Category Archive

My results section is through its second draft. I still need to give it a good workout to get it into halfway decent shape, but at least it’s now 30 pages long rather than five.

I had a cheery walk yesterday with third-and-final son, Sparky, Willis and my youngest brother’s Jack Russell terrier, Pippa. Pippa has the shortest legs I have ever seen on a dog. They’re so short - especially compared to the length of her body - that she can’t even sit down in a properly dog-like manner. So watching her trying to keep up with Sparky and Willis sprinting through the long grass was hilarious. She kept losing them, at which point she’d stop and jump high in the air until she spotted them, then race to that location… only to find they’d moved on already, at which point she did the high jump again. Consequently Pip got quite tired, so son and I gave her an occasional lift, which was very pleasant as she is a very cuddly dog. No, I didn’t have my camera. Is anyone surprised? I’ll take it next time.

Here are the rest of our haymaking pics, posted in tribute to my father’s several hours of labour on his own to get some hay off the top field. We got 211 bales from the hayfield in two hours. My dad working on his own got - wait for it - 17. But the grass was much thinner, plus the baler broke down and he spent quite a bit of time sorting that out. Here you go Dad. Always remember, the more the merrier.

Sparky has been brought up as a town dog, and she struggled with the idea of haymaking. She wandered around the field, had a few sniffs in the verges, but basically kept looking at me with a confused expression as if to say “why are we staying in one place?” I lifted her onto the bales for her portrait, and she looked positively traumatised.

And then there’s Walter, who is a country dog through and through, and had a whale of a time right up until third-and-final son got Willis out of m’sister’s car. Willis and Walter are sworn enemies, and eventually had to be unlatched from one another’s throats - by means I’d rather not go into in polite society - and were banished to 4WD and pickup, respectively.

Son-in-the-middle gets a tractor driving lesson from Grandad.

The hay in its over-winter stack. The one in the pink top is m’sister. I was just about to give her a hard time for not turning up until the last half hour, when she got in first and pointed out that she and her partner had done it all last year as I was unavailable. Sorry sis.

A hard but satisfying couple of hours work. Now it’s homeward bound.

Third-and-final son breaks up on Tuesday lunchtime. Firstborn and son-in-the-middle are already at home. I am despondent. No time on my own until September 8. And I still have the blasted RP to finish. I had a total and absolute brain freeze last week, until my youngest brother came round and got me moving. Then I taught all weekend, so the brakes went on again. Sh**, sh**, sh** and b***** it.

My language is getting worse and my patience ever shorter. It’s also my 20th wedding anniversary at the end of August and I want some congratulations around here. Presents would also be good. It’s been hard work at times and I want to feel the love. I’ve been trying to work out with m’husband how we can celebrate with immediate family (that’s 19 people without the two of his sisters who have run off to Antigua) and not spend a fortune. We are getting nowhere fast. I think I may consult m’mother for more bright ideas.

As I am in such a depressive, cranky state I went looking for a pic which would soften my heart, and here it is. My beautiful Waterside Duke, gleaming in the sunlight at the Great Yorkshire Show three (I think) years ago). He was placed sixth in a strong lineup, and I was very very proud of him.

I need to get the RP out of the way by the end of this month. I keep writing a couple of lines, then I get stuck. So I go and rummage around in the electronic databases (PSYCINFO, I love you) and find another paper to give me a little boost. This is despite having decided, three weeks ago, that I’d found all the research papers I could ever need because I was moving into duplication. In between writing and angst, I argue with my firstborn (16 years old, finished GCSEs, been hanging around the house doing sod all apart from minimal housework for the last six weeks) and make drinks for son-in-the-middle who has finished school a week early cos he had an operation on his toe this week.

I WANT IT FINISHED! I want to relax and do a bit of crochet, read, garden and walk the dog without feeling guilty. I want to go to the fruit farm to pick strawberries, raspberries and redcurrants before the season is over. I also want to stop eating so darned much, out of boredom and frustration.

Here’s a shot of Tinker, who likes to be busy. If she isn’t busy she eats everything, including tree bark, and is consequently a right little butterball.

Behind Tinker is Kizzy. They were in the trailer as m’sister and I were taking them to the vet for an ultrasound to see if they were in foal. Despite frolicking in the field with the stallion for a couple of weeks neither was in the family way. M’father has decided that in-hand covering is the way forward.

I spent three days last week at the Great Yorkshire Show, and I’m still knackered. I drove there every day, which  would be nothing to a regular commuter, but then I’m not used to commuting so next year I am thinking seriously about getting m’husband to tow the caravan up on the Monday evening so I can stay on site and have a little sleep after lunch every day. Age is obviously catching up with me.

The ground was pretty sodden before the show had even started:

But the judges and stewards were immaculately turned out, as always, they just added wellies to their outfits:

The main reason I go on the Tuesday is to watch the hunter classes, which are always good but this year the standard was incredibly high.

Plus there are always sheep, pigs and cattle to inspect. Cattle entries were definitely much lower than usual due to the bluetongue restrictions, but there were still some excellent specimens:

The weather was a bitch for taking photographs with my little camera. It seemed to be overcast, but after a couple of hours I realised I was screwing my eyes up all the time because the seemingly cloudy sky was so bright. Consequently my pictures are even more crappy than usual. M’husband came with me on Wednesday, bringing a slightly better camera and infinitely more technical expertise, so I’ll try and post some of his tomorrow.

It goes like this:

Richard (friend of parents) drives tractor and baler up and down the field, capturing the rows of loose hay and turning them into bales.

The baler is followed (at some distance, depending on how fast they’re working) by the other tractor and trailer team who pick up the bales I’ve tidied into piles.

Here they are, working hard. By this point I’ve been abandoned by third-and-final son, who has decided it will be easier to assist on the trailer.

Meanwhile, m’mother (and Fly the border collie) are raking bits of hay from round the edges and adding them to the rows, ready for Richard to bale. The lovely green bits are where m’father cleared the brambles and re-dug the ditches this winter - the grass didn’t get going in time to be cut this year.

