I Value Clichés

 A response to a comment that we can't judge the past by today's standards:  The past created the present, we are as we are because of it, and short of time travel nothing can be altered, we can however learn from the past never again to make the same mistakes. We now have a government in Cymru able to redress the balance, based on what we judge to be today's needs, to put right past grievances within its domain, to the extent of its limited power. The perception of what was and wasn't a mistake differs depending on one's point of view, everything is relative and different people see different rights & wrongs, The Labour party sees fewer grievances and the need to stay attached to England; whilst Plaid Cymru sees poverty in a rich country and an ancient culture, its language & literature, brought to the point of extinction as a result of this blind attachment, and would redress the balance by attaching ourselves instead to the wider world. The only reason I'm mentioning the Tories is that the longer we bury our heads in the sands of England the longer we will be stuck with them.

The French Trip

Writing the previous reminds me that I still have a story left; I've been asked to write something but I thought I'd run out of material,  now memories of a certain French trip are coming back. I'm the type of person who, knowing that I've got friends to go back to I like to be by myself; one evening I went wandering around the Pigalle and entered into one of the 'sleazy' clubs, the kind that have someone standing outside enticing potential customers; anyway I went in, I was the only customer there, ordered a drink and sat down. A rather smart girl came and sat down by me, we got chatting and after a while we were served champagne; I said "I didn't order that", to which the waiter replied that that was the way it worked, I refused to pay, no question, I was outnumbered, dragged to the manager's office where he took my wallet from my pocket and the amount for the champagne. Not to be intimidated by this I told the manager that after that he could buy me a drink, I went back to the bar, got served, drank my beer and left. Outside there were hundreds, if not thousands of red scarves; when I related what had happened they wanted to go in and smash the place up, the club was lucky that I put it down to experience. I wandered forlornly down the road until I came to a bistrot with a door that had a window, I looked through to see a bar where the only customers were girls; the cockles of my heart warmed to the situation, the previous encounter put out of mind I walked in and ordered a beer. I got chatting to one of the girls who was very down to earth & friendly, just like Merthyr, I felt at home, they were mainly Arab, all coloured, except for a blue eyed blonde English girl behind the bar. Mealtime came, the English girl went across the road and came back with food that she apportioned and I got a share. None of the girls were customers, they all worked there, and my friend politely began to insist that I go around to the back room with her; she was very nice as I explained that I'd just had a bad experience and that I'd only come in for a drink in good company, although she did continue asking and I continued saying no, after a few more drinks I succumbed, we went into a back room where she told me how she wanted it, after a while of this unexpected erotic exercise, she complimented me, I paid her the sum requested and we went back to the bar where her friend asked me now that we'd finished would I go with her, I said, "I only came in for a drink and to relax. I passed a good evening in excellent company before leaving and heading back to my hotel. 

Under Orders

My response to a reply that teachers weren't under orders to force our children to wear 'The Welsh not', that they were themselves Welsh people happy to collaborate. The Welsh language was banned in schools in 1870 by an order of an Act of Parliament, after a government inspection of the state of education in Cymru/Wales by non-Welsh speaking school inspectors decided that our home tongue was a negative influence. The children were forced by government legislation to speak English; some were shamed into letting go of their birthright, some like O. M. Edwards refused to be humiliated, on the contrary it put their back up, and he personally worked all his life to further the language ironically becoming chief inspector of schools in Wales; his sentiments carried over to his son Sir Ifan ab Owen Edwards who founded 'Urdd Gobaith Cymru', an all Wales youth movement where children play & learn, in fact all activities, through the medium of Welsh. I began with the greatest of English ironies, I end with a Welsh one.

