The Third Week of Advent

Well things are getting busy and buzzy. coming up to Christmas but before boring you with my week can I tell you one of the best bits?
Back in the Summer I entered a photographic comp for the calendar for the National Historic Ships Assoc which includes  historic craft on our seaways, rivers and canals. I'd heard nothing more till Monday when friend Jim , who is a member, told me one of my entries was in the calendar! Not winner but as a shortlisted entry. I was well chuffed. The picture was taken on the Llangollen canal on beautiful misty morning and shows Pacific, owned by friend John Pattle and Panther, owned by neighbour (and friend) Roy. We were all travelling together to the end of the Llangollen.

The Calendar

Jim suggested signing it and auctioning the calendar at our St George's auction for the Hospice but as April is a bit late for a calendar I might do it online over Christmas. Mind you who would bid for it I can't think and my signature's worth nowt.


Now onto the week
Pam's brother Mac was down for the weekend so on Friday afternoon they had a busy time in the garden tidying up recalcitrant Ivy-well, I think it was Ivy. I dunno I was at a funeral in Watford.-an old crew member Mickey Deveraux who left us via Garston Crem to the sound of Lonnie Donnegan's "Have a Drink on Me" A moving ceremony for a very nice fella; the crem was packed  and I'm told the gathering at Mickey's local in Watford was memorable.
 I went back to Pam's to join Mac and Joseph for home made Cottage Pie by Pam. Excellent.

Pam and Mac and tree.

Saturday. The Ivy- chopping meant a trip to the tip in Karen the Kia followed by a ride to the Moorings to collect the Christmas tree which has been living next to the boat since last January. It's still in the same pot and has probably grown 3" but looks very healthy with no needle shedding.
After that a walk round College Lake and out in the evening for a pint in the Lamb and a curry at the Akash  where Mac was presented with a calendar. Some people have all the luck.

In the Lamb with friend Mikaela, Mac and Pam

Throughout Saturday I kept getting responses to the following email which I'd sent to most of my address book.

"That's it, trust has now disappeared completely.

Just got back from the shops to find every door open and everything gone.
And you know what ? Nobody saw a damn thing !

I'm off back to the shops again now, I need another advent calendar. And this time I'm hiding the bugger !"

Now this was a JOKE sent to me by someone else which I forwarded. Oh Calamity. Talk about backfire.!

I had many messages of sympathy, two offers of temporary accommodation and one request to go and check someone else's boat in case they too had been burgled. On Sunday morning I sent another email explaining that it was a joke and apologising for any wrong impression given. Now if I do get broken into nobody will believe me. One has to be so careful what one writes. 

On Monday in company with Ady and Geoff J we visited our old mate Mike (the Chef) who has been in Stoke Mandeville Hospital since last Monday with various ailments. He was better than he was when he was admitted but not as good (bordering on ropey) as the last time I saw him on Wednesday if that makes sense.

Those of you with prayers to pray-pray on.

Monday was friend, Caroline's birthday and she'd very kindly queued in the rain at the Rex a few weeks back to get tickets for Mr Turner. Anyway he couldn't go so Pam and I went with her and husband Mac (a different Mac) and friend Jane. Before the film we dined very well in the restaurant below the cinema "Gatsbys" which was excellent. The film which is two and a half hours long went by very quickly. I thought it was very good; the photography and acting were marvellous. I'm a big fan of director Mike Leigh and actor Timothy Spall (once a narrowboater who has been espied in the Cowroast Inn) but the  performance for me was by Dorothy Atkinson who plays Turner's long suffering housekeeper and occasional grope, Hannah Darby

A lovely evening for the birthday girl, Caroline. Cheers Big Ears!

The Three Locks, Soulbury

You might wonder about the relevance of the above picture.
Tuesday

To Bakewell in Derbyshire for an overnight stay en route to my sister's in Lancashire.......hold it. Can we start again

(1)A knock on the door first thing and the caller advised that the keys had been left in the front door overnight! Luckily the burglars of Berkhamsted were on their Christmas Party.