After clearing the edges, m’mother moved into the middle of the field, along with son-in-the-middle. Although, as he is a total townboy, even more than his dad, I’m not sure how much work he actually did before sloping off to return with refreshments.

The forecast for the next four or five days is rain, rain, rain. So on Wednesday m’father cut his hay, Thursday he turned it and Friday evening we all turned out to get it baled and stacked.

I haven’t made hay for about the last 25 years, but it’s amazing how it all comes back to you once you set foot in the field.

We hitched a lift down the field on the trailer.

Son-in-the-middle gets the hang of jumping on a moving trailer.

Sparky with her ‘what are they doing to me now?’ expression.

The troops get their instructions.

Third-and-final son (and Walter) give me a hand stacking the bales ready for pickup.

Tough job this one.

And lift!

Tomorrow: rakes, tractors and more of the team.

It’s raining and I have a big, fat, infected insect bite on my leg. So I’m not walking the dog. It would be good for my mental state, and the state of my backside, if I did, but my leg hurts so I’m not doing it. Firstborn can do it. Then I’ll get m’husband to take me and dog for a drive, and look at lovely green grass out of the window.

In the meantime, here are some garden pictures:

Poppies in full bloom. They lasted barely a week before regular downfalls flattened them, but they were lovely while they lasted.

I love English marigolds which, being English, are pretty much rainproof. I planted loads in a pot and placed them on some steps in my garden so I can see them from my kitchen window. The guinea pigs love them too, so they get spare leaves when I’m feeling generous.

My garden is a pretty freeform sort of place, but occasionally it does itself proud in self seeded moments. The pink rose is the thornless climber whose name momentarily escapes me - oh, zephrine drouhin, I think - and the foxglove appeared all on its ownsome. Quite a few of the selfseeded foxgloves round here are white, so I’m rather pleased that this one managed to merge colours so beautifully with the rose.

Just out of shot is a shoot of stag’s horn sumach. I planted one which came from m’mother’s garden, which eventually died due to overvigorous pruning at the wrong time of year. However it had sent out a few exploratory parties to my back fence neighbour’s garden, so she now has a healthy bush in her garden plus more babies in pots. She handed me one back, plus they’re sneaking back under the fence. Slightly tyrannical, but beautiful foliage.

 Addendum: This is an embarrassing admission; in my attempts to add two new blogs (afreemaninpreston.blogspot.com and brightmeadow.co.uk) to my blogroll I have a)failed to do so and b)added my own blog. Which looks like the ultimate in vanity. If anyone has any idea how to change this, please let me know. I’m off to watch Blues Brothers - the second one, with John Goodman, not the original.

Well, I’m saying sorry but I’m not really. I’m just pissed off with myself and I don’t want to look at the luscious flower pics I’ve taken, or the busy market shots, because I want to KICK something because I hate myself and this research project so much. I don’t have time for this! Or the will. Or the drive, focus, whatever.

I’m still ploughing through my results section, statistic by statistic and table by table. Now I’ve found a reference which advises me that I should check my patterns of covariance to ensure that my test is truly unidimensional. Accordingly, I’ve rerun the reliability analysis and requested a covariance matrix and a summary statistic for each scenario. Now all that’s stopping me is that I DON’T HAVE A F******* CLUE what I’m looking for.

AAAAAAAARRRRGH!

I was walking Sparks around Oakwell Hall country park, admiring the wild roses

and the elderflowers when I started thinking “that motorway is a bit noisy today”. The M62 runs along the ridge behind the park, and there’s always a fair amount of traffic noise but this was even noiser than usual. I could hear horns blaring and thought there had been an accident until I suddenly remembered “oh, the fuel protests!” I wasn’t the only one who was a little confused; a coach driver in the car park asked me if a band was tuning up behind the hall. But once I’d got my thoughts lined up it all became clear - other clues such as the helicopter buzzing overhead, and the tunes some drivers seemed to be bipping out on their horns - made much more sense.

When we got back to the car I drove up the road, parked on the bridge and looked down at the traffic. It was moving, just not as quickly as normal. The BBC said this morning that they couldn’t go slower than 40mph, although a haulage guy on the BBC website was quoted as saying they’d stuck to 20mph. Trucks are also limited to the first two lanes so in theory the traffic should have flowed around them although, as you can see from the picture below, a van driver decided to show his solidarity and brought the whole lot to a crawl:

I am all for a greener Britain with less traffic on the roads, but simply upping and upping the price of fuel and the tax isn’t going to do it. More incentives to use public transport and move freight by rail would be good. M’husband saw a garage advertising petrol at 121.9p per litre on his way home today. Diesel is at least 15p dearer per litre. For my US friends, there are 3.785 litres to a US gallon - so that’s £4.61 per gallon or, with the exchange rate at just under $2 to the pound, over $9 per gallon.

Someone go slap the traders who are pushing oil prices up. And don’t simply tell me to drive less and take cheaper holidays. I have to drive my own car to do my job, and I am recompensed the princely sum of 20p per mile. We’ve been taking cheap holidays in the UK forever, in fact we have a touring caravan - which has suddenly become an increasingly expensive way to take a holiday.

I made a Victoria sandwich cake and a dozen butterfly buns.

I fed one butterfly bun to m’husband, who had just staggered in from work. That leaves 11. Then I walked round to the Co-op to fetch more sugar for my next batch of baking.

When I returned, 10 minutes later, I walked into the kitchen to find - just TWO butterfly buns remaining. I ran through the house, shouting “Who’s eaten all the buns!” Sons denied all knowledge. Then we noticed that Sparky was crawling round on her belly, looking extremely repentant. Yes, she had wolfed down NINE BUTTERFLY BUNS leaving not a trace of crumb, paper case or buttercream. She did not get any tea.

