On feeling slightly spooked

To be honest with you I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

Very little rattles me. Give me a chopped off finger, some blood, some gore...creaking floorboards or a spooky ol' graveyard on All Hallows Eve and I'll laugh in the face of fear....but I'm not very happy about the big old tree that's lying up there in the orchard. The tree that toppled only yesterday.

I have my big bright torch and the ability to say boo to a goose but there are still shivers going up my spine as I walk to the field to shut hens in. An unfamiliar shape up there to my left. The big tipped-up root is horrid, the gnarled tangle of snapped branches and vastness of its dark girth is heavy and foreboding....ye gods it could rise up and roar at me. I would not be surprised if it did. I am spooked.

I'm not and never have been a 'tree-hugger' - yet have always afforded them respect none-the-less. There are vague memories of my father telling me what a bad thing it was to carve into the bark - would that be paring into the tree's very soul I wonder now? His words? 'They don't like it.' Whatever. The 5 year old me took his advice on board and have never knowingly done an unkind thing to a tree. I've come to understand the reverence that ancient man felt towards these leviathans of forest and hill - what powerful symbols of longevity and permanence they must have seemed.

The fallen tree's neighbour will be felled next week; having taken advice we believe it is too dangerous to leave standing. I also have a curious feeling that without its life's partner it will fade and die quickly anyway.  We will see this as an opportunity to replant - undoubtably for future generations.

Tomorrow I shall go up into the orchard and stroke the bark a bit. I'll say goodbye -  ask 'Please, don't frighten me in the dark anymore. It will be OK old beech tree - this is the next part of your journey. The Glam Ass will be persuaded to make something from your timber. In that you will live on. '

And there will of course be other trees.

Timbahhhhh!

Well that's that then. A tremendous gust of wind, a crack, a woosh and a graceful flop into the orchard and the Big Beech Tree is gone. Gone as in not standing next to its partner aka the Small Beech Tree anymore; but definitely not gone in terms of 'a lot to be cleared away'.....

I suppose I must count myself lucky that it didn't land on my head - I'd stopped before going down the garden, waiting for the gusts to pass before I went under the big sycamores which line our dingle. We've always counted ourselves lucky to have these Beeches, these mature monsters - maybe I'm not so sure now. We've been trying to estimate their age - probably well in excess of 150 years. (Wikipedia tells me they have a typical lifespan of 150 - 200 years.) I'd like to think these two were planted around the time of the enclosures which took place here in the 1840s.

About 18 months ago we noticed abundant fungal growth at their roots - and the death knell began to toll. Looking at the remains of the root which is now revealed it is a wonder that the tree has stood as long as it did.

On the plus side the tree missed the bench, fence and gas tank but unfortunately squashed some of the fruit trees in the orchard - there are plums and apples scattered everywhere. The Glam Ass points out that firewood won't be a problem for the next few years.

So, a dramatic start to the week. A bit sad really - particularly as we now think the other tree is equally vulnerable and will have to go too....

I'm off to crack on with my jam making activities; when life sends you lemons, make lemonade plum jam.

Greengage summer

As a child I could never see what my mother liked about greengages. She would sigh with delight at the prospect. In truth she sighed with delight over very little. The county of Yorkshire, white cats and poultry are the three things which come to mind after a bit of thought. That she approved of this humble little plum is quite something.

To my suspicious child's eye they looked nasty sour things. I didn't like green boiled sweets either - and still don't. Unnatural things.

Ah, but now show me a greengage and I'll jump through hoops; stretch up through a scratchy hedge to pick the very last one off the tree - all the while cursing the man who planted fruit trees amongst Hawthorn...

Perhaps not the most elegant of fruit but so, so sweet. The soft ripe flesh melts to honeyed juice.

Simply gorgeous.

Strangers in the night

Hen shutting in time. Gird the loins, wellie-boot up, grab the torch.

What's the light up there in the field? Perhaps it's the lad from next door with his dad and his torch. Nope. It's Pete and Abby (who?), lost on their circular walk from a - b.

By the light of our combined torches we find where we are on their map. Lost. That's where - 'cept I'm not. I know exactly where I am.