(2)A frosty morning so I fired up  Karen the Kia whist stowing my meagre luggage. Leaving the car whilst I made my farewells I heard an ominous click. The bally car had locked itself with the engine running, keys in the ignition and me outside. Oh and because I keep the spare on same ring as the keys to Mike  P's house and had need of them when visiting the hospital-they were in my luggage in the car. Excellent. 
I called the AA and they advised that I have every service they offer except Homestart. I pointed out that starting wasn't the problem in this case but they made me cough up 81 quid before attending. I shall be re-examining my AA membership asap.
To be fair the man turned up in 20 minutes and was into the car in three-another fiver for a drink (for him-too early for me)-and I was on my way to Bakewell two and a half hours away.
Wrong.
The M1 was closed and after getting directed off into the black hole that is Milton Keynes I found my way to the A5 where courtesy of major roadworks at Towcester it was two and a half hours before I could get back on the motorway.. Five and a half hours later I parked up outside my b & b in Bakewell. 
And the fun was only just beginning.

After checking in and stowing my gear I went off shopping round Bakewell including an obligatory visit to The Wee Dram, a whisky shop of repute. After half an hours window drinking I blasted a hole in 80 quid and came away with enough anaesthetic to see me into February. Marvellous.
With other bits and pieces purchased I returned to the b & b to park my booty and head out for a well earned pint and dinner.
Uh Oh!
(3)The key to my room would not turn despite my best safecracking techniques and I had to seek the help of mine host(ess). After some more fiddling with the lock and some hilarity we gave up and whilst the locksmith was summoned I went off to get a spare toothbrush and toothpaste in case entry could not be effected and I had to sleep sans luggage in another room. 
So in the course of 24 hours the keys had been left in the front door, I'd locked myself out of my own car and locked myself out of a bedroom in Bakewell. 

Hence the picture above of the Three Locks. Simple.

After dinner and a couple of beers plus leeching onto a quiz team (2nd actually since you ask) I returned to base where I found the bedroom now accessible and retired, knackered; the day had been tiring but funny in parts. 

Then the bed collapsed.
The lady of the house must have thought the lodger from hell had visited but another room was soon sorted and I went to sleep vowing to lose weight.
And stay away from locks.

Wednesday
Come morning a hearty breakfast and a bit more shopping in Bakewell and I was off to Oldham.
After a delay.
 Needless to say I failed to return my original keys to the b and b but fortunately discovered the oversight before I left Bakewell.
It was, in fact an excellent place to stay but I suspect if I return it will have to be under an alias. A discount was offered but declined as it was a night to remember. Well worth the fee.

Travelling north I stopped in Buxton for smoked salmon, some crackers-both kinds- and beer and wine supplies for Christmas. On checking out as I packed my bags the lady said "Don't forget you're crackers".
I thought "How true"

I spent a very pleasant couple of days with Tom and Moira in Moorside which included a lunch with Valerie (Tom's daughter) and Martin (her husband) and David (their son) at The Navigation Inn near Uppermill on the Huddersfield canal. One day I'll cruise it. 

Martin, David, Valerie. Tom, Moira and some geezer

Back to Martin and Valerie's for coffee and tree admiration

Friday
In comparison with the journey up the journey back to Herts was a piece of cake. A weekend of parcel wrapping, shopping, a meal at Cafe Rouge and a farewell to Roy who, with Annie is travelling with others to Stoke Bruerne forChristmas

I hope they have a good time.

As it's nearly Christmas I thought I would include the full version of the Victorian melodramatic poem starting "It is Christmas day in the workhouse". The original is quite moving but the work is mainly remembered because of various parodies thereof. For the less sensitive of you I have attached a link to one such version.

It is long by todays standards but worth a read.

IN THE WORKHOUSE - CHRISTMAS DAY
by
George R. Sims ( 1847 - 1922 )

It is Christmas Day in the workhouse, and the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly, and the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces in a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table, for this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies, although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers to watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending, putting on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet, they've paid for with the rates....................