Firstborn son then polished off one more butterfly bun. This is as close as Sparky is ever going to get to a butterfly bun again:

I then got into an intense online discussion with American friends about the description and recipe for a butterfly bun. Once we had got through the usual quantity confusion (I say grams, they say cups; I say ‘gas mark’, they say fahrenheit) it came down to an issue of cake versus bun, and the size of the tins. Here are mine, to save future confusion:

That’s firstborn with tape measure, bun tin, a Victoria sandwich cake on the right and the last remaining butterfly bun balanced on the bun tin.

That’s my bun tin on the right, and my muffin tin on the left. However I suspect this is smaller than an American muffin tin, as when I make muffins from The Genuine American Cookie and Muffin Book, by Peter Shaffer (written by an American transplanted to North Yorkshire, all measures and ingredients translated into English) I always have more mixture than required for the dozen muffins the book says it will make. But I feel overfaced by an American muffin, so I’ll stick with the smaller tin size.

And finally, the Victoria sandwich cake (again) plus the chocolate sponge with chocolate whipped cream and chocolate ganache I just made for my oldest friend’s birthday:

Try not to feel sick.

I am trying to make sense of the stats on my research project. It all seemed so straightforward with my supervisor last week; but now I am at home on my own with SPSS and a load of nonsensical notes, and I’m not so sure. Today I have progress of a sort, as after much tortured thinking I came up with ‘refocus on your hypotheses’ so - now that I’ve remembered what they are - I’ve got a framework of a sort. Yesterday, however, I was tired from the London trip, spent the morning faffing about reading different blogs, then took Sparks for a walk with my SIL and nephew at Nostell Priory.

The newly restored Obelisk Lodge at the top of the park.

Lars lends a helping hand.

She loves me, she loves me not…

Lars and Sparky smile for the camera.

I’m of the Anglican persuasion anyway, but after yesterday’s trip to the National Gallery I am really really in favour of the Reformation. Waaaaay too many pictures of the Madonna, crucifixion, St Sebastian pierced with arrows and Judith chopping off Holofernes’ head. I was in there with my firstborn son, who is planning to take 2 art A-levels, and virtually his only comment on the day was “There were an awful lot of pictures of the adoration of the magi.”

I prefer portraits and Dutch landscapes. Firstborn prefers anything that isn’t religious, although he did comment at one point that Canaletto’s sea was ”crap”. Which, on a closer view, I had to agree with. Brilliant buildings and ships, but his sea consisted of a solid background with little white wavelets.  After a cup of tea, gingerbread men (firstborn) and treacle tart (me) I whisked him round part of the National Portrait Gallery, which is one of my favourite places in the world, and bought myself a poster for the 18th century Bluestockings exhibition, in the hope it will inspire me to keep going with the research project. then we mooched around a few bookshops on Charing Cross Road, inspected the Chinese garden in the forecourt of the British Museum, and met Annabelle for dinner.

Excitement and exhaustion followed on the way home: we left King’s Cross at 8pm and were due in at Wakefield about 10.15, but our train stood in Retford station for half an hour before the guard announced on the tannoy that a train ahead of us on the line had caught fire! Aaargh! I had visions of us having to sleep on board as the guard told us there was no way to get past the stricken engine. However they got it moved eventually and we were just an hour late home.

It’s nice to be able to get into London so easily (fast trains from Wakefield mean only a two hour journey to King’s Cross) but it’s even nicer to get home and be picked up from the station by a warm and welcoming husband. M’husband had been tracking our journey home online so arrived just a few minutes before we did. Not so the poor woman he was talking to in the station, who had driven all the way from Holmfirth to pick up her son from the train which was due in at 9pm, only to be told on arrival in Wakefield that his train had caught fire (I am so glad I booked on the 8pm train from London rather than 7pm) and now wouldn’t be arriving until about midnight.

Here’s a picture for today; it’s the engraving used on the Bluestockings poster. Excellent exhbition, do go and see it.

It’s hot and my garden is responding to that and all the rain we had last month:

The roses are going great guns, and I didn’t even realise there were that many buds on the bushes.

I’ve spent the day at Bramham horse trials - first day of dressage today, plus the hunter show.

That’s Mary King, a member of the UK Olympic eventing team, ready to go into her dressage test.

There’s Sparky, sprawled out in the grass by the side of the dressage arena wearing her free neckerchief. I couldn’t get any decent pics of dressage tests; my camera is too small.

There were dogs everywhere, all very well behaved and on leads. The only place to let them off was on the cross country course (no horses on it today). These three belonged to a rider who was walking the course, and shortly after this the German Shepherd pup and the Jack Russell waded into the water jump - to test the bottom was nice and firm for the horses on Saturday, obviously. Sparks and I left them to their musings, and walked off to get through the woods and on the parkland loop, but first we came across this rider in the dressage practice arena:

I don’t know what that building is behind her. A summer house? A folly? It’s quite close to the main house, which we have never actually got around to visiting, despite living only 40 minutes away.

On Saturday horses and riders will be galloping around and encountering fences like this:

And this:

Most of them look quite inviting - if, and it’s a big IF, you had a good horse.

There were some lovely horses in the hunter classes. I love show hunters. I’d have a middleweight, or a heavyweight, in a flash, except that practicalities start to creep into my mind like a) if I fell off when I was out riding, how on earth would I get back on again without a mounting block and b) how much do they cost to feed. A darn sight more than a hardy native pony, I’d imagine.

Here’s Imperator, the winner of the middleweight class:

And here are the judges discussing final placings in the heavyweight class:

It was a very pleasant day, and a welcome distraction from my academic woes. I’ve given up on the PhD idea - for now. In the end, I’d decided this before I went to see my supervisor. I discussed it with her anyway, in the hopes she could produce some miraculous idea, but no such luck. There are too many family demands on my time and attention at present for me to devote myself to such a huge project, and I felt quite upset and frustrated by that. Especially when those demands are things like ‘make sure this gets posted for me’; ‘make me a sandwich’ and ‘when did anyone last dust?’ But I have a plan; I shall spend two or three years taking some short term and/ or part time contracts for things, as well as doing other independent study to keep my hand in.