Second Hand Settee

 I made sure that Doudou was amply provided for when I left the house this morning and took to the road, direction Plouigneau for a 15 euros settee arranged yesterday on the second hand sale site for Finistere. Last week, same direction I took the wrong road 3 times, this time only once; turned out destiny wise not to be the wrong road I thought, as I was going down the hill to Montroulez I espied in the distance what was a magnificent sight of towers rising to the sky in a forest right over on the other side of the valley, I continued down the hill into the town, drove over one of the rivers leading in, thereby crossing the valley and back up the other side to buy my settee, and with help from the boyfriend of the girl who contacted me we squeezed it into the back of my old estate. Coming up the hill I noticed there was a chateau serving as a bed & breakfast, so after I made the purchase I went back, trusting my luck I drove up their driveway, naturally enough, to be met by the lady of the house coming out to ask me what I wanted, strange, I sensed straightaway that she was English before her accent gave her away; it wasn't the chateau I was hoping to find, 'though she tentatively allowed me to take some photos of the front & the adjacent family chapel, but not around the back; I took my photos, then spent the afternoon searching for the round towers. I took different roads and found different chateaux, I even drove straight past to its neighbour, there were three on the same road. On my way back I stopped at a chapel, and snapped three churches. I looked for the round tower that I missed the other day, couldn't find it so I drove home. Doudou came out to welcome me, couldn't find Caru anywhere, for a moment I was worried, I even thought that perhaps she'd somehow managed to get outside and that I'd run her over, but no, I came in and stood still until I heard her squeal, which enabled me to pinpoint her position in a little corner struggling to get out from under some odds & ends left lying around that she'd managed to get to now that she's walking, if I can call it that, by herself. A demain.

Ironic

Isn't this the greatest of ironies:- In 1870 the Welsh Language was banned in schools in an effort to homogenize an English Britain; today there are 64 different languages spoken in the area surrounding Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. London alone has more than 300 different languages; if Matthew Arnold were alive today the shock would kill him.

Reply to a response

Yes, but I come from an area that got stuck between the two, it's referred to as 'Wenglish'. In the history of things it will turn out to be temporary. We should be speaking English correctly, and Welsh correctly, but as our accents are also a signpost to where we come from, there's nothing wrong with speaking an educated, cultured English, but with a Welsh accent; Richard Burton being a good example. I have a f/b friend who speaks many languages, he has chosen to go for an area dialect in each one so that you could mistake him for a native. These days even Eton pupils try to avoid speaking with a received pronunciation. However on his basic point I suppose he's right; personally it's my way of affirming my South Welsh valley identity when conversing to English speakers, so that they are left in no doubt as to where I'm from, if there is a doubt I tell them MERTHYR; it should also reflect my personality, there's no way that I could speak 'posh', it wouldn't be me. Horses for courses.
            The response was an example of an Irish language activist speaking Irish with his home accent, but who preferred to speak the foreign tongue with a received (posh) English accent. It's a good argument and technically correct in a perfect world, but I for one couldn't do it, I wouldn't want to lose my Merthyr accent, I couldn't be a la di da, especially in front of my friends. Coming from a working class background I'd feel as though I was betraying my heritage; the Irish political background is different.

Turmoil & Trauma

A friend of mine was brought up in the Welsh speaking community of Clwydyfagwyr, Merthyr; he went to work at one of the Lloyd's underwriters, when he came back on his holidays 6 months later we went out for a drink, as he spoke his accent could have come from another planet; imagine the turmoil in his mind, his abhorrence of the accent he'd been brought up with; a girl in the room picked him up on it, but as a Merthyr girl herself she wasn't in a position to throw stones as she also spoke a little differently. There are too many of us who have been 'marked' by the presence of our big neighbour causing us to search for the light away from under it's huge shadow both mentally & physically. We have to learn and to teach to have a Welsh standpoint , 'Twickers' is not 'HQ', and to see things from a Welsh viewpoint, it's the Severn Sea', not 'The Bristol Channel', but we are moving forward, Carwyn is holding the fort for the moment until we take up our rightful place at the helm. 

Growing Up

Caru is 17 days old, between being half smothered, licked by Doudou and burying herself in the search for milk, I just witnessed her scratching herself, just like her mother, although she can't yet walk properly; it was amazing to watch her first 'grown up' action..