We discuss the options of where they want to be - most of which would be better in the clear light of day. They don't want to go by the lanes (no way!) so I point them in the direction of the gaps in hedges and the half hidden signs and wish them well as they stumble off into the darkness.

We say our goodnights- and exchange our names. Pete adds that it's great to walk like this. The night is cool and clean and quiet. Indeed it is.

I plod back to the hen pens in the field to drop the pop'oles on birds which acknowledge my passing visit with some sotto voce hen-talk. In a sort of mini experimental tribute to my just-met walking friends I switch off the torch and, giving my eyes a moment or two to adjust to the darkness, make my way tentatively back to the house through the garden.

The night is soft indeed, with not a sough of wind. Gentle, gentle. Over by the church across the field, from the hidden slopes of Trelystan Dingle I hear the muted yelp of a fox. Behind me in the dark conifers of Badnage Wood is the whispery whoot of a tawny owl. Oh, this is pretty good; the cries of the night; the scent of the garden, green, earth and sweet peas.

I know why you walk by night Pete and Abby. You have each other and the wonderfulness of the great Out There. Hope you got home safely.

'A' is for Autumn.

...and 'B' is for Brrr....but for heaven's sake it's still only August.

That's what the calendar says but it does seem chilly and autumnal here...something about the tiredness of foliage and the cool dankness of the morning air. Leaves are changing colour  - horsechestnut and hazel in particular are already tinged with russet and gold.

So here I am anticipating an evening in front of a roaring log burner with a snoring bull terrier at my feet. We've noticed that the light levels have dropped. Last evening it was dark at 8.30. Sigh. Where has my summer gone?

There are compensations; our trees are laden with fruit; apples and pears and plums in variety. The local hedgerows (at least those which haven't been 'brushed' to within an inch of their lives) promise a rich harvest of blackberry and sloe. This bounty is due to a frost-free spring of course - anyone remember those balmy and unnatural April days which gave way to a cool damp May?

We've noticed large groups of swallows gathering and hope they are not on their way back to Africa already - the second brood from the nest in the field shelter has only fledged in the last day or so. I hope they get strong enough to make that remarkable journey south.

I find myself wondering as we had December's snow in November, May's weather in April and now this early autumn, have the seasons become so distorted that we'll find ourselves knee-deep in snow in October.  That isn't a thought I'm going to dwell on.

I shall go and pick blackberries instead.

Behind the Scenes at the Museum*

'Tickets? £1.00 for adults, children 50p. Come on in - please do. ' I announce at the sniff of a visitor...

...and worth every penny I add, sotto voce, to myself.

My inability to say 'no' or my hyper-inclination to volunteer for all and sundry finds me on Saturday afternoon as Custodian at the Old Bell Museum in Montgomery. This is like putting a child in charge of a sweetshop.

The Old Bell is the loveliest little museum you can imagine, focussed on the past of this county town and its immediate environs. I've been as a visitor a couple of times previously and each time found more of interest. How tantalising it will be to remain behind my desk knowing what treasures lie in the rooms beyond.

Fortunately I am taking over from an experienced hand who has successfully unlocked, un-alarmed and remembered to slide the little slidey thing which announces to the world that the museum is OPEN. I gather that as this is not the busiest visitor attraction in the county I can probably look forward to an untroubled afternoon.

I settle into my Custodian's chair and survey my domain. I have two rolls of tickets. (Proper museum-y jobs don't you think?)

There is a desk with a CCTV screen, a file of instructions, a record book and an important piece of paper on which I must note with 'five barred gates' the number of adult and child visitors and publications sold....all to be added up at the end of the date. My greatest fear is not outbreak of fire, rowdy or light-fingered visitors. No, it is making the books balance at 5.00pm. I see a column of figures and begin to tremble.

I read the file of instructions for custodians and welcome my first visitors - the first of many as it turns out - enough to make the afternoon pass at a reasonable and interesting pace. I have little time to twiddle my fingers. I'm a bit restricted to the reception area but while it's quiet I open a few drawers; the Custodian's perogative perhaps. I am reminded of visiting No.10 Downing Street to find that tucked behind that famous front door were dusters and polishes. So much for the panoply of state.

