Silent Sunday

A Fishy Tale

Well, it seems an awfully long time since I posted anything on this blog. The reason?...Just life, I think, taking over and filling up all my time. The teen has needed my help persuasion to revise and get ready for her exams; I was faced with an inordinate amount of paperwork to do and this nagged at my conscience each time I sat down and considered writing for pleasure rather than form filling; also I have been suffering with a RSI type elbow pain that has had me wincing every time I go near the keyboard. Now the exams are over for H (they're terrifically early in Scotland), some of the paperwork is done and I can type, slowly, with my left hand!

Keep reading - all will be revealed 

I know what you're thinking - what has any of this got to do with fish? Well bear with me and all will be revealed...eventually.

Our village hall is a rather utilitarian building with little going for it if you were judging purely on aesthetics. But we have a wily committee full of enterprising types who have done much to improve its appeal and increase its use. There's a community cafe, plant sales, a second hand book store, musical performances and a weekly mindfulness session to name just a few of the many events that take place regularly. So it came as no surprise to hear that there was to be a play in the hall and I duly bought tickets. The last time I went to see a 'local' production I had to bite my lip to stifle the giggles as various octogenarians shuffled about in dubious costumes and forgot their lines, and so I was not expecting much. I was to be proved very wrong in my assumptions.

'Get Up and Tie Your Fingers' by Ann Coburn is set against the worst fishing disaster in the UK's history. On the 14th October 1881,  20 boats and 189 men were lost in a storm (129 of them from the small community of Eyemouth, near Berwick).  Just up the coast from there, our tiny harbour, Cove, was hit the worst proportionately, losing four of its five boats and 11 of its 21 fishermen. Many of the family-run boats tried desperately to get back into the harbour but were swept past the harbour mouth and onto the rocks in the bay. Women and children were close enough to watch their menfolk drown but had no way of reaching them. You can understand why that terrible day is still referred to as 'Black Friday'. Long-time locals, some of whom are direct descendants of survivors or those who died, explained that the title relates to the call given to rouse the herring lassies who lived and worked in the local area and travelled with the herring down the east coast of the country.  These plucky women needed to work at terrific speed, sorting, slicing and gutting up to 60 fish in a minute! Those 'silver darlings' were slippery little blighters, and a gutting knife sharp, and so the women would bind their fingers with cotton strips to protect them from cuts and the stinging pickling salt.

The play managed to pull off that difficult feat - of being deeply moving but at the same time uplifting. Through the characters of young Molly, her obsessive and fearful mother Jean, and fun-loving Janet, the play brought to life the courage and resilience of truly remarkable women while exploring the metaphorical ties between mother and daughter. The cast was entirely women supported in turn by an all female choir.  Karen Wimhurst's original score sung a cappella added a haunting quality which was difficult to forget. The inclusion of a nineteenth century children's hymn,  'When Lamps are Lighted in the Town' left hardly a dry eye in the house - a simple and plaintive tribute without being mawkish.

Bronze sculpture at the Cove to commemorate the tragedy

I was so pleased that I went to see it and cannot think of a more fitting setting than within the very community that was so affected by this tragedy. To further the links to the local community, the village school children and crafting groups helped to decorate the hall and knitters across the region were responsible for delightful shoals of knitted herring that will be following the production as it travels down the east coast of England. I really admired the display and managed a chuckle when I wondered what the real herring lassies would have thought of the knitted silver darlings!

Even the corridor outside the toilets was decorated!

A creel of knitted herring

This Moment

Joining in with Soulemama's {this moment} - a Friday ritual. A single photo -  capturing a favourite image from the week. A quiet and mindful moment that I would like to pause and remember.

The Quirks of Wirksworth

Allsopps Cottage

We've just come back from a a little holiday in Derbyshire. We chose to stay in the market town of Wirksworth mainly because its location made it a good base from which to explore the surrounding area and for us to attend my mother-in-law's 80th birthday celebrations as she lives just north of Derby. Wirksworth is one of the oldest towns in this area of the Peak District and it used to be the centre of the lucrative lead mining industry even as far back as Saxon times. The town today still holds a weekly market as it has done since 1306. As I inspected the modern-day offerings I wondered what those Medieval market stallholders would have had for sale? Perhaps they too might have traded nettle soap, fresh rhubarb and Derbyshire honey! 