Our Language

 What is shame? it's a shame and it's sad that if we Welsh & Bretons could build a portal to let in the the ghosts of our past, and that if we met & hugged our great grandparents, we would have nothing to say to them, because they would be speaking a different language. Can anything be more shameful than the wanton destruction of the key part of our heritage. Admittedly it was state policy in London, but it's now the 21st century and God helps them who help themselves. The Welsh intelligensia from the Tudors and even earlier, including Glyndwr, were educated in London and/or Oxford, so it's no wonder that when Cymru did its part for the enlightenment movement spreading across Europe & America, it was the likes of Iolo Morgannwg and the London-Welsh societies, the Cymmrodorion & the Gwyneddogion who stood for the ethos that "every folk had its own particular identity, which was expressed in its language & culture". In the middle of the 19th c. Lady Charlotte Guest & Lady Llanover worked positively for the language, they were friendly with Villemarque who was their counterpart in Brittany, and the Welsh farm labourer could be counted amongst the most literate in the world, there was a genuine revival. Lady Charlotte translated the Mabinogion to a wider world, Villemarque wrote an anthology of Breton songs & stories. Then it all came crashing down, it became government policy to ban the Welsh Language in schools, decided on after the release of the 1847 report of the inspectors of education, nick-named 'Brâd y Llyfrau Gleision' (Treason of the Blue Books) followed by the education Act of 1870. The Welsh (& Breton) speaking children were humiliated by having to wear a piece of wood around the neck if they continued speaking their mother tongue. I think it's fair to say that it affected us.                                         

Rhodri, Labour & Cymru/Wales

I've been listening to Rhodri Morgan on Radio Cymru/Wales; I must say I have a lot of time for his wisdom, an atypical former Labour politician, totally independently minded, highly educated and immensely knowledgable, what the hell was he doing in the Labour party, although he did start late, and I suppose his family was Labour as is his wife. For his generation, circle of friends, and Cardiff society the choice was Conservative or Labour, in the valleys there was no choice so we got lumbered with the Kinnocks of this world where getting on & out was their priority, making a bit on the side was an added bonus. I have no time for the ego-centric Peter Hain; if I was to say what I think of the Kinnocks I would be thrown out of f/b. I like the way that Carwyn Jones is putting Cymru on the political map and raising the the Tories hackles for doing it, but would he be so gung ho if it was Labour in power in London & Peter Hain reining him in as Secretary of State. I'm sorry, no not really, but there is only one Party in Wales that puts the country first, a new start with a new leader, she even speaks like me. To be able to identify with is often the crux, and if you identify with Wales there should be no question; RHONDDA RULES, Bridgend second.

Jibbons

The other day when I went to the supermarket for the first time in months, I forgot to mention to my Welsh friends that I didn't only eat and enjoy Breton Gariguette strawberries, I also bought and relished a bunch of jibbons. Now who else knows what jibbons are? I don't know whether it's an all Wales thing or just limited to parts of the South Wales, like 'bosh' for 'kitchen sink'.

Radar

About mid-day I thought that I might go out on the road with my camera, my chosen subject, St Meriadec's holy well/fontaine at Stival where Cleguerec borders on Pontiv. It turned out to be a very fruitful afternoon with some very special unforeseen extras. I took a chance with the dodgy weather; m new windscreen wipers well served their purpose, and at times the rain left its mark on the photos. All in all I got more than I had hoped for including driving at 80 kph past a 70 kph radar trap on an open road but unseen to me as I followed another car past it, I will now have to wait a week or so to know whether or not I will be losing a point off my driving licence. Something. I've been through worse. Doudou has a boyfriend who I have to keep shooing away from the house, I will have to fix that, cat that is. I didn't have any money to do it previously, and I doubt whether there's enough left to do it now, no reserve for sundries.