This multi-drawed chest must have come from a seed merchant but now seems to hold a stash of light bulbs.

Feel a bit off colour? Can I recommend a course of Dayus's celebrated alternative 'General Condition Balls'?








Visitors were all most complimentary - and nobody asked really difficult questions. A couple were clearly moved by the room which exhibits artefacts from the Workhouse at Forden (a.k.a. The House of Industry) - none more so than the mother who was accompanied by her husband and teenaged son. He was deaf and perhaps autistic. He would have been she reflected, in years gone by, incarcerated somewhere like that. This room has in it the story of Blind May - Hannah Thomas - who, blind, deaf and dumb was sent to live at the workhouse at Caersws at 4 years old - and transferred to Forden where she lived until her death at the age of 89. It is the most poignant story. We must count our blessings.

The clock on the Town Hall just up the street eventually rang 5 and as the last 'dong' died away the long case clock in the the museum's reception chimed the hour too. Time to slide the slidey thing to its CLOSED position and bolt the doors. The museum's curator arrived and kindly volunteered to close up for me....but left me to  'balance the books'.

What a relief it was to find everything tallied. Phew.



*With apologies to Kate Atkinson.

Tumbleweed and cobwebs....

Just why is it so difficult to difficult to get down to work again after a holiday - albeit a blogging one? It's been a month and a week six weeks since I last shuffled down the echoing corridors of my blog world. There has been the usual round of summer things here - same old, same old - and perhaps my reluctance to post has been a fear of going, boringly, over old ground. There is though a 'ruck' of stuff cluttering up the desktop of my lovely Mac; pictures for posts that never were.....

Where to start then? Where was I? I'll be brief.

Ah yes. Wasps. Well we haven't seen once since. And this is a good thing.

Sweet peas? Actually they've come good at least 3 weeks later than in previous years. Gorgeous of course; bowls, vases, jugs and glasses of them fill the house. They have a short life but a heavenly scented one.

My seeds are from Thompson and Morgan and probably 'Fragrantissima'. These however are not like any 'Fragrantissima' I've grown before; the petals are speckled and blotched. Remember what it was like, back in the day, when all the lovely coloured bits of Plasticine got mixed together?  A muddy amalgam which still moulded but looked bleugh. These sweet peas are like that. A friend down the road tells me that hers are much the same. Perhaps it is a local blight.

However, the brashness of the 'hot' border does not disappoint. This picture is at least 10 days out of date and Helleniums in red and orange now provide extra fire.

In the vegetable garden we've harvested peas by the bushel - those we can't eat as young and succulent petit pois we've frozen or converted into pea and ham soup. (I get huge satisfaction in stocking freezer and larder in preparation for the the winter months ahead.) Red and white currants have been jellied and raspberries savoured with cream.

As usual we look for things to do with courgettes. So far we have managed to eat/or give away our crop but we are fighting a losing battle. The blasted things grow at such a prodigious rate. Common sense tells me that probably 2 plants would suffice. I will have forgotten that bit of wisdom by spring of next year when sturdy little seedlings look too good to be consigned to the plant sale or compost heap.

I notice this morning that the vegetable garden, though still productive, begins to look tired and old; its freshness gone. As fruit swells and ripens - in abundance thanks to the frost-free spring I detect a slide into autumn. Sigh.

This little cherub caught my eye.

I should remember which Shropshire church it came out of but will hazard a guess at St John the Baptist in Mainstone; a building sweet and humble, sheltered from the elements by surrounding hills and at the end of a seemingly endless narrow lane. My feelings on religion - particularly the organised variety - I shall keep to myself lest I offend. (Shall we put some of my feelings down to childhood experience?) I seem to have been in a number of similar churches this summer - mostly as a curious onlooker wearing my 'nosy' hat. Almost without exception I found simplicity and serenity, both loved and neglected in equal measure; the scent of artlessy arranged garden flowers vying with dust and mould. I've no desire to worship (though if poked with a sharp enough stick I will go and sing hymns) but would fight till my end to keep them as places of stillness in our landscape. 'Nuff said.

