Family Ties



My elder sister is researching our family tree.
I am interested predominately in the maternal branch of the family which seems to originate between Quaker stock from Bristol and poor Irish folk from the back and beyond but my sister quite rightly is collating all the information from both sides.
Yesterday we went to see Joyce, my father's cousin to see if she could furnish us with more information.. Approaching 90 she is the oldest surviving member of his side of the family.

We chatted about this and that , made notes of a long forgotten aunt and had tea and cake, so my sister and I were not quite prepared when our host, with unexpected candour talked about just how dour and bad tempered our grandfather, her uncle, was.
In those days my great grandfather presided over his children with a somewhat iron and controlling fist and each one lived in a house which he had built, the houses set in a row. My grandparents brought up my father and his brothers right next door to Joyce and she remembered just how cruel my grandfather was to my father.
" we heard the beatings through the wall you see" Joyce told us " He used a belt with a.buckle and he never hit the younger boys just Ronnie..Ronnie was the eldest of course, it was always Ronnie that was beaten"
Joyce then recalled that the punishments became so bad that, that her grandfather was informed and subsequently intervened. And it was thought that the abuse stopped although they were never quite sure it did.
When he was alive , my father never spoke of this time at home.
This snippet of a sad part of my father's childhood upset both me and my sister, perhaps for different reasons.
I looked at him in a slightly different light than I had before , for I know, that it is common that the eldest child will often take abusive behaviour from a parent in a way of protecting other siblings.
Apart from the odd 1960s/70s smack , my father was in no way a cruel man with his children. In many ways, especially in later life, he was indeed a sensitive soul.
That's why this news, perhaps sounded so shocking.


* the photo is of the autumn sun glowing on the trees of the churchyard and was taken by teenage boffin Cameron

The Ghost Of Ty Wynne


Having said, only yesterday, that affable despot Jason is in the process of hibernating for the duration of the winter, I caught him outside his house " Ty Wynne" on Chapel Street in a pair of shorts during a break in the clouds.
I had just bumped into Mrs Trellis ( who thoughtfully invited the Prof and I around next Sunday morning for " good coffee and croissants") when I spied him and we fell into conversation about devil clowns running amok all over the country.
" There is a strangeness about this road at night" he added finally, when all clown talk was over
" sometimes you feel as though you are being watched"
A shiver went down my spine.
Now Jason lives on one of the oldest roads in the village. Although surrounded by houses and cottages, there are only two dwellings on the street, his house and Chapel house, both homes separated by the chapel which used to be the indoor market way back in 1700. Chapel street runs down the side of the village Hall.
When I was researching the history of the market Hall, I heard a strange story from Graham, the local handyman and Shepherd.
I quote from my sister blog Trelawnyd: Voices From The Past of his experience
In the early 1970s Ty Wynne featured in a somewhat creepy tale. Local small holder Graham Jones was just leaving the memorial hall one wintry and rainy night.. He had been playing snooker  and as he got on his bicycle he saw a figure of a man standing in the gateway of Ty Wynne.
The man was wearing an old fashioned long coat and hat, and seemed to acknowledge Graham before he cycled for home.
Literally a minute later Graham approached his home along London road and was astonished and frightened to see the same man standing alone outside his own gate!
Graham wisely stopped and returned for the morale support from his friends back in the hall and by the time he returned mob handed the "man" had vanished" 
Before I told Jason the story, he added to his, that he had often " quickened his step" when walking towards home at night because of the eerie feel of the place, something that was compounded one day when his daughter Eve went to play with a girl, whose house backed onto the road.
Both girls ran back home crying. They had been frightened by a strange man standing behind the memorial hall.
He was wearing a long old fashioned coat!

An Old Dog


In a position of absolute power, George slept between the Prof and I last night.
An old dog,with tired black button eyes.
A loyal old boy who asks for nothing.
Who demands nothing
And who is happy with his lot.

An old dog is near perfection


Btw.....I have a ghost story to share tomorrow! .......

Village News

Sandra on her allotment in the centre of the village,
The left part of the house behind her is auntie Glad's

The Prof is working this morning at campus so as the day resembles the greyness that Rachel loves so much in urban Russia, I am presently catching up with blog reading, the national news and  a good coffee.
Autumn is here and as so happens in Trelawnyd, the village seems to be shutting down for the winter.
Affable despot Jason has already told me that he will see me in the spring.
" I hibernate in the winter" he told me just the other day. His daughters were selling homemade bracelets at their garden gate at the time and Liv gave me one for the Prof.
That will umph his street cred with the younger undergraduates!