Composite Relations

Byn Walters the home based photographer who needs sponsorship to share his oeuvres d'arts with his friends, shares his house with Byn Walters the out of work publican who needs financial aid to set himself up again in business, and Byn Walters the streetwise philosopher who looks after the larder whilst taking it all in; a composite relationship where each takes it turns to further his side of things. Sponsorship could have its returns in food for the eye, in showing an aspect, object or place that pleases aesthetically; financial aid to the out of work publican gets its return in the sight of something cherished reborn, the taste of best of beers & whisk(e)ys, the sound of world music, which leads to money in the till which in turn, if successful, leads to financial re-imbursement, or at the very least, free drinks. The street philosopher will return to the body & mind of the pub landlord, for that is what he is, who will use his earnings to close two days a week to drive around Brittany in pursuit of his hobby of photography, even perhaps at times reaching out as far as Cornwall & Cymru on ferry bargain trips; then all will be well with the world. (But for the moment I still need help).

Saint Herbot and Strawberries

Went out this afternoon taking advantage of my new found freedom to take some photos outside the village for the first time in many months. I didn't go far, only about 5 or 6 miles up the road to a local church. When finished I topped up with petrol in case I want to go out this week-end. The petrol station is in the courtyard of the supermarket I went to two days ago for my week's shopping but I forgot to get tea, also I bought some strawberries the other day that were so good I had to get some more; Breton Gariguette strawberries are so delicious that sugar &/or cream would do them an injustice, I don't think they can be surpassed anywhere. Anyway, Ospreys are on top form against the Dragons, pint of Bavaria red in hand (from Holland), and fish & rice on my plate. I'm taking it day by day, but thanks to a certain person from Austria this has been my best week since Aug 2010.

A Long Swim Against The Current

The salmon on his way home says goodbye to his English friends as he turns to swim up the Teifi & the Gwy/Wye to spawn his Welsh babies, on arrival he thinks to himself "I was born here, I'm Welsh and proud of it". This is a ridiculous notion, a fish can't think, it relies on instinct; Laurence of Arabia was born in Wales but considered himself English, Lloyd-George was born in England but considered himself Welsh; Cliff Richard was born in India!! A salmon doesn't have the foibles of we humans such as trends & factions , political intrigue and religions, and a memory scarred with injustices. The salmon travels thousands of miles if he can avoid the predators, the Welsh have thousands of years of avoiding a different kind of predator, be it Roman, Saxon, Viking, Norman, English, Industrial barons, and finally a parliamentary system that does us down. We have a memory of a journey just as long if not longer. Is it foolish to fight against the current not for 2,000 miles but for 2,000 years to defend a culture that is all but killed off so that only the very few are left; if the salmon can carry on to the end of its journey purely on instinct then we can do it on thought, we have something the salmon hasn't developed, and that is a sense of IDENTITY, with all its human foibles & quirks, that include a language that was ours  since before Jesus Christ 'till very recently; some of us, a pitiful minority now, have never lost it, we can't let it be eradicated after all this time. Putting on a red & white scarf and/or a red jersey is not enough, we need the right to decide for ourselves our policies & laws, to create our own agenda, to control our own destiny. Salmon don't have the necessary evil of poitics, we do. Go out & vote; vote for Cymru/Wales. Nofiwn ymlaen!

My New (temporary) Lease of Life

 Lounging in front of the telly watching Chelsea v Barcelona with a glass of Chimay Belgian Trappist beer, a little square of dark chocolate slowly melting in my mouth, which hopefully won't put me off attacking a chicken leg off the chicken I just cooked (micro-wave grilled); why don't we say a lamb leg? I did some proper shopping for food at  one of our 3 local supermarkets today for the first time since Aug 2010. I got a week's shopping in instead of buying piecemeal when something runs out and paying more,  wipersI made sure that Doudou was well provided for. Before that happened it had been raining heavily which forced me to buy new windscreen wipers and I had a free refix of a number plate that was hanging off. Riding around in my car and spending money, drinking beer and eating chocolate, My world is (temporarily) estranged from its two years of turmoil, tomorrow I'll wake up to thursday with everything back to normal, except that my car is back on the road for a whole year, barring accidents, affording (ironic choice of word in the circumstances) me a new found mobility.