Some hymn singing yielded these words from 'How Great Thou Art':

I ponder the small mountain kingdom in late summer; the land ripe and fruitful, a patchwork of greens and gold - a cornucopia of things 'bright and beautiful'.

Then sings my soul.

Garden invaders.

I stood on the step yesterday, leaned against the door jamb and viewed the gorgeous green-ness of the great outdoors. All was drippy wet, but fair play (as they say round here) it did smell good. The garden looked lush and abundant too - if only a little floppy on account of the rain. I like this generous fulsome look though....

To my left is an unsatisfying rose; mostly vigourous stem and leaf. When it does bother to flower (once a year) it's not a particularly interesting one either. I give over contemplating raindrops and think about the logistics of uprooting the rose. I think thick stems and thorns - lots of digging, pain and misery. My eye travels from its roots and up the wall assessing the scale of the project.

What's that? I wonder why the wall has developed a curious bulge - almost as if someone has got behind the stonework and blown it out like a bubble-gum bubble about to go pop. Nah. As if! Just as if!

See what I mean - there in the centre of my picture? Behind the evil unattractive rose? A stone bubble? Should I get a stick and poke it perhaps?

Hmm. Perhaps not. It turns out to be a wasps' nest. Barely a metre from my door and about as big as a rugby ball. Eeeek! Sorry wasp lovers - but this nest is going to have to go. I appreciate these stripey b******s have their place in the scheme of things but it's not going to be within an arm's length of my kitchen door.

Tomorrow I shall be donning my protective clothing and setting about it with something lethal the pest control man will be coming from Welshpool.

PS For a truly great wasp extermination tale read this. Just glad I didn't know about it at the time.

Edited to add:
Well, our exterminator arrived and partly out of cowardice the Glam Ass was sent to Make Sure He Did It Properly. Afraid of wasps? Moi? You bet. Really I just didn't want to go out in the rain.

What a hero - our man just cut the nest away, tossed it in the back of his van, puffed a little noxious dust in, trousered a hefty wad and drove off in the direction of Craven Arms. No protective clothing. No whinging. Job done. Am happy to recommend his services.

Shouldn't have to chase a sunset....

'Run' I say - shout even - to the Glam Ass who is idly pulling up weeds in the orchard. 'Run - get the camera. Quick, quick, quick!' (Some speed is needed because I know from experience how quickly the sky will change - so I'm not just being bossy.)

Bless 'im. He does just that, runs, and before my eyes the prettiest sunset unfolds and I do my best to make some pictures. Click, click.

Shame about the shanty-town appearance of my poultry empire...

 

Moments - perhaps only seconds - later the rosy sky becomes greyer

...and then greyer still as if a cobweb caul has been thrown over the small mountain kingdom.

Shut the hens in. Stand in the dew-wet grass. Breathe in. And out. How still it is up here. How absolutely perfect. I could squeak with delight.

A lone buzzard soars above Badnage Wood - a distant mew then silence. A swallow swoops to catch a last insect. Somewhere over there - way over there - a tractor works on. These short nights of summer make for long working days and silage must be cut.

So glad I caught this evening's sky.

Thug.

Once upon a time I bought a sweet little hardy geranium. A pretty thing in a tiny pot. It did look cute planted in the sunny  border at the front of the house alongside some furry Stachys and under the white Iris which grows so well there. I was a bit worried that it might be overwhelmed by both but no, it's held its own and as you can see the three plants are a pleasant combination in early summer.

I haven't a clue what its name is - the label disappeared long ago*. Unfortunate this, as the same label might have given me a clue about its ultimate size and habit. Three years after planting it I conclude that ruthlessness must be part of its genetic make-up. Titchy it may be but its size belies its audacity and aggressiveness. This geranium takes no prisoners, engulfing all before it. I am thinking it is the botanic equivalent of Hitler or Napoleon.

The pretty froth of delicate purple flowers atop a mound of mid-green leaves gives way to seed heads balanced on lanky straggling stems.  The minute seeds scatter with the slightest movement and wherever they fall they germinate. There are now geraniums spreading far across the garden. It is without doubt a successful plant - except when a plant is where you don't want it to be it becomes a weed.