Sandra C knocked on our door yesterday. She was all breathless and giggly and reminded me of a cross between Felicity Kendal and and young Joanna Lumley.
Sandra is perhaps the nicest person in Trelawnyd.
She had tied her new pug to the gate where he stood smiling broadly at me.
Trust Sandra to have an equally happy and sweet natured dog.

" I 'm organising a Christmas fayre in the village hall in December and don't know what to do"  she gasped. Apparently the hall is in need of some decoration and funds need to be raised, she had offered and already she had some ideas for the music, a father Christmas,.......could I tell her about the legalities of raffle tickets, who could do the  food? was she allowed cream on the mince pies and could I introduce the singing school children....seeing that I could make a speech at the opening of a fridge door?. ......it all came out in a rush!
As a trained Samaritan, I found it pretty easy to calm things down and sent her away with some helpful  information, and the promise that I would galvanise a few volunteers to " do the refreshments"
" delegate key jobs" I told her " and have a jumble table in one corner......tat always sells"

Anyway for locals that may read going gently the fayre will take place on the 3rd of December....
If you have any further ideas to help out, donations for the raffle, offers of volunteering etc please contact a slightly stressed and goggle eyed Sandra at her house on Llys Mostyn.

My coffee has gone cold, but I like it that way....Albert is play fighting with Mary as the sun comes out, and the cottage bursts into light and life


Right, I'll go now, Saturdays are always low blogger reader days and so a long rambling blog entry is sometimes a waste of time, but I wanted to welcome the new commentators and visitors to Going Gently who numbers seemed to have increased recently. Ive only got 61 followers to go to shamelessly reach my 1000 ( and then I can die happy)
" I can't believe that so many people read your shit" one of my fellow nurses playfully commentated recently. " Old ladies, birds in tin cans, and homos... I just don't see the appeal "

" people enjoy a funny fairytale " I told her
" You're sooo gay" she told me back.



First Time

As promised...the Prof when we first met
Handsome boy!

Paperwork


It's a wet and miserable Friday.
Apart from the usual chores and my weekly Auntie Glad visit, I've been thinking of what else to do today.
I have decieded on " spring cleaning" our paperwork.
Now the kitchen table is awash with files, bills, photographs, old cards, certificates, receipts, memorabilia and officialdom.
The important and the rubbish, all retrieved from drawers, from the old wooden writing slope of the Prof's that I've never opened, from gaps in the book shelves and from the little arts and crafts desk standing in the living room by the stairs.

I note that most of the photographs are older ones, now we reply on icloud and laptops to store our memories.
They feature me with a waist and the Prof with hair.
Wedding cards wrapped in ribbon. Orders of service from ten funerals. Old school reports, University   assignments from a film degree course - marks all over 70%! Dog pedigrees, nursing peformance reviews. A black bordered card from Ethel Kennedy thanking my mother for her card of condolence, my father's wartime identity card.
Birth certificates, death certificates, certificates and more certificates.

The history of two lives. Sorted into piles on the kitchen table.

Note To Self..........

Note to self.........
When sneaking off for a relaxing 15 minutes in order to listen to a podcast of The Archers in a hot, soapy bath.
Always shut the bathroom door.


Memories

The Prof is away from home again.
So tonight I have a date with a nice bowl of noodles, a low fat chocolate pudding and The Great British Bake Off followed by tv police porn The Force.
I manage very well on my own, which is a positive given the fact the Prof seems to be away so much, but I found myself thinking about him  after hearing Diana Damrau belting out the "Queen of the night"  aria on the radio today.
We held hands briefly when we heard it being performed at the New York Met many years ago. 


It still makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up
Even if it is a ditty about murder! 


Fads



At 12.58am I stopped at the petrol station on the way home from my shift to buy bread and a sneaky bar of chocolate.
The checkout guy was being interviewed by a policeman when I got there
Apparently, half an hour previously a clown in a boiler suit had walked carefully up to the payment window and had waved a " bloodstained " cardboard knife at him before walking very slowly away.

I put the central locking on when I drove away, and ran down a very dark path like a teenage girl when I got home

Morning Walk



I met an Australian woman today, she was called Helen and she hailed from the wonderful sounding city of Bunbury which she reliably told me was a good cycle journey south of Perth.
Ellen was cycling around Britain. She had survived a bout of cancer, had recently divorced her husband of twenty five years and was hoping to write an account of her "adventures" here in the UK
I gleaned this much about her within two minutes of meeting her.
She wasn't a shy  gal.
I asked her if she had experienced many "adventures" in Wales so far and she laughed lustily
" It's all been a bit dull" she confided " But that's the Welsh for you!"
Her next port of call she told me, was Chester, then she was hoping to cycle up towards the Lake District, before experiencing Scotland.