Troc

 I'm just back from Plouigneau where I picked up a table for 10 euros, that's two I've got now; don't forget everybody I'm looking to furnish the pub, in front and behind the bar, I'm starting again from zero. I got the table from a page on F/B called 'Achat Vente Troc du Finistere' thanks to Roxanne who being aware of my situation subscribed me. When I turned the key in the ignition the car didn't start as expected, called the neighbour who brought the cables, drove off to Marilyn's house near Plouigneau after having lost my way to the house twice it was third time lucky, problem, I couldn't open the boot for the dismantled table because the one key was in the ignition and I was afraid of not being able to restart, got it tied down to the roof however, saw one or two things I wanted to photograph but was afraid to stop, I can always go back. Drove home, went to the shop for things I can't get at the café-tabac, willing to risk leaving the motor running as I was basically home, wednesday, shop shut, returned to the house, switched off the ignition, switched it back on again, engine engaged. Now Doudou on my lap while Caru sleeps.

Free at last

 Things are moving in the right direction; I haven't been able to use my car for 7 months, making life difficult for me in a little village without buses & trains and taxis out of the question. It was costing me 290 euros a quarter for insurance which I strived to pay for 4 years but had to give up as an impossibility. Terry drove me to the brokers' office today where I paid 240 euros to cover me till next April. He drove me back, I got in the car, turned the ignition, nothing, we got it started with jump leads, I set off for a 20 mile drive to recharge the battery, got back home, switched off, turned the key again, nothing, never mind, its been 7 months and there's always tomorrow, the main thing is that I am no longer a prisoner, I have rediscovered my liberty and there are many parts of Brittany still to be seen, appreciated and photographed; it will have to be seriously budgeted however, and then there's Doudou & Caru to think of; they don't use cardboard boxes any more, they are next to my bed on a wool lined jacket, they've been there for a week and it is SPOTLESS. My priority now is a second hand table on sale for 10 euros at Plouigneau.

Faeces

Byn Walters

'Degustation'

As I've already said, I've never previously drunk beer at home. I've just picked up a bottle that's been in my house for at least twenty years. I got a lot of customers from away who left me alcoholic produce from their regions, this bottle has no label but it has printed paper tied around its neck unfortunately ripped, I can make out 'bière artisanale'. France is not beer country and from its deep strong taste I would imagine that its Belgian. Most beers can be thrown away after a few years, but not the best. Some strong beers diminish in quality but then improve after 4 or 5 years; this beer is definitely quality, I've lately discovered the joy of 'degustation', appreciation of imbibing something special, in my case beer, for others it's wine. I like being solitary after spending 30 odd years standing in public at the bar; now I am sitting on my settee with only Doudou & Caru (pronounced Carrie) for company, 'though it's hardly company with Doudou constantly keeping an eye on and feeding little Caru, with glass in hand watching the CSI series on the television. For the moment I have to put the 1200 euros electricity bill at the back of my mind. I've had the support of  a couple of friends recently, from Caerffili, Cymru/Wales and Salzburg, Austria, thereby keeping the bailiffs & misery from the door, so tomorrow I will try to pay off 300 euros. The trouble is that as with Mr Micawber's famous statement, my monthly outlay of £20 nought and 6 is greater than my income of £20 until I get back on my feet.

Rugby Regions?

Are the top Welsh rugby teams regions or cities, The Scarlets notwithstanding? This evening's match between The Blues & The Ospreys is being touted on S4C as a derby match between two cities. If this is the general perception then let's stop pretending. With a drop in attendances, lack of revenue, and a haemorrhage of players it's time to recapitulate, admit that the experiment hasn't worked out, and let the spectators support an entity they can identify with. Ironically the only area that can truly be called a region, the valleys, isn't even represented; there's talk now of bringing them into the equation, it just might help the concept at least to have one real region, yet there again........