We chose to stay in Allsopps Cottage, nothing to do with Kirstie Allsopp but with all the vintage charm just the same.  The cottage itself has been thoughtfully renovated and decorated to retain its character and old-fashioned charm and it included lots of quirky details including aVictorian wash basin and jug and an antique pair of ice skates hanging by the fireplace (it took us all holiday to work out what they were).  

Ted on the washstand

The Edwardian bed in the main bedroom was so high and with such a deep mattress that climbing into it I felt much like The Princess and the Pea. The prince was not so enchanted with its comfort as being 6ft 2" his feet, rather amusingly, stuck out through the end of the wooden frame - a sort of bedtime stocks arrangement!

Close-up of the beautiful tile splashback behind the stove

Cosy sitting room with original fireplace (iceskates hanging left hand side)

To find the cottage you need to go down one of the many narrow alleyways otherwise known as a 'ginnel' if you're a local. The lead merchants built their homes in the dlocally known 'puzzle garden' area and the rush to build, and the lack of any kind of planning, have resulted in a higgledy piggledy jumble of houses and gardens clinging to the steep hillside. If it weren't for the lack of a harbour, it would be easy to believe that you were instead on the cliffside of a Cornish fishing village. Consequently, parking, or indeed driving, in Wirksworth is not for the faint hearted. I don't think I've ever attempted such a steep hill in a car before and I was convinced the handbrake wouldn't hold and the car would roll backwards at speed before we'd had a chance to get our luggage out!  It did not surprise me to learn later that the sharp gradient of Greenhill was in fact where Rolls Royce chose to test their cars' stop and re-start capabilities back in 1912. 

The town today has a bohemian charm and the unique little independent shops, cafes and restaurants have earned it the nickname of 'Quirksworth'.  Though I think it may well be the bizarre customs such as 'well-dressing' (a kind of artistic water worship)  and 'church clipping' (holding hands and dancing around the walls of a church) that have added to this humorous moniker.  I very much enjoyed the quirks of Wirskworth and the friendly nature of its inhabitants but lovely as it was, after a week we were all very happy to return to the familiar and routine delights of home.  

Silent Sunday

Silent Sunday

Word of the Week

My Word of the Week? Well, it had to be space. I don't know about you, but this week I've been completely starstruck by the Space Live programmes on Channel 4. It has been, to borrow the word choice of my 11 year old, 'awesome' to see the real lives of real astronauts on the real space station and I've been forced to reveal my inner geek. The astronauts may not have quite the appeal of George Clooney (and no, Dermot O'Leary's ridiculously tight trousers don't do it for me either) but boy do they have the brains and the ice cool calm. I listened and watched fascinated while they described the everyday experience of living 240 miles above the earth; household chores, DIY and grocery deliveries seem a whole lot more fun on the International Space Station.  Then, the 'Houston We have a Problem' programme last night had all the drama and tension of a real-life Gravity and I can't wait for the finale on Sunday with a 90 minute live lap of the planet - at 17,550 mph it doesn't take long! 

I have a fascination with all things space.  One of my very first memories (apart from falling down the stairs and nearly knocking myself out on the radiator at the bottom) was sitting down in front of our grainy Ferguson tv to watch BBC coverage of the first moon landing.  Not quite three years old, I don't think it made a lot of sense. James Burke and Patrick Moore with their enthusiastic eyebrows did little to engage me and neither did the model of Apollo 11 which looked to my trained eye like some junk modelling from yogurt pots and tin foil. 

It was only when my father took me outside and pointed up at the moon that I had any interest in anything space related. After that I spent lots of time, when I should have been asleep, gazing out my bedroom window up at the moon; I used to think that when I squinted my eyes and stared intently that I could actually see little men in spacesuits bouncing about on its surface. One of my many elaborate imaginary games involved space exploration - or in reality, taking off from the garden swing, landing in the middle of Planet Lawn and harvesting moon rocks from the gravel path.      

Sadly, any chance of a career with NASA is absolutely zero. Apart from the fact that it's rather late in life for a career change or that I am dangerously unfit, I have absolutely no comprehension of the laws of physics and my portly frame once hauled into space would surely, in the words of Bonnie Tyler, cause 'a total eclipse'! So I will have to content myself with being a spectator. I don't mind too much really - I'm not sure I could cope with 6 months apart from my family, no running water and sleeping, zipped into a sleeping bag attached to the wall, in a cabin the size of a cupboard.  There again, perhaps those amazing views of earth from space are worth the sacrifice and a little discomfort.