All this took place on the local cycle/walkway and our conversation started after She had asked me if she could photograph the dogs three of whom where sat quietly with me on a bench overlooking a view of the coast. She had lost her dog in the divorce she told me " but had kept the house!"

Another couple of cyclists joined then stopped and were ushered into her conversation so I left them to it. Before I moved on, however, she asked if I wanted a copy of the photos so I gave her my email address and wished her well.
When I got home, two photos were already waiting for me.










The Girl On The Train


The Girl On The Train is an interesting movie that on the surface just looks like a classy, well made and rather clever whodunnit, which of course, it is.
This mystery drama, however is so much more as it is essentially the story of three women, who all are on a circular kind of story which may be subtitled  " I 'm not the girl I used to be"
It's the tag line which bookends the entire movie.
All three characters embark on life changing ( and in one's case life ending) journeys which centre around grief, depression, self deception and addiction themes so much more interesting than the usual murder thriller......
I cannot say much about the storylines, without spoiling the whole piece, suffice to say the movie is totally owned  by Emily Blunt as lead character Rachel, an unsympathetic alcoholic on a self destructive and psychologically needy romp.
It's a performance worthy of an Oscar nomination for sure.
8/10


Unbelievable


I was astonished and somewhat saddened to hear some of the second presidential debate on the radio this morning. Clinton seemed more dignified than Trump, but the name calling and " adult themes" seemed more in place in a pub brawl rather than a discussion of who will rule the free world.
Trump is no statesman. He will never be one. If elected he will embarrass America with all of the dumb-ass skill of a drunk at a wedding reception. 
He is a redneck. A shouter. A bully.
and worst of all ,
He was rude and discourteous

I was thinking all this when I listened to radio 4 on the way homes after work early this morning.
I was thinking  this in Sainsbury's when I was buying cheap white bread for the sheep.
and I was thinking this as I was driving back up to the village. 
At the Dyserth shops, morning gridlock, a woman driver didn't give me the right of way and a shouted out a lusty " you twat! " as she drove past me oblivious she had blocked the road completely

Trump would have approved! Me thinks .

Bramley End


Trelawnyd is as real as the village of Bramley Edge.
For those that are not aware, Bramley Edge is the character driven village from the wartime movie  Went The Day Well. The village that decided to fight back after an invasion of wartime Hun dressed as plucky British servicemen.
Going Gently  is one such reality
It's how I choose to see the world, and that view has amused me for years now, until recently.

Friday I considered bringing Going Gently,,to a timely end . I share this just as information as I have no desire for a plethora of messages to be left asking for more stories of birds in cake tins, sexually promiscuous Bulldogs molesting the vicar and nutty locals do nutty things with all the regularity of a 1970s sit com..

I considered ending the blog for all of the reasons people end blogs for.
You all know the reasons, some of the negatives were beginning to overshadow the positives.
Trolls and fruit cakes with their own agendas, Facebook ( now deleted) and pressure to " perform" all added their own pressures and irritations.

But ten years of keeping a diary in this bizarre and unique form does count for something, I guess..
and for the most part it's been a joy to be here, and that's what I need to remember.

Speak Tomorrow
Hey ho

Scared Mary

The Prof is out with his brother tonight down in Kent
I am watching the zombie film Daylight's End on full blast.
Mary has been upset by all the undeads'  growling
And is sat with me like a child frightened by a storm


Even Lighter

A couple of miles East of Trelawnyd is Gyrn Castle

Pat the Animal helper and I went to visit Auntie Glad this afternoon.
It was ( and is) a sunny afternoon and the nursing home's chickens were out in force pecking around the grounds.
As usual Gladys was dressed neatly in a simple striped dress and matching earrings and as usual she was bright, active and chatty.
She took us to her room, which had a small photograph of herself on the door
" This is my home now" she said without the slightest hint of self pity " You just have to get on and enjoy things don't you?"
She was  vague and forgetful for sure , but her innate good humour shone through any possible sadness Pat and I were feeling.
This was how things were to be...plain and simple.In Gladys' book, you were grateful for everything

She remembered some who had visited her from the village and laughed when I asked if any of her congregation had seen her
" The vicar doesn't visit his flock" she said wryly " He doesn't do house calls"
We let her wander with her memories in between telling her of village news, and she enjoyed telling us of how she was a maid in the local big house of Gyrn Castle when she was a young woman.
" we had to be in for 10pm if we ever went out at night" Gladys recalled her eyes shining
And " Lady Bates would be waiting for us " Under the bacon " to check we got back on time"
" Under the bacon?" I asked " what does that mean?"
and Gladys explained that the joints of bacon were always hung in the hallway above the door. Hence Lady Bates was " under the bacon"
We stayed an hour of so, chatting and laughing and before we left Pat asked her if there was anything she wanted. In typical Gladys style she said " I just need a few jobs to do, I cannot be sitting down all day"
We promised to bring her some polish and dusters next time we came .
There wasn't a hint of sadness about this visit.
Both Pat and I remarked about it on the way home.

