses, and grooms lived. When I first moved to Brighton I wrote to several Estate Agents asking for details of any reasonably sized mews houses for sale. None was suitable for a family with three children so I opted for a four story Victorian house instead. Below are the type of mews houses I'd been hoping to buy.

If I was to win the lottery, my dream would be to buy a mews house in London's South Kensington. I've always had a hankering for such a property, but I'm hardly likely now to have the wherewithal.

The greatest problem with Brighton living is PARKING. We're lucky because we have a garage, but most people don't. The one thing I've always liked about mews houses is that they either have a garage or a dedicated parking space. Having the luxury of a regular private parking space extends one's longevity by about 10 years.

N.B. Kimbo's big fat German muscle car is at the body shop. Without a garage he is at the whim of every careless lorry driver or scaffolder. His current scratches, bumps, and dents, are all over his car. It's taking a whole week to fix and re-spray.

Other people's pleasures!

 

I'm currently reading a book entitled 'Landlines', by Raynor Winn. She and her sick husband Moth (Moth has something called Corticobasal Degeneration...CBD) decide to go 'extreme trekking' in the highlands of Scotland. This is something they did throughout their marriage, and they wished to do it one final time, before the inevitable.

For someone such as myself who dreams of Mediterranean skies, quiet shady bistros, and warm lazy days by the pool, the idea of punishing oneself to the extent of being permanently freezing cold and wet, having seriously blistered feet, and to be (Moth) at death's door whilst scrambling over rocky snow-tipped mountains, and through raging freezing rivers, seems like the worst type of punishment I could imagine. But this book is proof that there are people out there for whom such extreme suffering is their idea of pleasure. I would call it masochism.

In my own family my Mother loved sunshine and beaches on the Med', whilst Father preferred mountains, glaciers, and long exhausting walks. My sister and I sided with our Mother.

The book itself is 'a good read', and beautifully written, but I can't get past the blistered feet, the permanently wet clothing, and the wind and rain that freeze you to the bone. 

Anyway, it hasn't stopped me reading about it.

I've just noticed on the cover that the book is another Sunday Times No 1 Bestseller. I seem to be making a habit of reading such things; but not on purpose.

The Font.

This is the font in our nearby church. I'm afraid the church was very dark when I took the photos yesterday, but you'll get the idea.

The font is French, and was probably plundered after some skirmish or other. It comes from the Norman period, and is thought to have been carved in 1170. It is made of Caen Stone. One scene represents the life of St Nicholas; to whom the church is dedicated.

Amongst the other scenes, is this, above; The Last Supper, complete with bowls and food.

This one, above, I think is the Baptism of Christ.

And this final one features a boat with a 'fisherman' holding some large round egg-shaped object in the air. I have no idea what's going on here. (an Easter Egg hunt in St Malo perhaps?)

Originally the font was placed in the middle of the church where people would sit and lean back on it. It suffered some damage so it was moved to a more dedicated spot by the bell tower, where sitting on it is discouraged.

It's a beautiful font, and I believe is the oldest object in the church.

 

Breakfast around Europe

Having just consumed a Bacon Sandwich, here are three more styles of breakfast.

Top: English.

Middle: French.

Bottom: Slovakian.

I very occasionally partake of PARTS OF the English one, quite often the French one, but never the Slovakian one.

 

Learning by Heart.

I imagine we all had to learn some poetry by heart at some stage of our early schooldays. It was demanded of us more as 'educational discipline' than for the love of poetry itself.

The first poem that I remember learning was Thomas Hood's 'I remember, I remember'.

As a smallish boy, I rather liked the poem, and managed to remember it quite easily, although I think I only managed to learn three verses (as below). I ignored the final verse.

The other one I remember learning was Lewis Carroll's 'Some Hallucinations', but again I don't think I learned all of it.

I remember, I remember,

The house where I was born,

The little window where the sun

Came peeping in at morn;

He never came a wink too soon,

Nor brought too long a day,

But now, I often wish the night

Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember,

The roses, red and white,

The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light!

The lilacs where the robin built,

And where my brother set

The laburnum on his birthday,—

The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,

Where I was used to swing,

And thought the air must rush as fresh

To swallows on the wing;

My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!

I think I could still just about recite it today.