Nausea & Imbalance

The day before yesterday was slightly perturbing; I had nausea & imbalance throughout the day, yesterday the nausea had gone but I still had trouble walking straight, today it's cleared up. I was wondering whether it was anxiety from the stress of being out of work for 26 months, struggling through and it's catching up with me; or it's from sitting in front of the computer screen categorizing my photos 17 hours a day, it's unwise to fix one's gaze on a screen to closely over a long period of time, most probably that, plus a bit of anxiety over my wanting to display my photos straight away, only instead of taking minutes it was taking hours due to my laptop breaking down; or it was my diabetes raising its ugly head because of my sedentary pastime; whatever it was its gone now.

My Photos & Me

I would have preferred being out on the road this last year or so taking photographs of Brittany than being stuck in my house categorizing them, but by now you all know of my financial impediment, and without sponsorship it had to come to a stop, pity, but it was good while it lasted; it was a brand new life experience, I even slept in the back of my car on occasions, waking up to a local market with the intention of selling some of my wares, photos that I'd framed and carried with me. The petrol took its toll, plus the temporary exorbitant car insurance, and if I wanted to sell them I had to build up a stock with ink, paper & frames that bust me, it was all too much. So now I'm left dreaming of my recent past whilst at the same time dreaming of a near future, but I'd like to be back on the road in the meantime, and if I do eventually get my old position back behind the bar I will arrange things to do just that. I haven't got many years left, but I have two dormant occupations waiting to be awakened from their slumber; the phoenix shall fly high.

Rugby Quagmire

It looks as though our rugby is drawing towards our soccer, with the very best players going abroad, as John Charles did, with Chinaglia even playing for italy, but he had double nationality I assume, so it's slighly different; perhaps Bale will go to Barcelona; most cross Offa's dyke where the money is, and Swansea & Cardiff are left to carry the flag as exiles in someone else's league structure, bringing in non-Welsh players to survive. And where's the money in rugby with low crowds leading to a cap on wages. The top players are leaving for France, we have cross-national leagues with an internal championship set-up, with a Welsh Premier in rugby with it's equivalent Welsh Premier in soccer. All our soccer teams now have european aspirations, some through English qualifications the rest in Cymru, but none can win, only Swansea have a chance, if they were good enough to qualify. Our metropoles, for in no way are they regions, more like conglomerates, as in the uniting of neighbouring local authorities, what can I say, they were supposed to be our pharos, our guiding lights with our leading lights to give us success at the highest levels by concentrating our best players, now they are haemoraging players and losing to French reserves, they have no following so what's their point, it looks as though we have a quandary that is beyond me. Our soccer is weak but stable and growing; our rugby tried to better itself but is now losing its support except for the big one and the little community clubs. Go back to the basics and do the simple things well. We are not New Zealand. A word that is very important everywhere in the world, not just in Cymru/Wales is 'identity', I think the WRU have lost the plot, especially as they don't even have time for the language of Phil Bennet, Barry John & Gareth Edwards; it looks to me as though they are now in a quagmire of their own creating from which will be difficult to extricate themselves . The situation cannot stay as it is, there is a shortfall of money, our soccer is now organized and settled for growth, our rugby appears to be heading in the opposite direction; our soccer is in the community, our rugby has left it. IDENTITY comes from the cradle to the committee, it is not to be found in sycophancy and a search for honours & glory. Our soccer has professionals running what is basically an amateur game, with the top sides being mainly semi-professional; rugby is a professional game run by amateurs at the top, or at least that's how it seems to me. Or perhaps rugby outgrew itself in the 70s, syphoned off a lot of soccer players & supporters, and now things are returning to normal with rugby's core support finding that their teams have been taken away fom them by overly optimistic administraters and are now at a loss, in a lurch with nowhere to go and to give heartfelt support.