Soon after we moved in here (20 years ago next month!) this aquilega appeared:

I can’t remember if it merely seeded itself, or came in a pot from m’mother’s garden along with some other stuff. Whatever, I wasn’t that impressed by its washed out pinky-purple flower and kept pulling it out. But it was persistent, as evidenced by the fact that it’s still there.

A few years ago I bought this aquilega:

Which turned out somewhat different to what I thought it would be, but it was interesting so I let it be. It turned out that aquilegas love my garden, as it kept seeding itself and can now be found all over my back garden flower beds on the sunny side. It also seemed to get on well with the pinky-purple resident, as they swapped pollen when my back was turned and came up with this:

A deep periwinkle blue, I think. And then this came along:

This one tends to the maroon end of the spectrum, so I find it a little bit funereal but I’ve allowed it to stay. Then last week I was fiddling with the plants and actually looked closely at this year’s self-seeded aquilega crop and realised I now had this as well:

I think it’s fabulous. Like a Victorian petticoat; all stiff frills and furbelows.

I am still musing on the PhD idea. How much do I want to do it? How bored will I get if I stick with what I’m doing now? Will I be able to stop myself being totally distracted by family stuff? If I’m going to do a doctorate I think the best time would be now, whilst I’m in the swing of research. If I left it a few years I’d then have to go through the whole ‘I can’t, I’m not capable’ panic all over again.

Meeting with supervisor is tomorrow. Given the amount of work I haven’t got done, she may laugh the doctorate idea out of the building.

Very soothing in the woods right now, as the tree canopy has thickened up and you are bathed in a soft, green light. Like this:

And it makes me keep thinking about singing ‘Into the Woods…” as I am toying with the idea of applying for a PhD. The one that’s come up sounds perfect, but… Well, I wouldn’t have time to go for many long walks with the dogs, and the emotional support at home can be somewhat sporadic, depending on how much cleaning is being done. On the plus side, I’d have a desk in the department, so I’d be able to concentrate on my work without endless distractions from children, washing, dirty bathroom floors and husbands who complain about the amount of paper I accumulate.

I’m going to discuss it with my supervisor tomorrow. As she would also be the supervisor for this PhD she may well exclaim in horror at the idea of supporting me through an even bigger research project. In the meantime I’m going to think happy thoughts, just like Sparky and Willis when they see an expanse of long grass:

The filly has been named: Caphouse Alice.

Shortly before this photo was taken she had been poking her nose in a mud puddle, just for the heck of it. So now she looks a bit like a donkey.

Through my viewfinder, this pic looked magnificent. Then I looked at it in detail on my computer and thought “she looks like a dirty, cheeky rascal.” Which I am sure is exactly what our Alice will turn out to be. Her colour is changing already; she is a dull dark brown (not a normal adult Dales pony colour) with grey/ sable sheeny patches.

She is already great friends with m’sister, and comes up to the fence for a nice scratch.

Look at that lip starting to tremble. My Alison is on her way to the top scratching spot.

And she’s got it. Shortly after this Alice moved away, I think in self defence before she fell over with sheer pleasure.

Here’s Winnie the Fell pony. They’re similar to Dales ponies but smaller. Winnie is now sharing a field with Alice and her mother, Doris, and all three have settled down well. Winnie and Alice are fast friends, which m’sister and I are really pleased about as the other ponies have given Winnie a bit of a hard time since she arrived, about 18 months ago.

Winnie also loves m’sister, and here she’s giving her a little nuzzle. Isn’t it lovely?

However what you can’t see is Willis, busily lowering the tone just out of shot with repeated attempts to hump Fly the Border collie. M’sister is looking down as the action is taking place around her ankles. I have to give Willis full marks for persistence as he just keeps on trying, no matter how many times he is shouted at by m’sister, or snapped at by Fly. 

Anyone viewing this blog would probably think I lived an idyllic country life rather than my actual townie existence. So here are a few pics from the town/ city side of my life:

This is at the top of the Leeds University campus. The majority of buildings on the older part are redbrick, and many are terraces like this (go down to the bottom, nearer the city centre, and there are plenty of concrete monstrosities, but I’ll save those for another time). There are also loads of red brick terraces around Hyde Park, nearby. They probably looked lovely when they were built, as the lintels and door frames are of sandstone. There are a couple of buildings which have been cleaned up and the pinky cream of the sandstone really compliments the brick. However, sandstone picks up pollution very easily and consequently Leeds’ industrial history can be seen in the fact that the once lovely lintels are now black. Some people have added to the darkness by painting them black (why, I don’t know); others have tried to regain the original look by painting them cream or white. This is not that successful a move. The cream isn’t too bad, but not nearly as beautiful as the original stone, whereas the white is just - yuck. Especially where dampness and overhanging trees have resulted in the spread of green lichen over the white bits.

Look closely though, and you can still see some interesting features:

Like these coloured stone tops to the window arches. This is on the Faculty of Law, which the last time I visited was an absolute dump inside with extremely fierce and unhelpful staff in the general office. But the outside is nice.

And then there’s sheer beauty round the corner:

A horse chestnut tree in full bloom. Awesome.

Here’s Mort after his bath. (I tried to put these in my previous post, but WordPress wasn’t having any of it).

What surprised us most was all that white skin showing up - we thought he would have black skin, given the depth of his coat colour. He also looked a fair bit slimmer when wet, although he’s still definitely overweight. You have to brace yourself to pick him up, he’s that heavy. M’husband thinks he’s picking up food from some other house also, but I think it’s mainly because our other cat, Susan, has a tendency to eat three mouthfuls then wander off, leaving Mort to clean up after her.