I summoned up my own ruthless gene. I would hack back, cut down, pull up, cull and otherwise beat it into submission.....but when I looked out of the window Mr and Mrs Bullfinch (rare visitors in these parts) and their 4 newly fledged chicks were feasting on the seeds, hunkered down amongst those same straggly stems having the best picnic of their lives.

Can I take food out of the beaks of baby birds? Can I heck.

*PS If anyone knows its name I'd love to know.

Are we nearly there yet?

Are we nearly there yet?

Ye Gods! We've been there and have come back again. Incredible but true.

Where? Same old, same old - Paxos. South of Corfu. Ionian Sea. East of Italy, west of mainland Greece.

This one was a bit special though; in celebration of a Significant Birthday we tagged on 3 days sailing. The Glam Ass has had a long-held ambition to sail into the small harbour at Loggos. Over the years he  has sat on our terrace, or glass in hand at a taverna, and watched sailboats big and small sail in and sail out again. His wish to be on board was almost tangible.

A big birthday approaches and I know he would never have forgiven me if I threw a surprise party (we have a pact to never, ever do this to one another) and the question of how to mark it taxes my brain. A plan slowly evolves....a few days afloat could be easily arranged and this dream realised. We can do this. We will do this.......and before we knew it we are climbing aboard a 41ft yacht in Gouvia Marina in Corfu.

Let's gloss over the hell that is Manchester's Terminal 3, the necessary evil that is Easy Jet and the indulged and howling infant that made the first 40 minutes of our flight such purgatory.
Teleportation should be a research priority. Non?

We'll imagine we've been beamed down into sunny Corfu - which actually is enjoying a brief shower of rain as we step out of the taxi. Sigh. The boat is found, groceries bought and stowed. We make ourselves at home below decks.

I marvel at how many home comforts can be fitted into such a small space. (That's the same small place that is going to become very claustrophobic.) We have a double berth, wardrobes, our own shower and 'head' - that's boating speak for toilet. I am instructed in the art of flushing the said head, although pumping and draining would be a more accurate description of this process. I get the hang of it eventually. After 3 days.

The marina is ram-jam full of yachts and cruisers of all shapes and sizes - I'm in an alien world here which has its own language and looks incredibly complicated. Look at all those ropes for a start.

Here's the Glam Ass - on board at last.

No point in hanging about admiring the plumbing and the rigging - off we go. We head southwards along the coast of Corfu - seeing our eventual destination, Paxos, in the the far distance. We then turn east and over the Ionian to mainland Greece where will moor overnight at Plataria.

We had the most affable skipper - a Greek called Thomas. Over the next few days he tells us a little of his story - and it is an amazing one. A Paxiot, raised amongst his family's olive trees and lacking any sailing skills, he bought a small wooden boat advertised for sale in Athens. Somehow he managed to sail it home. Aged 28 he set off around the world in this same boat - a journey which took him to some of the most remote and exotic places imaginable. It would be 18 years before he set foot on Paxos again. He returned to take over the family house and land 8 years ago - joined by the woman who is now his wife and whom he had met firstly in Spain and then lived with in Brazil. That boat now stands on a trailer amongst his olive trees. It looks a small and fragile thing to take on the might of the oceans.

Here's breakfast on board/ The GA looks slightly more chilled:

 

Next stop Sivota:

 

...and Parga:

Ah, Parga. How many times have we sat in Paxos, looking across at the mainland at night seeing twinkling lights in the far distance? How many times have we wondered just what was it like over there? Well now we know. Unfortunately the place with the twinkling lights was not Parga but some other little community. We got it wrong. Parga was on the itinerary anyway. We concluded it was not worth the detour; two resort-y bays separated by an ancient Turkish fort on a steep hill and a cluster of souvenir shops, tavernas and restaurants. The marina was unwelcoming - we moored alongside a rusting, capsized ferry - and the trudge to buy some provisions took us along a neglected rubbish strewn track. Thomas would not leave the boat for fear we were robbed. But hey! Pull up the gangplank, crack open a beer and experiment with cooking in the galley.

Finally we head out across the Ionian again, leaving the mainland's dusty hillsides for the olive covered island of Paxos. A strong wind in the wrong direction brought us into Gaios by motor power - so that dream of coming into Loggos under sail has still not been realised.