Feeling Sick

Can anyone be feeling sicker now than the people involved with Newport County who were sailing 2 - 0 up away to Kidderminster Harriers in the conference with 85 minutes gone. The dejected Kidderminster fans already heading for the turnstiles and the Newport supporters mentally drinking the Brains beer, waiting for them in the crates stacked in the luggage compartment, back at the coaches ready for the trip home, then a goal in the 86th minute, nothing to worry about, take your time getting the ball to the centre spot, match almost over; still a goal to the good; and even if Kidderminster manage to score a second, which is highly improbable at this late stage they'd still be going home with a point from an away game, no mean thing in itself, especially given their precarious league position; then wham, bang, shock horror, 2 more goals, officially on the 90th minute; that's 3 goals in 4 minutes, has that ever been done before, surpassing what Man Utd did a few years ago in European competition. I feel for them, especially as they are bordering on the relegation zone, although they've played fewer games than their rivals, a win would have earned them 3 points and probably have guaranteed them safety.

Charlie's Feathers

http://www.walesinunion.com/baby
You can be proud of being Welsh, or you can circulate the 3 feathers of Charles Windsor; I thought he wanted to reclaim them, that's what he was telling us a few years ago;  I wouldn't allow my children to wear them, and the quicker they are taken off the national team strip the better. My preference to replace them would be a roaring 'Draig Goch/Red Dragon epitomizing the fire breathing Welsh warriors we saw this year and hopefully will continue to see for many years to come. If it was up to me we'd launch the match with a rousing rendition of 'Gorymdaith Gwyr Harlech/March of the Men of Harlech', it could complement the national anthem, the Irish have given us a precedent, a war song to light the fire in our warriors bellies that would set them up for the whole 80 minutes of battle and show the All Blacks what they can do with their Haka; while we're at it get rid of the people at the top, a revamp all round.

Lost & Found

Drama at No 5; got out of bed, Doudou & Caru nowhere to be seen, palpitations, not in either of the 2 boxes and they haven't returned behind the cooker, I shout for Doudou who eventually appears but I didn't notice whether she came in from outside or from the bedroom. She goes out, I patiently follow her, she's sniffing everywhere, strolling, sitting; I fear she's looking for Caru but lost the scent in the rain; patience, she wanders farther afield, only find her toilet I've noticed her using lately in a trough in a neighbour's garden, I start to walk back to the house sensing a false trail, she follows me resting at my feet. I'm beginning to think I've lost Caru forever after a brief lifespan of 3 days, when she gets up, I don't want to lose sight of her, she heads for my bedroom, where is she? I discover her in a little niche she's found behind an old telly where I've laid out buttonless clothes waiting to be repaired, it's dark, but I can make out Caru, as Doudou finds a comfortable position to give her succour. She wasn't looking for a wider box with more room to move, there's less space where she is now, rather, a little cosy niche hidden from the wider world, her little comfort spot that she carried her baby to during the night. All is well with the world as I leave them to it.

To Friends

http://www.facebook.com/byn.walters/posts/10150746205922277?notif_t=like

We All Need Caressing

Doudou the cat left the cardboard box to eat a morsel then jumped up on my lap for a few minutes rest from feeding and caring for the little one and to enjoy a few caresses herself, after which she went around the back of the settee to do a bit of wandering that turned out to be scouting, looking around she climbed through a box, nosed into a corner before returning to it sizing it up. It looks as though the box they are in is a bit cramped, the other one being wider with room to move, she came back, tried to get a grip on her progeny who began screaming, it wasn't working, she looked up at me, miaowed, I understood, picked the little one up and took it to the other wider box where I placed it, followed by Doudou who settled in beside her. She's been out since, looking up at me, so I thought I'd test her by moving the kitten very slightly away from the box, her reaction was swift, this time she managed to grab hold of it first time by the scruff of its neck, both of them returning to their new more comfortably suited living quarters. I think this mothering is hard work, she's back on my lap for a caress leaving her baby alone in slumber for a moment, she's not yet fully grown herself, but she seems to be more than coping, up to now giving her all her time; there's no squealing as yet, I imagine that she will rush straight back once it starts which it inevitably will.