Gladys just isn't the sort


Lighten

And to lighten the mood

Julieta



I went to see the Almodovar film Julieta this evening and on the drive home, tied myself up in knots trying to précis it in my head.
I sort of gave up but suffice to say it's a wonderfully moving and melodramatic romp around the themes of guilt, fractured memory, repressed feelings and mother love.
The story of a 30 year guilt trip of Madrid academic Julieta ( Adirana Ugarte & Emma Surez as young and old Julieta respectively)  is peppered with typical Almodovar touches. A towering Hitchcockian musical score, technicolour and predominantly scarlet visuals and a multi layered something-to-say about the difficulties and joys of mothers and motherhood.
All set with big hair, 1980 flashbacks and a housekeeper worthy of Mrs Danvers out of Rebecca
It's a cracking romp.
Look out for Almodovar's signature scene where a  grief stricken young Julieta is  being lifted out of the bath by her teenage daughter. The daughter covers her mother's head in a towel and in a sweep removes it revealing the older and more shopworn  Julieta. The younger actresses handing the baton of the narrative to the older seamlessly .
I loved it
9/10

Every melodrama needs a mad housekeeper Rossy de Palma

A Picture Paints ........................

With the Prof away, I tend to fill my time with the great and the good.
The " Good" was an extra Samaritan shift last night, a lunch out with a stressed friend tomorrow and a planned trip to see Auntie Glad with Pat, the animal helper in tow......the great will be cinema treat visits to see Pedro Admolevar' s latest Julieta and Emily Blunt's The Girl On The Train. 
Oh , and I forgot the mundane too!
Grids need clearing out, the rest of the back garden shrubbery needs removing, William needs his steroids reviewing and the new outhouse door needs painting.

If I find a spare minute, I shall endeavour to reply to every blog message...if I don't Tom Stephenson may have a stroke ....he's right , of course, it's very rude of me not to reply!
Anyhow

I was sent an email yesterday . It had no text or typed message  with it.
It was just a photograph of the inside of a bog standard Southampton hotel room
But it moved me
It was sent by the Prof.
On the impersonal bedside table was his travelling photo frame


In it, a photograph from our wedding day. 

A Robin In the Cake Tin

Mrs Lewis caught me sitting on the back kitchen wall this morning.
She was dressed in stout sensible shoes and was going to pick blackberries
I was expecting our new log burner stove to be delivered and I thought the van with it on, had passed the cottage twice without stopping. 
Our postcode covers several miles of lane.
Mrs Lewis talks without stopping. There is no point in trying to interject, she just doesn't listen . I think she doesn't get to talk at home much, so everything in public rushes out in a torrent.
Today she was on good form, for it was several minutes before she allowed me to join into the conversation .
I didn't mind, I had nothing better to do.
She mentioned that she never really sees the Professor and I told her that he often works away. This week, for example he will be away from home until Friday night. 
" Things are a big quiet for you then!" She said 
Just then all hell let loose from inside the cottage, and I left Mrs Lewis open mouthed as I slithered over the wall like a fat slug and ran inside
Minutes later , after I had dragged four hysterical dogs from under the bed, I found the reason for the upset. 
Albert had smuggled an injured robin through the cat flap.
I know just what to do with injured birds. You keep them warm , you keep them quiet and you keep them in the dark. So immediately I popped the robin into the 1930s cake tin by the cooker and gently replaced the lid. 
An hour should be enough to see if it survived or not, I thought.

Mrs Lewis was still outside when I had finished.
She was talking to the delivery men who had stopped their van in the lane and had unloaded the stove.

Neither man had managed to get a word in edge ways 


It was almost two hours later , as I was planting bulbs in the front garden when Mrs Lewis walked back up the lane, seeing her reminded me of the robin and I told her to wait as I retrieved the cake tin from the kitchen.
Together we opened it up.

Out jumped the robin. 
For a moment he stood on the rim of the cake tin blinking his button black eyes in the sunshine, before flying off towards the churchyard in short half loops.

Mrs Lewis said nothing for a change.
She just smiled.