A week on land followed - although my body seemed to think for several days that it was still at sea. Not an unpleasant sensation by any means. Just curious - as if the rhythm of the water had entered my soul. Sailing was OK, too much phaffing about for my liking. I'll settle for dry land.

Paxos remains as hospitable as ever; there's a quirky side to life but that's part of the charm. The hoik in the price of most things is less charming. So, so expensive. A 13% tax on food seems iniquitous. The 'Greek in the street' seems very angry indeed about the state of affairs and are quite clear about who and what is to blame.

We lounged in the sun. We walked and swam, ate and drank, recharged the batteries. Here's a miscellany of images from our travels:

And now we are home in the small mountain kingdom of Trelystan. The grass is knee high, weeds abound and whatever bit my arms while I gardened yesterday was twice as savage as anything I met in Greece. Otherwise everything is reassuringly the same.

The bottom line

Click away now if you think this one's going to be about the sort of underwear that sucks the wobbly bits  in and presents a slender profile.  Marks and Spencer can help you out there. Off you go.

Ditto if you're looking for pastoral diversions in the small mountain kingdom of Trelystan, a vista of trees and flowers, fluttering blue tits, woolly lambs or ploughs and muck spreaders -  but bear those images in mind.

Me? I've still got my campaigning head on and this post continues in that vein.

Yesterday's Times newspaper had a small supplement which attracted my eye because on its cover was a sexily backlit pylon.  It might be relevant so I read on. It wasn't quite advertising and I'm not sure it was editorial either. Titled 'Mapping British Business Utilities' it addressed some of the issues concerning the development, management and economics facing the nation's utility companies.

What came home to roost - and I don't begin to understand the economics of it -  is that it all comes down to pushing figures - figures of mind-boggling enormity -  around on a spread sheet. I ponder that it's all somewhat anonymous and abstract. The number crunching could be done with concepts or colours instead of energy and water perhaps.

Oh, and don't forget the undercurrent of political ambition either.  The quite laudable policy of moving towards a greater proportion of renewable energy must be achieved at all costs by our political and financial masters with barely a nod to the impact on local communities.

A small thought comes into my head; Gloucester's lines from Act 4 of King Lear: 'As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods....'

Quite.

A rebel with a cause.

A natural rebel? Me? Nah. Anything for a quiet time - which generally means 'put up or shut up'.

Sometimes though, something rattles the cage. Wind farms, pylons...and the flawed policies of our so-called leaders.

Yesterday saw us join a 1,000+ other like-minded folk march in protest to the Senedd in Cardiff.  The Senedd is the home of the National Assembly of Wales but, as I am told by its website, it belongs to us - the people. It is 'the main centre for democracy and devolution in Wales' and I think we all have that at the back of our minds when we stand on the steps of the building with our banners and placards. We hope that our elected representatives will listen to what we, the people who put them in office, have to say.

We have the banner - which you have seen strapped to Eddie's best field gate in the previous post.

On Monday night we had the banner lashed to two broomsticks - held aloft it looked good, Good, GOOD!!!! Unfortunately a somewhat twitchy Cardiff police told us sticks and wooden placards would not be allowed (boo!) and we had to carry it without. Flappy banner = less impact methinks. We should have ignored the 'advice' as most other people did - the police presence was minimal. (There seemed to be about 3 officers and a work-experience girl.)

We were there with people from Shropshire in support of those from across the border in Montgomeryshire, our joint campaign starting with the threat of sub-stations and pylons and moving onto tackle the root of the problem - upland windfarms and the Assembly's adoption of TAN8 - the policy document which identifies  areas of Wales where large-scale wind farms are to be encouraged, so called Strategic Search Areas.

The joining of forces has been the great part of this campaign. The National Grid's Consultation Response form asks us to 'vote' for the route we would like to see the power corridor take. We obviously would not want in in our valley so we'll vote for it to go in somebody else's shall we?  How unpleasant is that, pitting community against community, maybe family against family. No, we're in this together - like the Musketeers. 'All for one and one for all'.