Stranded

I ought to write a book about my 2 years out of work and call it 'stranded'. No dole but subsistence allowance, charity food for 3 months of winter; I'm in a capsule, my house is my bubble of life housing my computer which is my contact with the outside world, I can't afford car insurance; my little village comprises 1 bar; 1 bar/shop, & 1 shop, I'm basically limited to only going out for my and Doudou's needs, she herslf is seeing to the needs of her newly born; the bank is one and a half hours walk northwards; I have walked to a funeral 2 hours away, and to a televised rugby international 3 and a half hours away. Friends have helped me keep my head above water. I still have a year's electricity bill to pay, but thanks to you/them it might now be possible at least to pay the insurance on my car, which I will see about as soon as I can get a lift to the office in the next town 10 miles down the road thereby ending my isolation; there again, I have to work to my priorities and the priority is the electricity bill; I need my car, but I need electricity more.
      This is the kernel of the greater story of my getting stranded in Brittany in 1979 after a two weeks holiday gained a permanent (who knows?) extension.

8 Months Between Them

It's a remarquable scene to witness, especially taking into acount that Doudou is not yet fully grown herself. It's wonderful the way that she looks to me to pass my hand smoothingly over her head before dropping to the foetal position so that her infant  may take succour, and when finished she places her paw tenderly over the little one's body in a gesture of loving protection.

Tribulations in the night

I was woken up about half an hour ago by Doudou sitting on me, I thought it strange that she should leave the little one for a friendly fondle; after about a minute I heard squealing, she left me, I followed her to the box, and catastrophe, there lying prostrate was the form of a tiny kitten, I picked it up, but it was dead; I didn't understand because it had just squealed, forlorn I picked it up, tried to revive it, gave it back to Doudou who licked it, I picked it back up before giving in and getting rid of it, it was very damp where it had been, It must have been newly born for when Doudou  moved across there was the tiny figure of yesterday's newcomer fit & well. After a minute or two Doudou left the house for a little wander, I followed her as she was acting strangely going from place to place, I couldn't see clearly in the dark but twice in different places she went as to go to the toilet, scratching and taking her time; it was too cold so I came back inside followed a few moments later by Doudou, now all is well with the two of them snuggled up contentedly together in the cardboard box.

Shame on them

 I've taken the WRU off my facebook 'like' as part of a campaign, not  because of its stupid action in the craven bootlicking of the higher establishment by appointing royalty, a person who together with his brother makes it obvious he  supports the white shirts, as an executive officer, there is that, but it's more to do with their otherwise seemingly forgetting what the 'W' stands for. Included amongst its many nuances is 'Cymraeg' the Welsh language but it isn't evident to anyone frequenting their stadia or having other dealings with them. They are reneging on their responsibilities & duties as a national body representing a bi-lingual country. As I would say back home "shame on them" 

5 Conceptions & Births

Just thinking to myself that I've been present at/witnessed 5 conceptions & births: Dowlais Rugby Club in 1975; my daughter Morwen in 1980; my son Dewi in 1982; the Coreff brewery in 1985; and 'Les Vieilles Charrues' in 1992. In 1975 Sid Hill took me to the Bruce Hotel in Dowlais to show me a room that would be the initial clubhouse for his new rugby team who now play in the Swalec League Division 3 South East; two bank clerks came to see  me in 1984 with an idea to set up the first modern micro brewery in Brittany inspired by a vist to Cymru/Wales, they were athletes who worked at a bank as union officials whose term was coming to an end, they couldn't abide the idea of going back to a desk and would I join them in selling their beer, I accepted, so did Roger Ty Coz in Montroulez/Morlaix and Bernard Thomas, Chez Tom in Lesneven, they called their beer 'Coreff' which was a north Breton word for beer discovered by George Jouin in his own bookshop, similar to the Welsh 'Cwrw(f); A group of student school supervisers [pion(ne)s] for a few years prior to 1992 used to organize parties in my pub, I let them bring their own food & wine, I would heat their food in my micro-wave, or they would cook sausages & potatoes over a tripod until one day they hired a field in Landelo/Landeleau before going on to become the largest open air music festival in France at Karaez/Carhaix, naming it 'Les Vieilles Charrues' as a parodic reaction to the coastal festivals such as 'Les Vieux Gréemonts' it included invented traditional peasant games.