What a beautiful bank holiday weekend. Glorious weather. Saturday I was working, but then Sunday we visited both my MIL and my parents. M’husband fitted a new leg to the caravan, and I wiped down the inside walls and surfaces ready for his trip off with the boys next weekend. Up at Ma and Pa’s, sons 2 and 3 joined me, Sparky and Fly the border collie to inspect m’father’s new field drains and ditches. It was so lovely, being down the field glorying at the hedges. I spotted a good clump of blackthorn and made a mental note to go back in August to get the sloes, and youngest son, the dogs and I hid from middle boy under a hawthorn tree/ bush. We had one of those perfect moments where boys and dogs were running with delight through a sea of buttercups - and of course, I didn’t have my camera.

On Monday we went to see Indiana Jones and the Crystal Skull AND I got loads more gardening done. We all enjoyed the film, although youngest son and I simulataneously squeaked “It’s the janitor!” during the FBI interrogation scene. M’husband and I hate having to queue for anything, so we hustled everyone out of the house at 9.45am to get to the first showing nice and early. It was even more of a hustle as, after I got out of my bath, we put Sparky in (firstborn had been complaining of the smell she was making in his bedroom, although I suspect that may be a case of the pot calling the kettle black) and then m’husband decided it would be a good idea to bath Mort the black cat. Mort has a very thick coat, which he regularly leaves clumps of on the furniture and freshly cleaned carpets, and an occasional scurf problem, and m’husband has been theorising for some time that a bath may help. I refused to have anything to do with this scheme, mainly because I was dressed in clean clothes and my best t-shirt, so m’husband captured his cat, let some of the bath water out, plonked him in there and soaped him up with the (rather expensive) Eucerin skin soothing body wash. 

Despite being a pretty placid cat, Mort was appalled at this treatment and stalked off as soon as he was released. When we returned from the cinema and garden centre, m’husband went around picking up cat hair - I think Mort must have been grooming the entire time we were out.

You know I said I like stiles. Well here’s something even weirder; I love to see a lonely gatepost. By this I mean a gatepost which stands on its own, no gate, wall or fence surrounding it. History only knows what used to go on here that needed a gate. Like this one:

And notice, it’s not just a plain hunk of stone. Someone bothered to carve a bit of a pattern in it. Those hinges are so well inserted, they’re hanging on even though they haven’t been used (never mind oiled) for donkey’s years.

The two above were taken on the Ouzelwell slopes, near Lady Wood. The gateposts below can be found on the Caulms Wood escarpment a couple of miles away. When walking from my house, first you come to this one:

Which is pretty battered, but if you look closely you can still see bits of a stippled pattern. This stands on the bend of a really old cobbled track - actually, the bit where the track turns from cobbled to dirt.

Next you come to these two. You can still see the line of the old field boundary, and if you scrat around under the turf you can find the stones of a former dry stone wall. The problem with dry stone walls is that once they start to fall down it’s all too easy for people to pinch the stone. Not so with the gateposts, which must have as much below ground as they have above.

This pair of posts, on the other hand, stand in the middle of an expanse of grass with nothing to indicate the former boundary they provided a gateway through. The clump of trees on the top right is the site of a former house whose walls are no more than a foot high and buried in shrubbery. You can’t see it, obviously, but there’s another former house clump behind me. Don’t know whether the gateway was an easy way from one neighbour to get to the other, or whether a section of the track, which carries on across the hillside, broke off to come down to the second house.

The post standing on its own is extremely weathered, as you can see:

Its mate, however, has developed a symbiotic relationship with an elder bush, supporting the growth while the branches stave off the worst of the ageing process:

This was possibly installed by someone who considered themselves a cut above the rest, as they got a curved and carved top for their gatepost:

This obsession with nice bits of stone is maybe indicative of something in my psyche. I’m trying to avoid thinking about what.

1. Eat guinea pig poo (Sparky).

2. Eat horse and cow poo (Willis).

3. Sniff each other’s bottoms (Sparky and Willis).

4. Lick a bitch dog’s wee off leaves and fence posts (Willis).

5. Lift their back leg over the head of the licking dog, and attempt to have another wee (Sparky).

They love each other dearly, obviously.

I have been incredibly irritable and tired and snappy the last couple of days. I tried to have a guilt trip about the way I was behaving towards my family but I was too angry to do much more than say “I’m sorry for being a grumpy cow” a couple of times.  Felt like I was going insane and my life was a worthless trap, and I was even being mean to my lovely dog. Then I checked through my diary and turned out I was firmly in the PMT zone, which is a bit of a relief but not that much as I’m usually bloated and depressed at this point rather than snappy and short tempered. What is going on in my subconscious this time round?

1. I have data to key into an SPSS file from around 90 questionnaires. A boring grind, but not anger-worthy.

2. Mucho writing still to do on the research project. But that’s been the same for the last four months, so no change there then.

3. My eldest baby has left school! Well, he still has GCSEs to finish, and revision sessions to attend, and he’s going to sixth form in September, but still…. I had a little cry when he came home early on Thursday with marker pen signatures all over his shirt.

4. M’husband is driving me freaking insane with his rants about the price of fuel and the burden on the motorist. I totally zone out now when he starts, because I’ve heard it so often. I am reduced to suggesting that he finds new friends so he can spread his pain a little thinner. Despite all his financial woes he still decided he wanted our new fridge to be in silver rather than white, which cost him an extra 30 quid! I was staggered by the price of a fridge paint job.