So we stood shoulder to shoulder in front of the Assembly building; young and old from all walks of life, schoolchildren, babes in arms and a couple of dogs. We raised our banners and placards with their simple messages - all different but all saying in essence the same thing. I snapped some of our Marton group.

Gathered together we sang - nothing like an old-fashioned protest song with a catchy refrain is there? I'd rather hoped to hear a snatch of Bob Dylan in celebration of his 70th birthday, which was yesterday too. 'Blowing in the Wind' would have been appropriate.

We listened to speakers from the various local campaigns; welcomed with whoops and cheers the sore-footed walkers who had walked the 100 plus miles from Welshpool to Cardiff in protest; applauded the young children who presented squares of upland turf to Assembly Members and listened as their clear, piping voices read, one in Welsh, one in English, their wish that this gift symbolising the hills of Montgomeryshire should be a treasured one.

We listened to politicians from across the political spectrum pledge their support for a review of TAN8 and for a moratorium on the building of any more wind farms until that happens. Hurrah! This gathering outside the Senedd is the largest of its kind to have taken place here in in the life of that building, admittedly a short time, but even so...) so perhaps they were noticing that the people - the quiet unassuming people of Montgomeryshire - were not to be ignored or walked over and that there is a moral duty to represent their views. Can and will our representatives in Cardiff prevent Westminster playing the winning hand in the end? Will party lines and policy prove stronger than pledges made on home ground? We will see. Call me a cynic but the politician is a slippery beast.

Our drive down took us through Montgomeryshire and Breconshire - stunningly beautiful countryside of soaring hills and verdant valleys where ancient deciduous woodlands run down to gurgling streams. It's a peaceful land. Sheep safely graze.

It's hilly and underpopulated too - but that doesn't seem much of an argument for desecrating a national treasure does it?

Accessorised

I'm flickin' and clickin' around the internets.  A bit of this and bit of that; some news here, some politicking there. Gardening, cooking, crafts, families...lives and their minutiae. Folks I've got to know - others I would like to - slender threads I don't want to let go of yet...and this is, of course, the best record keeping I've managed yet. However, on the home front things have slipped a bit...

Give or take a day or two it's a month since fingers hit keys and made a post. (Hmm...has anyone noticed.) I do like a good image so visualise the past 30 days as a mountain of missed bloggo-tunities.

In brief we've had:

6 weeks without rain. Then rain. Beetroot seed have taken 6 weeks to germinate. Weeds? Hah. Little stops them does it? Ergo there has been much weeding. There has been much gardening done in general. Planting, sowing, mowing, lifting and shifting. My hands are a mess, my back aches but the urge to tease this plot into shape does not go away.

Baby birds hatching - yes, that little nest was finally filled to bursting with muscular fledglings. The next day they were gone.

Another ex-swallow found - showing evidence of serious sucking - dead, in Chester's bed. I like to think, as suggested previously that he found it in the garden - in fact it may well have met its end crashing into a window - and he merely retrieved it and gave it a good lick en route. He just looked at me with his toffee coloured eyes as if to say 'And?' If only they could talk.

We've had visitors, many of them. Yep. Definitely like visitors. They come, bringing news and views from elsewhere - wine, flowers and plants too. We do much talking, freshen up our views and most importantly go out and show off this wonderful place we live in.

Which brings me neatly to the local campaign to keep our borderlands just so; an unspoiled stretch of countryside. The National Grid's proposal to connect planned mid Wales windfarms via a high voltage cable to an existing line between Oswestry and Shrewsbury has caused a furore hereabouts. There are 10 proposed 'corridors' in mid Wales and Shropshire - any one of which would be blighted if the cable were carried on 50m high pylons through it. The campaign has moved on from the initial 'not in our valley' to 'not anywhere'. No. No. No. No to pylons. No to windfarms. Rethink the flawed TAN8.

On Tuesday 24th May the people of Montgomeryshire and Shropshire will take their campaign to Cardiff to make their voices heard outside the Welsh Assembly building.

Maureen and I will take our banner down off Ed's gate, lash it to a couple of broomsticks and raise it high. The perfect accessory for a protest march. I've not done this sort of thing before but feel a determined streak coming on.

Power to the people then. But not on pylons.