0h, the paupers are meek and lowly with their 'Thank'ee kindly, mums'
So long as they fill their stomachs what matter it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters and pushes his plate aside,
"Great God!" he cries, "but it chokes me; for this is the day she died!"
The guardians gazed in horror, the master's face went white;
Did a pauper refuse their pudding? Could that their ears believe right?

Then the ladies clutched their husbands, thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something, by the outraged One on high.
But the pauper sat for a moment, then rose 'mid silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter and trembled in every limb:

He looked at the guardians' ladies, then, eyeing their lords, he said;
"I eat not the food of villains, whose hands are foul and red;"
"Whose victims cry for vengeance from their dark, unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk," said the workhouse master, "or else he's mad and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper, "but only a haunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled, declines the vulture's feast."

"I care not a curse for the guardians, and I won't be dragged away;
Just let me have the fit out, it's only on Christmas Day...
That the black past comes to goad me and prey on my burning brain;
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper, I swear I won't shout again.
"Keep your hands off me, curse you! Hear me right out to the end.

You come here to see how paupers, the season of Christmas spend;
You come here to watch us feeding, as they watched the captured beast;
Here's why a penniless pauper, spits on your paltry feast."
"Do you think I will take your bounty and let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action with the parish's meat and drink?

Where is my wife, you traitors, the poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above me, my Nance was killed by you."
"Last Winter my wife lay dying, starved in a filthy den.
I had never been to the parish, I came to the parish then;
I swallowed my pride in coming! for ere the ruin came
I held up my head as a trader, and I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish craving, bread for a starving wife
Bread for the woman who'd loved me thro' fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me, mocking my awful grief,
That the house was open to us, but they wouldn't give out relief."
"I slunk to the filthy alley, 'twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve
And the bakers' shops were open, tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together, holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed and mournfully told her why."

"Then I told her the house was open; she had heard of the ways of that
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson, and up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John, we've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, the other would break my heart."

"All through that eve I watched her, holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord and weeping till my lips were salt as brine;
I asked her once if she hungered, and she answered 'No.'
The moon shone in at the window, set in a wreath of snow."

"Then the room was bathed in glory, and I saw in my darling's eyes
The faraway look of wonder, that comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted, and her reason came and went.
For she raved of our home in Devon, where our happiest years were spent."
"And the accents, long forgotten, came back to the tongue once more.
For she talked like the country lassie I wooed by the Devon shore;

Then she rose to her feet and trembled, and fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust, I'm famished... for the love of God,' she groaned.
"I rushed from the room like a madman and flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!' and the answer came, 'Too late!'
They drove me away with curses; then I fought with a dog in the street
And tore from the mongrel's clutches a crust he was trying to eat."
"Back through the filthy by-ways... back through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret, wrapped in an awful hush;

My heart sank down at the threshold, and I paused with a sudden thrill.
For there, in the silv'ry moonlight, my Nance lay cold and still."
"Up to the blackened ceiling, the sunken eyes were cast
I knew on those lips, all bloodless, my name had been the last;
She called for her absent husband... Oh God! Had I known--
Had called in vain, and, in anguish, had died in that den alone."

"Yes, there in a land of plenty, lay a loving woman dead.
Cruelly starved and murdered for a loaf of the parish bread;

At yonder gate, last Christmas, I craved for a human life,
You, who would feed us paupers, what of my murdered wife?"

"There, get ye gone to your dinners, don't mind me in the least,
Think of the happy paupers eating your Christmas feast
And when you recount their blessings in your parochial way,
Say what you did for me too... only last Christmas Day."

There is an alternative version at:

http://freespace.virgin.net/david.brunton/workhouse.html

But do not go there if you are easily offended

Sunset at Bulbourne

Well if it isn't all ready now  then it'all a bit too  too late
So I raise a glass to you my friend, my lover , my dear old mate
And if all the preparation is to count for owt above
Then pray to your God  that Christmas brings much needed peace and love
Anon

More after Christmas. Have a good one.
Mike