If anyone can see any triggers to angry PMT-ness in all this, please enlighten me. On a more beautiful note, here are some pictures from my walk with Sparky last week, starting with some stiles. I love a good stile. Makes me feel all excited about what could be on the other side:

The dandelions are turning into clocks:

And I came across this flower, which I’ve never seen closer to home. Is it some sort of nettle? I’m really not sure:

And finally… peace and tranquility in the woods:

As found growing out on the tops and everywhere:

We’re all celebrating here because Doris (aka Sandtoft Princess) has produced a lovely filly foal. No name as yet; m’sister’s stud prefix is Caphouse and my dad is campaigning for Caphouse Alice. Here are the pics from my trip up there yesterday:

First I spotted Doris, but no foal:

Then as I chatted to Doris there was movement from a clump of grass and the baby staggered up from her nap:

And trotted over to her mum:

Got snuggled in nice and close to the milk source:

After a little while they got bored with me and wandered off, so I took Sparky for a little walk seeing as she was standing behind me pulling her most pathetic “I’ll just stand here while you take yet more pictures” face:

We had a good walk, and when we came back Doris deigned to notice us once more. Baby got up from her latest nap and then, to my surprise, decided to come over herself and say hello:

See the grey on her muzzle, and the sheen to her legs - she’s going to turn out dapple grey, just like her mamma.

At this point my camera batteries started playing up, and by the time I got things sorted they’d got bored with me once again and wandered off:

It’s going to be fun watching this girl grow.

Don’t you think that apple blossom is possibly the most beautiful thing known to man?

I do.

It’s bluebell time! Little British bluebells, with their deep blue bells and wafting scent.

Step into the woods and see the blue haze under the trees, and be refreshed by the scent all around you.

There are plenty of dandelions around too, although not so many in the wood. They prefer being out in the fields.

“I know a bank where the wild thyme grows…” Or bluebells, in this case. But just wait until midsummer…

We have plenty of wild garlic also.

All these growing things make the wood an even more interesting place to play and sniff around in.

Where’d Willis go? Ah, he’s over there, having a rest…

Well, the weather was nice, but the judge didn’t like us. I think we came bottom in each class we entered but, as my dad said, at least we performed consistently.

In hand showing can be absolutely heartbreaking because it’s purely about whether the judge likes the look of your pony. It’s not about how well they perform, or behave in public, or have lovely paces or are smart enough to learn any task you set them to. You could be bottom of the line because the judge thinks they’ve got too much feather, or not enough bulk, or too much bulk… even though you think you’ve got the most perfect pony imaginable.

But anyway, all three behaved pretty well. Jack the stallion had a bit of a jump around at one point, but seeing as last year he mucked about so much by the horsebox that he bust his harness and didn’t even make it into the ring, we were very pleased. Jack was a late foal - he’s not five for another couple of months - but as he was a 2003 foal he had to go into the five years and over class, so he did look young compared to the senior stallions he was up against. I’ll post some pics of him another time; they’re on m’husband’s camera. Here are my shots of our day:

That’s Jasmine, with Kizzy behind her, waiting by the trailer.

Gordon takes Kizzy, aka Rosebarr Sara, into the ring.

This isn’t one of our ponies. It’s a Dales gelding called Highcroft (I think) Merlin, and the most beautiful pony with bags of presence. He won his class and the gelding championship. 

M’husband sets up his stove in the back of the Volvo and starts cooking, with ‘helpful’ comments from my brother. Actually, I shouldn’t be sarcastic. Jims did a lovely job of slicing the hot dog rolls and dispensing ketchup, all without dropping a thing. The dogs were most displeased.

I was a bad auntie. I introduced my nephew, Lars, to the delights of a Swizzle double lolly. The red hair in the front corner belongs to m’mother, who was standing by with a wet cloth for the drool.

That’s one good lolly.

I know, bad blogger. So much for the new year’s resolution of a pic a day. But here’s one to give you a sweet taste in your mouth: pawpaws growing in the tropical biome at the Eden Project. Mmm, mmm, mmm, pawpaw with lime juice. My favourite. I’d eat it every day if it wasn’t so darned expensive, and sons 2 and 3 would be right there in the dish with me.

I’ve been back on the toddler group beat again, plus another trip to a playgym with my nephew. Unfortunately he has now come down with chickenpox, so I’ve lost my playgym support crew, but I’ve enjoyed going there with him so much that I think I’ll keep going after he’s well again. I’ve made it to 48 completed questionnaires so far, out of 140 handed out. My supervisor recommends that I have at least 80, so fingers crossed for me that a few more people send them in. I’ve got a lunch with fellow NCT specialist workers tomorrow, so I can prevail on a few of them to fill one in, and another toddler group on Friday. Then I’m going to have to stay in more and start writing up some sections. My “I can’t do this!” panic has passed, to be replaced by a “I don’t have enough time!” panic. Which I suppose is progress, of a sort.

Friday afternoon I have to make a cake and pack a picnic for the Dales Show on Saturday. One of my tasks for today (in between toddler group and trip to university) was to find some dry shampoo for m’sister’s second grey mare, Kizzy. M’sister says she won’t have time to wash her - Kizzy lives out, so no point doing it Friday night in the current weather, and m’father wants to set off at 6am on the day in order to get his stallion there, settled and tidied up in time for the first class at 10am. He has been getting himself in a tizz trying to work out the best combination of drivers, horsebox, trailer, stallion and two mares. M’husband and I are down as reserve drivers for the way home, which is good for me as we don’t have to set off until 8am. It’s a pleasant drive to Barnard Castle, straight up the M1 and A1, then across the lower edges of the Border country.

…Of toddler groups, in case you were wondering. I have to get at least 80 womenwho have given birth in the last four years, preferably within the Mid-Yorks Hospitals Trust, to fill out my questionnaire. The best way I’ve come up with of finding them is to attend toddler groups. My head is throbbing with baby conversations. I WANT TO TALK TO ADULTS! ABOUT ADULT THINGS! Like this blasted project. So I think I may have to root out a few friends and say “We’re going out now. No refusals allowed!”

However time is at a premium, given that I spend all morning at said toddler groups, then come home for lunch and walking the dog, then do a bit of NCT work and class preparation. Before I know it my boys are coming in from school and I’m moving into ‘clean the house and make some tea’ time. I’ve written the bulk of my Method section but I need a plan for my Intro, and also to set up my data file. This is hampered by the fact that I can’t find the disc with the SPSS programme on it, and I also suspect the password will have run out so I’ll have to go in Leeds to pester the university IT department for a new one. But when do I find the time to drive into Leeds!

