Joss' Delight

Joss, the dog, has a new obsession. The only things in his world better than hens are.....chicks!

The Hebridean lambs and their mothers have been moved to greener grazing; and, in their place, I now have charge of two tiny hens-in-the-making: one yellow, one black.

Joss is entranced. If allowed, he would spend 24 hours a day with his head hung over the edge of the cardboard box that’s currently their home, his ear brushing the heat lamp that’s keeping them warm.

I’d forgotten just how exquisite a sound these babies make; how incredibly soft their fluffy down; how chick yellow is the most appealing shade of yellow there is.

Checking on them regularly is our current joy. Thinking about them all the hours in between is making Joss a very happy dog indeed.

The Same View: May

It’s been a blue sky day. Barely a cloud to be seen. And tonight I heard the first cuckoo of spring.

This morning, as I took the photograph above, a small, brown moth danced about my feet. Across to my right, a pair of lapwings performed their extraordinary acrobatics, never more than a few inches apart.

Overhead a distant aeroplane droned lazily; and, when I bent to stroke Joss, his coat smelled of sunshine.

Best of all, the temperatures are apparently set to soar over the next few days. So - fingers crossed - the grass may soon be lush after all.

The leaves aren’t tardy in appearing on the trees, though. Notice how bushy they've all become?

Here’s a reminder of how the scene has changed since January.

Forties Nostalgia

Once a year, the Pennine town of Haworth sets aside its usual preoccupation with the Bronte family and moves the clock forward a hundred years or so. And stages a 1940s weekend.

It’s fabulous! There’s no requirement to turn up in costume, but many people do. And the whole cast of wartime characters is in evidence: soldiers, sailors, airmen; the ARP warden and the Home Guard; nurses and the WVS; evacuee children clutching suitcases; even babies in 1940s prams.

There’s an abundance of goodwill. People seem genuinely happy and no-one objects to having their picture taken.

The local cafes serve Bovril and supposedly austere fare; while outside a black marketeer tries to flog watches and silk knickers. At intervals, a procession of Land Girls or a marching band parades down the cobbled Main Street. And Winston Churchill even turns up, complete with cigar, to deliver one of his wartime speeches.

There’s constant music as girls in red lipstick and furs serenade the crowds with old time favourites; and there’s jive dancing for all on the car park in the shadow of a borrowed Spitfire.

The event is hugely popular, which means elbowing your way through the crowd if you’re determined to get somewhere. And if you want fish and chips, the queue stretches round the block.

It’s a brilliant day out, though. Tremendously evocative and poignant, too: I saw several elderly men proudly sporting medals. Take a look at the snapshots above or, if you’ve three minutes to spare, sit back and enjoy the slideshow below. And wallow in some forties nostalgia.

P.S. It was impossible to convey the essence of the event without showing shots of people - so I’ve broken my usual rule of not showing faces without permission. If anyone should recognise themselves in any of the photos and be unhappy about appearing here, please get in touch and I’ll remove the relevant picture. But if you are content to be here, then thank you very much!

P.P.S.  Today I'm taking part in Mosaic Monday hosted by Mary at Little Red House.  Why not pop on over and take a look at some of the other lovely mosaics you'll find there?

Grass

We have a problem here in Dixon Hill land. If you live elsewhere in the UK, then chances are you have it too.

It’s cold. Despite all April’s sunshine, we had only a couple of truly warm days last month. And May - so far - has brought winter-bitter winds that have had us reaching for hats and scarves and gloves again.

All of which means the grass isn’t growing. Not to any significant degree, anyway. Farmers are still having to fork out for feed at a time of year when cattle and sheep would normally be chomping happily on fresh spring grazing.

So…..if you’re in a part of the world that’s enjoying balmy days and soft breezes….blow a little of the bounty this way, will you?

The Broken-hearted Hen House

Just look at this! My hens have a new house - and it has a heart-shaped window!

I’ve been eyeing up this bijou little residence for months..…and now it’s finally here. Aren’t my birds just the luckiest fowl that ever laid eggs?

Unfortunately, their penthouse home suffered in transit; its roof has been damaged and its heart has been broken. So it’s going back to its makers for some tender loving care.

By next week, however, the cockerel and his ladies should be in their new abode and surveying the world through heart-shaped glass.

Don’t you think we would all benefit from a heart-shaped view of the world?