Jackdaw

Today

One of my friends on Facebook posted one of those statuses that ask, among other things. where you first met. Easy for me on this one: "Jackdaws!" I replied.

In My Day

Jackdaws is a musical education trust situated in Great Elm near Frome. It grew out of the Great Elm Music Festival which was started by Maureen Lehane Wishart and my brother Chris back in 1992. It expanded rapidly, there being much music talent in the area and Maureen, herself a renowned Mezzo-soprano began offering courses at her home, Jackdaws.

At first, they were open to a wide range of abilities. Later with grant money and patronage from Dame Joan Sutherland, it expanded in size and offered courses to a very high standard. They also offered extremely good food.

I myself attended several course, before deciding that my skills were too far behind that of the other students. I went to a madrigal course given by Evelyn Tubb and her husband who played the theorbo. They were both Tai Chi practitioners and every morning saw us barefoot on the lawn aligning our bodies with the Earth's natural rhythms and generally loosening up. Evelyn had refreshing take on madrigals and I found myself in one group singing "Strike up the Tabor" by Thomas Weelkes in broad Zummerzet while attempting to Morris dance.


Another course I remember well was devoted to Lute song. It was runs by the late Robert Spencer and included both lutenists and singers. His theory was that the words are everything and that vocal quality can be sacrificed to them. We all sang the Earl of Essex's Galliard, learning the reproachful story behind it and I sang some beautiful Thomas Campion songs. I met some very interesting people, some of whom with met up with on our visit to Verona later that summer.

The last course I attended was also run by Evelyn Tubb (see blog 16 Oct 2010) and was a study on Elizabethan and Baroque song. I learnt a great deal from her. What I also learnt that I was out of my league among singers who sang with passion, flare and a high degree of skill; beyond what I could hope to achieve.. I met my friend Cath there, although it was some years later before we regularly met up at Laetare events, and I was and remain dazzled by her commitment to song and ability to communicate.

Maureen Lehane died in 2010 but she lives on in this wonderful legacy. I feel privileged to have participated in even a small way.

Fly Away Home

Today

Mother's Day and the sun is shining; what better than to spend a few hours doing a little garden tidying up? As I worked my way around the shrubs and tubs I met hundreds of ladybirds.

This is an image of ladybirds
 in 1976 in The Wirral

In My Day

There are still some of us who remember the great hot summer of 1976. It was not just hot; it was dry and long-drawn-out, following a dry and warm winter. We were living at Rowan Avenue and it soon became apparent that the weather suited ladybirds. They were everywhere, flying almost in swarms. 

To begin with this was fairly charming. The children loved to catch them; my friend's child Frannie caught a whole boxful which she presented to me! I persuaded her to put them onto her Daddy's roses which she did, one by one. I made a cake for Lizzie's birthday in the shape of a ladybird. We sang nursery rhymes about ladybirds and enjoyed the sunshine. What was there not to like?

After all, they weren't locusts, were they? And they are the gardener's friend, gobbling up aphids. But a few charming red and black spotted beetles are one thing. When they are flying in your face and into the bedrooms at night, clinging to net curtains and devilishly hard to remove it's something else. Our tolerance of the creatures came to an end when the moisture-starved insects started to bite. The first couple of times I thought that I was mistaken but it was true. Ladybird bites were reported everywhere and we had to caution the children about picking them up.

Somehow, though, we were still reluctant to swat or spray the insects - they are too firmly lodged in our childhood memories - and were delighted when Autumn brought deluges that more or less wiped them out.

But the roses that year were the best we'd had for years.

Brew

Today

Work is progressing in fits and starts on the conversion into apartments of the brewery opposite Spencer House. 

Paul is inclined to grumble about the back and forth arrival of large trucks, the vans parked in the road and the dust. "It's only temporary," I tell him "it would be much worse if it was still a brewery - there would be big trucks leaving in the small hours, constant noise and a terrible smell!"

Fuggles hops, before drying

In My Day

When we first joined the wine circle, Paul decided to try his hand at making beer. No kit-buying for him; he bought a large pan to mash the hops, sacks of dried hops and huge jars of malted barley (I'm very glad he didn't take to mashing his own malt).

He was retired by this time and on unpredictable days would be seized by beer-making frenzy. He'd browse through recipe books and get going. I could always tell before I reached home; the smell of hops would waft up the Close, and entry to the steaming, yeast-scented house required an act of courage.

After dealing with the issues arising from over-conditioning the bottles (One of our friends had a stain on her ceiling for years after the contents of one bottle flew skywards when opened), Paul became quite skilled at this particular art. He made all sorts of beers. His light wheat beer was very successful and much enjoyed by one of my nieces, although Paul was very affronted when another relative said "It almost tastes like real beer." ("It is real beer!" hissed Paul under his breath).

His stout was horrible, apparently, and found its way into the sewers bypassing the usual stage of being drunk.

The problem was actually drinking the beer. All the recipes tended to produce large quantities and home-made real ale doesn't keep very long. Paul, who constantly struggles to maintain a decent weight, found himself drinking more and more beer, just to use it up.

His swan-song was also his finest hour. It was the Queen's Golden jubilee and in accordance with tradition, there was a party in the Close. Paul laboured to produce a five-gallon barrel of "Jubilee Ale". As the residents gathered on the green he offered the beer. Most people were doubtful about home-brew, but neighbour Pete was game. "This is great!" he enthused "Got any more?" His enthusiasm spread and soon there was a queue of men at our kitchen door wanting to try the Jubilee Ale. Now this was no 3% fizz; it was the full 6.5% or so, not a drink to be taken lightly. This didn't stop our neighbours who between them emptied the barrel. The party went with a swing. Not so the next morning which saw a succession of head-clutching males trying to get on with their morning chores. Most still managed to croak "Great beer, Paul!" before dashing indoors for a little lie-down.

Paul doesn't make beer any more, preferring to select from the great range of real ales available in the shops, but does like to recall his finest hour. I, on the other hand, find the large pan very useful and am glad not to have the house filled with malty steam at random intervals. Although I must confess I'll also be happy when the builders have all gone home.