To top it all there’s a teachers’ strike tomorrow. It’s been called by the NUT because the Government refused to refer the proffered pay deal to an independent review body. Whilst I’m with them in principle, in practice I’m thinking 1) you’ve been offered more than most public sector workers, so what’re you griping about and 2) that means I have to keep an eye on two of my sons (aged 12 and 14) in between visiting another toddler group and trekking into university to see my supervisor. Firstborn son (aged 16) gets to go to school as not all the teachers are striking, and he’s coming up to GCSEs. He’s not as furious about this as I thought he would be as they’ve been told they don’t have to wear uniform.

So here are some memories of good company, plus some stuff I’m looking forward to. First, a bunch of Cherries at the Cherry Con in Cincinnati last year:

Rox is on the front row, second left, with Kay just behind and to the right. Kim is front right, with Cory and Chris behind her. I’m second from the right on the third row, with Betsy, Michelle and Jill behind me. Great times. I’d go again, but I haven’t paid for the first holiday yet.

In my diary (I’d provide pics from previous years, but I have no idea where they’re filed):

May 3: Dales Pony Society Spring Show, Barnard Castle.

June 5-8: Bramham International Horse Trials. I’m going on my own on the Thursday, for dressage and the hunter show, and Saturday for the cross-country with m’husband and third and final son.

July 8-10: The Great Yorkshire Show at Harrogate. Fabulous, fabulous. I do my utmost to get there all three days. Love it to bits. Expect many photos, of horses, dogs, cows, pigs, sheep, goats, chickens, judges….

August 26: Kilnsey Show. Everyone should go here at least once, if only for the beautiful setting. The show is held on the water meadows next to the river, with Kilnsey Crag looming above you. Other reasons: the sheepdog trials are fabulous, albeit not as smooth as you see on One Man and His Dog (performance nerves seem to kick in quite frequently, whether in dog or shepherd I’m not quite sure); the crag race itself and third, and finally, the trotting races held at the end of the day. The speed those horses move at cannot be believed until you see it.

September 4-7: Burghley International Horse Trials. This is a four star event (Bramham is a mere three star) and a favourite escape from family responsibilities for m’husband and I. He’s not a horsey person, and gets a little twitchy if required to watch dressage for more than 10 minutes, but he loves the cross country day, the young event horse finals (we sit by the ringside debating which we will buy when we win the Lottery), the driving classes and the tradestands, not forgetting the beauty of Burghley House itself.

Conclusion: Plenty of good stuff coming up this summer. 

Or if you’d gone down to Cardinham Woods, on the edge of Bodmin Moor, a couple of weeks ago, you might have seen us. It’s a good place, Cardinham Woods. Lots of forestry trails through the trees, so if you have babies or toddlers you can still get out for a good walk with your pushchair.

M’husband, two sons and dog relaxed on a bench whilst they waited for me and youngest son to catch up (we’d been having a private mother and son conversation) so I fished out my camera:

I tried to persuade youngest son to join them, but he was hanging about somewhere and they got restless and started giggling at a private joke, so he refused:

Then half the party decided to move on:

And the moment was over. Still, it was nice while it lasted.

Yaay! I’ve found a focus and I’m getting started. Admittedly this boils down to writing the page header, plus the sub headings for my Method section, but it feels good. I visited one toddler group on Friday, another today and have a third lined up for tomorrow.

I’d forgotten how loud these places get. I’d also forgotten how hostile and suspicious some mothers can be. Someone they don’t know walks near them, and they stick their heads down and will do just about anything to avoid eye contact. Anyway, I’ve managed to hand out about 60 questionnaires but I’m going to have to photocopy another 500 sheets. I thought I would give out questionnaire and a pen, and women would duly hand them back to me 15 minutes later. I was wrong. Mainly, they say “I’ll fill it in at home where it’s quieter and I can think” which probably means I’ll be lucky to get half of them sent back, even with a complimentary envelope, freepost address and the prize draw incentive.

But anyway. I’ve Written Something! Not much, but it’s a morale-boosting, mind focusing start.

And now for something completely different: Doctor Who with Catherine Tate. I do love Catherine Tate, she’s so beautiful and intelligent. Fit to be a Jenny Crusie heroine. And now she is doing a fabulous job as the Doctor’s new assistant, with absolutely no romantic feelings about him. I am so relieved. The Doctor does not float around the universe plucking winsome assistants and falling in love with them; rather he picks up interesting people and has some excellent and inspiring friendships. I’d add a picture from the BBC website but I can’t work out how. Never mind. Watch the programme - it’s fab.

I have finally worked out, after many years, why I eat too much. It came to me whilst I was reading about someone else’s (ultimately successful) weight loss attempts. She realised that food didn’t love her like she loved it, and she cracked her habit. I read that and thought, ‘that’s not why I eat food. I’m not bothered that it doesn’t love me back, I’m just happy that it’s there.’ I overeat because I feel lonely. Despite some good friends and a plentiful family (they have their quirks, but which family doesn’t) I often feel totally on my own and worry that if I do find company they’ll get fed up with me quickly. Food is there, it makes no demands, and it settles the nervous worry in my stomach. Admittedly I often manage to replace the nervous worry with an uncomfortable fullness - which then in turn leads to guilt and self hatred - but at least I’m not feeling lonely.

Now I just have to work out how to remove my reliance. I’m not sure that I can ever manage to feel sufficiently emotionally secure but for the past year my subconscious has been niggling at me to do pilates. I think it’s suggesting that if I am physically stronger that feeling will rub off on me mentally. Over the years, as I have worked on being a more sorted person, I have come to have great faith in my subconscious. Unfortunately I don’t have much confidence when it comes to exercise. I have a pilates DVD (only £1 from the supermarket bargain basket!) but so far all I’ve managed to do is watch it while doing the ironing. I need to work on this.

