A little bit sinister

I'm fascinated by that maroony iris (see previous posting). Especially when it's been raining (happened quite a lot lately). When its petals are heavy with rainwater, it seems to take on a whole new character. Slightly sinister. Perked up a bit now the sun's reappeared. Back to its old chirpy self. Looking a bit battered though.

 

Ooh, un autre iris

Spotted another iris thingy au jardin ce matin. But this time a strange looking maroony coloured one as opposed to the previous bluey one that appeared a couple of weeks ago. And while I was out there snapping, I spotted a few other flowery planty thingies. So I took some more snaps so t'other half can see that all her efforts haven't been wasted. All looks rather lovely. Nowt to do with me of course. But I do do a bit of watering now and again. I do, I do, I doo dee doody doo.

 

Stream

My latest painting. It's a promising start. Am waiting for sunshine so I can continue. Been waiting for almost a week. Scene just ain't the same in cloudy shadow. Tough being an amateur artist. All this hanging around waiting. And waiting. If I was a real pro I'd have taken a photo and worked from that. In a posh studio. But I didn't. And I ain't. So I can't. And won't.

P.S. - Did a posting in my other blog about this painting. Thought it was far more interesting than all the above. So have decided to copy it here even though I hate repeating myself repeating myself...

Because my last painting was rubbish I was determined to do my best with my next one. But how the hell do you do that? I thought I was doing my best with the last one. So where did I go wrong? Well, I think the mistake I made was to follow someone else's lead. In this case, the Fauvists.

Been trying to learn from that mistake and I've come to the conclusion that it's okay to be influenced by an artist or artists but it's not okay to attempt to mimic them. Ultimately you have to be yourself and just do the best you can (whatever that means). If others do or don't like it, then fine. That's their opinion. As such, it should be of no consequence whatsoever. Similarly, if people react to a painting by saying it's a bit like Hockney or Picasso or Matisse or Disney or Rolf Harris, then that's okay too. Provided of course, as I said, you're not intentionally mimicking them.

When I started this oil painting lark about a year ago, I remember standing in front of a blank canvas wondering how and where to begin. Soon discovered that oil paint is a whole different ball game to, say, water colours or crayons. It was only by studying van Gogh that I began to learn about loosening up and not being scared. So when people remark (as they occasionally do) that my stuff's a bit van Goghy, it's no surprise. But there comes a time when one has to move on and be one's self. Which is where I'm at. Which brings me back to my next painting.

Started it last Sunday. The stream down the valley. Just by the footpath bridge. Late afternoon sunshine with lengthening shadows. My favourite time of day both for photography and painting. Flung myself back almost half a century. To a time of innocence. To a time when I'd just started at art school. To a time before I became influenced by various artists, designers, teachers, pop stars and film stars. To a time when I drew or painted by just being me. And then I got stuck in. Painted for a couple of hours before shadow filled the valley.

Intended to continue the next evening. Monday. A French holiday. But got diverted by lunch with Isabelle and Christian and tribal chums across the valley. Long lunch. Hot day. Hottest day so far. No fit state for painting afterwards. Decided to continue Tuesday. Tuesday cloudy and rainy. Been cloudy ever since. Still waiting for sunshine. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. I have to have that sun. Scene looks completely different without it.

P.S. - Raining again today (Sunday). That's six days since sunshine. Rain forecasted for next few days. Sunshine due Thursday. Believe that when I see it.

Radar

I remember way back, well before allowing dogs into our lives (which changed absolutely everything), thinking that if ever I had a dog I'd name it 'Rabies'. However, when the time came, Georgie thought it was entirely wrong to name a cuddly little pup after a killer disease so the little white ball of fluff was nameless when we went to register him with the local vet. The vet, quite rightly, was reluctant to put a question mark in the 'name of dog' box so we had to quickly come up with a name while his fingers hovered impatiently over the computer keyboard.

After a couple of seconds of hushed silence I blurted out "Jock" - not exactly an original name for a Westie but it somehow felt right to name him after my old Scottish 'Uncle Jock' (not really my uncle but an extremely kind-hearted soul and a leading light in Gibraltar's Toc-H during the post-war period). It was he who kindly bought me my first kilt as a present for my fifth birthday, thus making sure he wasn't the only male wandering around Gibraltar in a skirt. I remember Mum (also a Scot) and he beaming with pride as I took off my lederhosen (spent infancy in Austria - army y'know) and donned this strange item of clothing, much to my English father's amusement. Wore it the next day to school. Got into a scrap with some cheeky little sod who had the audacity to take a peek at my knickers. Got dragged off him by Miss Pizzarella who made me stand in the classroom corner. Entered that damned corner as an Englishman (Mum spent her entire adult life apologising for 'dropping' me and ma wee sister south o'the border) but re-emerged five minutes later as a fully-fledged, fighting Scotsman. Been one ever since.

I digress...

Soon after Jock arrived, a little brown ball of fluff joined our gang. So we had to have another name-thinking session. Finally opted for the name of a mechanical item that turns the drivechain on a motorcycle. Thus 'Sprocket' entered our daily vocabulary. It was a close run thing though due to my suggesting 'Rabies' again, as well as the equally amusing 'Pavlov'. With the benefit of hindsight, Georgie reckons we should have gone for 'Fluffy' ('cos it's entirely inappropriate) or 'Bonkers' ('cos it's entirely appropriate). However, after what happened yesterday, I reckon 'Radar' or 'Sniffer' would have hit the nail on the head...

