Showing posts from April, 2012

The Sunday Posts 2012

The man, in life where-ever plac'd,
Hath happiness in store,
Who walks not in the wicked's way,
Nor learns their guilty lore!

Nor from the seat of scornful Pride
Casts forth his eyes abroad,
But with humility and awe
Still walks before his God.

That man shall flourish like the trees
Which by the streamlets grow;
The fruitful top is spread on high,
And firm the root below.

But he whose blossom buds in guilt
Shall to the ground be cast,
And like the rootless stubble tost,
Before the sweeping blast.

For why? That God the good adore
Hath giv'n them peace and rest,
But hath decreed that wicked men
Shall ne'er be truly blest.

The First Psalm by Robert Burns.

Photo of  box pews by Alistair.

Twenty-one Today!

Inchcolme Abbey
For My Lovely G - on our anniversary.
Sure Thing.

I can no more describe you
than I can put a thing for the first time
where it already is.

If I could make a ladder of light
or comb the hair of a dream girl with a real comb
or pour a table into a jug.

I'm not good at impossible things
And that is why I'm sure
I will love you for my ever.

By Norman MacCaig.

Thank you for twenty one amazing years.

Please Miss.... Can I have some more?

Love ya! XXX

Dear TSB

I thought you might like to know that the book "Understanding Women" is now out in paperback.

{Of course this is just a photo of volume 1.......}

The Sunday Posts 2012

I would love to live
Like a river flows,
Carried by the surprise
Of its own unfolding.

By John O'Donohue

Photo by Alistair

A Wedding

Finding your true love is one of the greatest things that might ever happen to you in life. I can say that because I feel I've been lucky enough to have done just that. The Lovely G and I were married 21 years ago on the twenty seventh of April 1991 in Inchcolme Abbey, a medieval abbey in the care of Historic Scotland. Apart from the caretakers daughter, we were the first people to be married there in several hundred years.

It was a good day. The weather, that had been poor the day before and would be again the day after, gave us a lovely sunny day and calm waters - needed to get onto the island where the Abbey lies in the middle of the Firth of Forth and we were surrounded by loved ones, both family and friends. One of the thingsI remember clearly about the day, apart from how stunning my new bride was and how painful it is to smile through a whole day, was the tiny flower girl - our 5 year old niece - who went around insistently pulling her dress down off her shoulders so she c…

The Sunday Posts 2012

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

'Do not go gentle into that good night'
Dylan Thomas.

Photo - Tyne Cot Cemetary,The Somme. By Alistair.

The Sunday Posts 2012

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
Yes, many loved before us, I know that we're not new,
In city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
But now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
Your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.

I'm not looking for another as I wander in my time,
Walk me to the corner, our steps will always rhyme
You know my love goes with you as your love stays with me,
It's just the way it changes, like the shoreline and the sea,
But let's not talk of love or chains and things we can't untie,
Your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye.

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm,
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
Yes many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
In city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
But let's not talk of love or chains and …

The Italian Holiday

You can recognise the occasional local that we meet walking along the side of Lake Garda between Riva Del Garda and the next village, which is called Torbole, by the slightly condescending looks they give us pasty skinned Scots dressed in light trousers and T-shirts. While we're enjoying temperatures equivalent to our summer, they clearly believe it's still winter. Invariably, they're wearing multiple layers of much heavier clothing, often a hat and almost always in dark colours. Of course there are a few tourists who are also from much warmer climes and feeling temperatures in the mid-20° C to be just a tad chilly for exposing any skin. Granted it can be "fresh" early in the morning or in the evening but now, at midday, it's blooming hot and I'm beginning to think that perhaps an excursion to the nearest shady watering hole might be a good idea. While continuing to think liquid thoughts I take some comfort that the looks given to us in passing are nowhe…

Dear Sir,

On coming back from holiday I began catching up on e-mail that had been delivered while I was away. My e-mail account isn't particularly busy so it didn't take long to go through my inbox and deal with anything needing a response and deleting e-mails from businesses and sites that I didn't need. As usual at the end of that I went to the spam box and saw some 47 items listed. I was just about to hit the clear button when one of them for some unknown reason, caught my eye. It said it was from a Dr Josef Levy and the subject was simply ‘Dear Sir’. The unknown name and dubious subject would normally immediately qualify such e-mail for the bin and I have no idea why this e-mail was different, but something made me not only hesitate but actually open it:

Dear Sir,
I am writing you to ask you for cooperation. I am from town Hranice in Czech Republic. The bomber AVRO LANCASTER B.MK.I, serial number PB 872, code indication P4-X 153. bomb squadron. crashed there on 6th March, 1945. I…

Niece to Meet You - To Meet You, Niece!

Emily Ursula Pauline Hudspeth 28/03/2012
Life changes everything and never more so when that life is a new one. Hello Emily, a much longed for first daughter to my brother-in-law and his partner and who was born on Wednesday . I think it's safe to say that for Karen and Leonard life will never be the same again. It will always be better. Welcome to the family little one. Welcome to the world. May you know only love. See you soon. I have so many wondrous stories to tell you.

Listening to

Riva! Riva! Riva!

Rush hour in Riva

I can't help smiling as I sit here contentedly looking down the lake. The late afternoon sun shines on my face, its warmth comfortable and soothing and on the table beside me I have the choice of a stunning cup of coffee or a glass of crisp white wine from the perfectly chilled half bottle sitting on the white linen tablecloth.
Beside me The Lovely G also sits quietly. We are on opposite sides of a small, circular table here beside the small harbour of Riva Del Garda, which as the name suggests is on Lake Garda in northern Italy. Behind us and the two rows of tables with their attentive staff is the Hotel Sole which has quickly become our place of choice of an afternoon or almost any part of the day on this short holiday. The 20 or so feet between my stretched out legs and the edge of the harbour allows people to pass quietly by, walking or sometimes on bicycle. It's a promenade, a place to see and be seen for the locals and tourists here. Around the corner …

The Sunday Posts 2012

When all the others were away at Mass
I was all hers as we peeled potatoes.
They broke the silence, let fall one by one
Like solder weeping off the soldering iron:
Cold comforts set between us, things to share
Gleaming in a bucket of clean water,
And again let fall. Little pleasant splashes
From each others work would bring us to our senses.

So while the parish priest at her bedside
Went hammer and tongs at the prayers for the dying
And some were responding and some crying
I remembered her head bent towards my head,
Her breath in mine, our fluent dipping knives -
Never closer the whole rest of our lives.

(in memoriam M.K.H, 1911-1984)
By Seamus Heaney