Fingal

Just nipped out for a swim past the House of Stories. It's getting noisy around the tower.

Young Catkin found a chest of old odds and ends in a turret room. It was mostly music stuff, broken and damaged instruments, stuff that needed mending, that sort of thing. And in there was a silver trumpet, one of those long stylish ones that the royal heralds used to play, in perfect condition.

You can guess. You know what she's like. Fortunately, Crispin said that if she was going to play the trumpet she'd need a good teacher, so they brought Master Trumpen the hedgehog to teach her. Unfortunately, she has to practise. A lot. Far too much.

Tay says it's an unsuitable instrument for a princess and she should learn the harp. For once, I agree with her. You couldn't possibly get that racket out of a harp. Even Crispin and Cedar are looking strained. The queen looks as if she has a permanent headache, and Crispin occasionally puts his head round Catkin's door and says, 'it's a bit loud, sweetheart'. I think 'a bit loud' means 'I can still hear you'.

She of the Stories says it'll get better, and she should know. Apparently she used to have Daughter in one room learning the clarinet and LYS in another on the trombone, and it sounded like Vet's Visit at Jollity Farm. Then Daughter exchanged the clarinet for the flute and LYS gave up the trombone altogether.

So I float down the river listening to She of the Stories learning to play Scarborough Fair on the piano. Admittedly it's one of those pieces she has difficulty with. If she'd just relax she could play the tricky bit seamlessly, but she doesn't, she squares her shoulders, steps back, and takes a run at it. Never mind, try again. The left hand doesn't know what the right hand's doing.

Fur Elise is a bit dodgy, too. She gets to that twiddly bit, loses count, and doesn't know when to stop. I'll just swim on a bit. Let me know when she gets on to Greensleeves, she's all right with that one.

I wonder what the silver trumpet was doing there? Who might know?

Much Ado

MUCH

Blooming 'eck,she'll meet herself coming back one day. Just listen to 'er. 'I've just been off to the wedding, then I'm 'aving two days in London, I'm off to that Wales place to see the girl get a funny 'at.' All that moving about ain't natural. Why go anywhere? 'Er's got a nice 'ouse, a garden, even got a blooming great river, to say nothing of a wise old gnome with a snail. Well, we got loads o' them snails, but mine's the only stone one.

What it is, y'see, is that 'er knows 'er can rely on me. She might go running about the country, but me and my snail, we stay put and watch the garden for 'er. This rockery don't look after itself, y'know, and Stephen only come once a fortnight. And then 'e wants to fill up the spaces with greeny-yeller things and 'er wants white and mauve and pink. 'Er's always sneaking in another geranium and 'e keeps moving the ferns about.

'Er was in a grump today. Last thing at night, she said, she 'ad an idea for somebody to put in a book. But as it were a long way yon side of midnight she didn't write it down, and she's forgotten it already. So that's one less for the House of Stories, then.

Pity about that. 'Er memory must be rubbish. I can remember everything that's happened 'ere in this garden for decades, but nobody seems to want a book about watching a fern grow.

'Ere? 'Oo put that fern there?

Bright Day

On the face of it, it wasn't such a bright day in Cardiff. It rained on and off all morning, but most of that time we were in the very grand St David's Hall. Even when we were scurrying through the showers to get there, with one hat and one mortar board between the three of us, nothing dampened our spirits. As far as we were concerned, the young lady above made it a very bright day indeed.

I've been to graduations before, but never in Wales, and never at a specialist music and drama college. Quite a number of graduating musicians were in the brass band, and the actors all played to the gallery and threw their mortar boards in the air.

Wales is the Land of Song, and we finished with both the English and the Welsh National Anthems. The programme was bilingual and the Welsh anthem was, of course, sung in Welsh. Combine Welsh passionate patriotism with a room full of music students and natural performers, and you find that your heart takes flight and soars over a misty mountain somewhere in Snowdonia.

Daughter and I know we both have Scottish ancestry. I believe there's a strain of Welsh in us to. Oh, I hope so. And she is becoming naturalised. She is developing a lilt, and when we raised a glass and wished 'good health' we did it in Scots Gaelic (Slante) and she did it in Welsh (can't spell it.)

Another aspect of the Welsh is their tradition of poetry and storytelling. They can lay a powerful claim to King Arthur. I need to go there more often, for the sake of the country iteself as well as the young lady above. Isn't she happy? As the Welsh say, there's lovely.

tess

It's been a bit busy for the last couple of days and Much was too busy giving orders to Stephen the gardener to write the blog for me. So a little treat for you today - go to www.cooligraphy.co.uk, or if you can't get that link to work put Tess Cooling Calligraphy into a search engine. Then just enjoy. Some of her lovely work is here in The House of Stories

I can't remember if I've put in a link to Tess before. But if I have, some of you might not have been friends of the House of Stories at the time, and I wouldn't want you to miss out. Those who have seen Tess's work before will know that you can't get too much of it.

look at us!

I'm not very technically ept, in fact my ineptitude is impressive. But with a lot of patient help (thank you, Tony) I think I now know how to put photos on the blog. Above should be a picture of all of us at the wedding, including the Lassie on the end, but not including my sister. That's why we're all waving, to get her to come up. Now let's see if it worked.

On the River

This blog may be subject to interruption. It's men's finals at Wimbledon and I will be popping in and out of the sitting room to check progress and roar encouragement to Rafa Nadal.

Coming home from church this morning I saw people standing on the bridge, looking over with great interest. "Oh look!" said a woman, "baby otters!"

I hadn't the heart to tell her COME ON, RAFA!! that they weren't baby otters, they were full grown mink. They're not supposed to be here, and they are vicious predators working their way through all the native wildlife. They can't help it. They are here due to human interference, as so often happens.

About a week ago I looked out from my favourite window in the House of Stories - the landing window beside my sky-high study - and saw something that made me dash down two flights of stairs and run to the garden. On the far side of the river a mallard duck, quacking loudly, was swimming upstream. Running parallel to her, on the bank, was a mink. Sometimes it slipped into the water and swam, then ran along the bank again. Soon, they were out of sight.

When the duck and the mink had disappeared upstream, there was a flicker of movement at the water's edge. Two, then three very tiny ducklings emerged and bobbed about, staying close to the edge. Presently mother duck swam back to them - I don't know what had happened to the mink, but there was no more sign of it. She gathered all her ducklings together, and shepherded them away.

Well done, you brave mum. If she could have dusted her hands down and put them on her hips, she would have done.

GO RAFA! I bet he owes a lot to his mum, too.

Daughter

She always loved the magic of music. I knew that almost as soon as I became her mama, seeing the way she marked time to music with her little foot. I always managed to settle her down with Mozart. She was mad keen to sing, and her main ambition was to play the flute.

Masses of hard work over the years. Sometimes I worried that maybe she was making too much of it, but she's a determined little madam and I'd met my match. With a shake of that red-gold mane, she'd pick up her flute and march, or waltz, or gavotte on her way.

She phoned yesterday. She's made it. The way has been hard, sometimes the struggles have left her maimed and mangled, but she's mastered it. Really mastered it, as in Master of Arts in Flute Performance. MA as in Marvellous, Magnificent, Flute Queen, Daughter of a very admiring Margi.

Well done, dove.