Tuesday, May 13, 2014

sir robert clayton and his wife, martha, and their son Robert, who had died long before them in his infancy, some say on the very first day of his life
























The Clayton Memorial, in the church at Bletchingly, was put up by Sir Robert Clayton very late in his own lifetime, in 1705, in honour of his wife. 

Sir Robert was Lord Mayor of London, Member of Parliament for Blechingley, and a benefactor of St Thomas's Hospital and Christ's Hospital. He lived at Pendell. It is by Richard Crutcher and is considered one of the best examples of the work of that period.  The fine wrought-iron railings are contemporary and were painted blue and gold.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Clayton

http://www.historyofparliamentonline.org/volume/1660-1690/member/clayton-sir-robert-1629-1707


I've photographed the memorial before, but had another chance today when forced to take a "tacho break".

Sunday, May 11, 2014

rules of reading ... ONE: always read the label before partaking







































at my secret little bus stop in paradise


trucker's bargain of the week


i'm listening to a long rarther posh song about food whilst not listening to the archers
















http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x4dzP7gNO6w

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Symphony_No._4_(Mahler)

Das himmlische Leben
(aus Des Knaben Wunderhorn)
Wir genießen die himmlischen Freuden,
D'rum tun wir das Irdische meiden.
Kein weltlich' Getümmel
Hört man nicht im Himmel!
Lebt alles in sanftester Ruh'.
Wir führen ein englisches Leben,
Sind dennoch ganz lustig daneben;
Wir tanzen und springen,
Wir hüpfen und singen,
Sankt Peter im Himmel sieht zu.

Johannes das Lämmlein auslasset,
Der Metzger Herodes d'rauf passet.
Wir führen ein geduldig's,
Unschuldig's, geduldig's,
Ein liebliches Lämmlein zu Tod.
Sankt Lucas den Ochsen tät schlachten
Ohn' einig's Bedenken und Achten.
Der Wein kost' kein Heller
Im himmlischen Keller;
Die Englein, die backen das Brot.

Gut' Kräuter von allerhand Arten,
Die wachsen im himmlischen Garten,
Gut' Spargel, Fisolen
Und was wir nur wollen.
Ganze Schüsseln voll sind uns bereit!
Gut' Äpfel, gut' Birn' und gut' Trauben;
Die Gärtner, die alles erlauben.
Willst Rehbock, willst Hasen,
Auf offener Straßen
Sie laufen herbei!

Sollt' ein Fasttag etwa kommen,
Alle Fische gleich mit Freuden angeschwommen!
Dort läuft schon Sankt Peter
Mit Netz und mit Köder
Zum himmlischen Weiher hinein.[note 1]
Sankt Martha die Köchin muß sein.

Kein' Musik ist ja nicht auf Erden,
Die unsrer verglichen kann werden.
Elftausend Jungfrauen
Zu tanzen sich trauen.
Sankt Ursula selbst dazu lacht.
Kein' Musik ist ja nicht auf Erden,
Die unsrer verglichen kann werden.
Cäcilia mit ihren Verwandten
Sind treffliche Hofmusikanten!
Die englischen Stimmen
Ermuntern die Sinnen,
Daß alles für Freuden erwacht.
The Heavenly Life
We enjoy heavenly pleasures
and therefore avoid earthly ones.
No worldly tumult
is to be heard in heaven.
All live in greatest peace.
We lead angelic lives,
yet have a merry time of it besides.
We dance and we spring,
We skip and we sing.
Saint Peter in heaven looks on.

John lets the lambkin out,
and 
Herod the Butcher lies in wait for it.
We lead a patient,
an innocent, patient,
dear little lamb to its death.
Saint Luke slaughters the ox
without any thought or concern.
Wine doesn't cost a penny
in the heavenly cellars;
The angels bake the bread.

Good greens of every sort
grow in the heavenly vegetable patch,
good asparagus, string beans,
and whatever we want.
Whole dishfuls are set for us!
Good apples, good pears and good grapes,
and gardeners who allow everything!
If you want roebuck or hare,
on the public streets
they come running right up.

Should a fast day come along,
all the fishes at once come swimming with joy.
There goes Saint Peter running
with his net and his bait
to the heavenly pond.
Saint 
Martha must be the cook.

There is just no music on earth
that can compare to ours.
Even the eleven thousand virgins
venture to dance,
and 
Saint Ursula herself has to laugh.
There is just no music on earth
that can compare to ours.
Cecilia and all her relations
make excellent court musicians.
The angelic voices
gladden our senses,
so that all awaken for joy.

Thursday, May 1, 2014

May Day

By the pond which heads two valleys at Turners Hill … the first swallow.

By a quarry near Betchworth, momentarily quiet at lunchtime, only the sounds of falling rain and a skylark.

Just about everywhere … the scents of cow parsley, hawthorn, and freshly mown grass.

Wednesday, April 30, 2014

3BT

Emerging victorious from a winding race against imagined rivals, my truck flies up through the damp and shivery bluebelled woods on the western side of Ashdown Forest to encounter a cheering throng of about a zillion fluffy dandelion seed heads dewily bejewelled and backlit by the rising sun.

At breakfast time, four hours in to my working day, Barb the wise coffee woman at Waitrose in Crowborough is sliding my best coffee in town across the counter before I can open my mouth to order it.


Much later, as I wash the dishes after supper, a huge thundery cloud edged with silver darkens the western horizon where we look out across the Thames Valley from Putney Heath towards Kew and Northolt and the very distant Chalfonts.  By a trick of light and perspective, a solitary late sunbeam finds a gap and slopes up from left to right, and for a few minutes a succession of gleaming jets flying out of Heathrow seem to climb that beam as if it were a Freeway to Heaven.