There we were, Jock, Sprock and I, slowly ambling up the back lane that leads to the old granite cross, with birds twittering and tall grasses gently swaying in the warm evening sun. We'd just passed the entrance to Christian's newly-seeded field on the right and were well out of sight of neighbour Colette's Labrador dog so I unclipped Sprocket from his lead. For a moment he trotted alongside and all seemed well. But then he stopped, pointed his nose in the air, swept a wide arc over the field on the left followed by a narrower arc. Something was up so I tried to get him back on his lead. Too late. Quick as a flash he ducked under the barbed wire fence and sprinted across the field, coming to an eventual halt about fifty yards away. All I could see was his bald tail circling in the tall grass but his growls and whimpers told me what he'd found. Hedgehog. Soon to be a dead hedgehog unless I acted quickly. Sprinted back down the lane, through the field entrance, through the tall grass, arrived at the spot, gave Sprock a smack (yes, I know you shouldn't but...), shouted "no!", put him back on his lead, checked the curled up hedgehog was okay and dragged Sprock back up the lane with Jock following. Let him off his lead again a few minutes later and kicked him forward. Luckily he didn't turn back.

The thing I find amazing is how, even when surrounded by all the aromae of a delicious spring soiree, a hunting dog such as a Patterdale can recognise the scent of a relatively small animal hiding in long grass about fifty yards away. Or more. Really quite staggering.

The great Dick McTaggart

A few years back when Sprocket was little more than a puppy, I noticed him sniffing and scratching at the front of the kitchen cabinets. Clearly there was something behind there so I moved the cooker to one side and, quick as a flash, he was in there like lightning, clamping his jaws round a tiny mouse and sending it rocketing skywards. By the time the poor mouse landed back on terra firma it was very much an ex-mouse.

Similar thing happened a few days back. Noticed Jock and Sprocket scratching and sniffing around the old granite trough just out front. Milliseconds later there was a little squeak as Sprocket flung something high in the air. Grabbed his rope, pulled him away and searched for whatever it was that had landed in the long grass. Spotted a rather large mouse lying on its side and breathing heavily. Thought it best to just leave it. Maybe just shock. Maybe it'll survive. But it didn't. About ten minutes later I shovelled up its dead body and left it on a rock. Couple of hours later it was gone. Maybe a hawk had it. Or maybe a cat.

Next day, I mentioned Sprocket's kill to Alain while he was planting tomatoes in his vegetable patch next to our garden. He asked for a description of the mouse. Told him it was black with a four inch body and three inch tail. "Rat" he said nonchalantly without any hint of disgust. Then I showed him a few mouse holes under the apple tree next to the trough. "Rats" he said, fearlessly sticking his fingers down some of the holes.

No wonder Jock and Sprocket have been digging there lately. If I was a rat I'd move out quick. Don't mess with a Patterdale. But I guess they've set up home there 'cos it's just by where I empty some of the buckets of used dishwater, thereby depositing bits of old rice and other tiny scraps among the weeds and grass. Have since started dumping the dishwater down by the rhododendron bush next to the compost heap at the bottom of the garden. Hopefully the rats will relocate down there. And where are these pesky wildcats that live in the barn out back when you need 'em? Maybe they steer well clear of Jock and Sprock's territory. Funny stuff this animal life.

Later that evening while sitting outside enjoying a leisurely scotch and fag within spitting distance of the rattery, my mind began wandering as usual. Never ceases to amaze me the amount of useless information that's stored away in the cobwebby cubby holes of the little that remains of my tiny brain. Suddenly thought of Dick McTaggart, Scotland's finest-ever boxer. One of my earliest heroes. Won a gold medal in the '56 Olympics at Melbourne when I was just ten. And a bronze at Rome's '60 Olympics. But the thing that stuck in my mind was the fact that he was a ratcatcher. Known as the 'Glasgow Ratcatcher' he actually hailed from Dundee and was one of eighteen kids (just looked all that up on the internet). Never turned pro' and always boxed in his amateur vest. Earned his money by being a 'rodent consultant'. But also worked for Rolls-Royce (presumably not as a ratcatcher). Wonder if he had a Patterdale? Wonder if he'd come out here and give me and Sprocket a hand? Dick McTaggart, teach us your tricks!

Dick McTaggart - then and now (Dick on right, next to Terry Spinks)

Rats, Pied Piper, Hamelyn, Tam Lin - haven't heard this Scottish 'folkie' in ages...

Jardin

Garden looks rather splendid at this time of year. All very fresh and budding. So, for t'other half who likes to be kept up to speed about our little patch of greenery, here's a snap du matin, another du late apres-midi and another showing showing the budding rhododododennydrondronny thingy which I have (honest guv') been watering as per instructions, plus a few other planty thingies...

Stacked

Had an amble up the granite cross route a few days after that little pine forest had been cut down (see previous posting). As I neared the previously forested area, I heard the rumbling of a big diesel engine. Sounded like the lumberjack man was back in action. Put Sprocket on his lead and approached with caution. Rounded the bend and came across a couple of huge timber stacks. Then looked down the valley to see the massive timber truck swinging trunks around like matchsticks. Fascinating to watch. Strange to think that just one man in a giant vehicle can flatten and clear a forest in just a couple of days. Must be quite a specialised job though. So many buttons and levers to push and pull in order to operate the crane, cutter and dangler. I suppose the next job will be to cart the logs off in one of those huge timber lorries. Amazes me how these vehicles manage to get through the tight lane by the church. Then, I presume, the forest gets re-planted. And the whole exercise gets repeated in about thirty or forty years' time.