Enough of the navel gazing. Here’s a happy place; Harlyn Bay in Cornwall. Really beautiful, great swimming and surfing and fabulous rock pools when the tide is out. And it’s dog friendly all year round.

That’s middle son with Sparky, who had a great time pulling skids on the sand.

I love to go up on the headland and watch the sea crashing on to the rocks on the far side, making milky-white frothy, foamy wavelets.

Firstborn son was having a teenage strop at one point (can’t remember why) so he went off with third and final son to do some rock scrambling.

We’ve had a week in Cornwall, in a cottage called Clerkenwater Vean on the edge of Bodmin Moor. Very pleasant place, with pale yellow primroses all over the place, lovely weather and absolute quiet. Then we came home to snow flurries, a cold snap and horrible urban traffic noise.

I managed to chill out pretty well for the week, despite some lingering niggles about my research project, but once I got home I was straight back into teaching, making masses of phone calls trying to get hold of people and desparing over the state of my untidy house. If I could just decide what to do about the research project - such as knock it on the head - I could at least clean up with a clear conscience. I am back to having a total crisis of confidence about it. I have an appointment with my supervisor tomorrow so we can set up the data file - although she’s going to have to do it with only two completed questionnaires. I’ve given out more than that but only got the two back so far. I’m going to have to spend a couple of weeks haunting mother and toddler groups to improve my participant numbers.

Here’s something more cheerful; Cornish primroses. To follow this week: coves, beaches and the fabulour plants in the Eden Project.

It goes like this: On Good Friday there was cake, and a visit to my BIL and SIL in Lincolnshire.

A Cadbury’s caramel choccamocca cake with eggs:

And a Simnel cake with a difference. It might not look any different, but the taste and texture are divine as the marzipan is chopped into small pieces, frozen and then stirred through the cake mixture before baking. Yum yum:

Everywhere I’ve been in Yorkshire - and Lincolnshire - people keep saying “it’s too early for Easter!” M’husband looked it up and Easter won’t be this early again for about 50 years (I think). Due to the earliness the weather was very changeable, with patches of sunshine quickly suceeded by snow and sleet clouds blowing up the valley:

Then, on Easter Sunday, we woke to more snow than we’ve had in ages. I rushed to get up and walk Sparky as experience shows that it won’t last. I could hear water dripping from the eaves and running down the drains as I walked along, but there was still enough snow for that satisfactory ‘creak’ under my wellies.

I really need to work on my Photoshop skills, as it really wasn’t that dark - but I haven’t got a clue how to lighten up my shots on the computer without m’husband (former press photographer and Photoshop expert) by my shoulder. I also need to work on my weight loss so I have fewer problems with my wellies. I’ve gained so much over the last few years that my wellies are tight round my calves and consequently my socks fall down far too quickly. I had to stop three times in 12 minutes to fish them out of the toe of my boot. The third time I replaced them on my feet, I remembered to tuck my jeans into my socks which gave me a much longer period between sock stops.

Sadly the snow was all gone by lunchtime, so when we went up to m’sister’s house to help plant her new hedge this was the scene:

That’s sons 3, 2 and 1 messing about with sticks and spades under the bit of existing hedge. I was really pleased that they were straight out there and playing, as they spend so much time fiddling about with computers that I worry they will forget how to enjoy being outside - but no worries. No. 2 son is the townboy, rather like his dad, and the two of them disappeared inside after a while but then brought us out mugs of tea - although they weren’t too hot after the walk across the field! I was about to take some pics of the ponies when the batteries on my camera packed in, so another time…

I reckon I’ve got my research questionnaire nailed, and I’ve submitted it with my ethics form. I should be able to start handing them out as soon as I’ve got all the photocopying and randomisation of scenario allocation done. I have to get a minimum of 80 (preferably around 100) participants, so I’m going to be haunting mother and toddler groups looking for women who’ve given birth in the last three years.

Much more interesting stuff: Had another great walk with Sparky and Willis. We went up the old track through Lady Wood, and into Oliver Wood and Jordon Wood. I used to ride in the last two all the time - about 25 years ago - and I had forgotten how weird they can feel. Very nice one second, then you go round a corner and nearly fall into 1) what looks like a rather ancient outdoor swimming pool, lined with mildewed brick/ tiles and filled with deep green water 2) knee deep mud because the path has turned into a drainage ditch 3) a sheer sided pond full of black water so you can’t see the bottom or 4) a slippy slidey muddy path which is so well used by horses, and shaded by trees, that it never dries out, even at the height of summer. The dogs loved it, of course, but I felt much better once we’d worked our way round to the edge and I could see the sky. Here are the pictures of our trek:

That’s Willis, at the bottom of Lady Wood. We’ve walked alongside the railway line, where “I don’t know my own name’ Willis is kept firmly on the lead, but now we’re into the woods he is delighted to be let loose.

This is the path round the edge of the wood. Willis is sprinting back to me as I have a pocketful of dog treats. In fact, once he realised the treats were there, he stuck closer to me than Sparky did.

Here he is again, because I thought he looked so funny skidding along the stone flags.

I’ve put this pic in because it shows the old roads. The hillside these woods are on has many of these tracks, with two rows of flagstones (where the cartwheels would run) and an earth gutter in between where a horse would walk. It seems strange that none of them turned into modern roads. In many places one line of flags has been swallowed by encroaching hedges, so it becomes a single file path.

We’re out of Lady Wood and crossing the fields at the top. Sparky and Willis took the opportunity to act like mad March hares.

My girl, looking gorgeous in the sunlight.

Looking back at Lady Wood. See that dint between the two hilltops? That’s the Dewsbury-Batley valley.

Willis doing his clown impersonation.

This spot is on the edge of Jordon Wood. This whole hillside (which my grandad used to refer to as “round back o’t'moon) was mined extensively a hundred years ago or so, and you come across occasional slag heaps with mature trees growing out of them.

And they have these craters in the middle of them. They don’t have the alien beauty of the china clay lakes in Cornwall, but they’re pretty other-worldly, all the same.