BUGS, BAD LANGUAGE AND BUMPS ON THE HEAD!

After yesterdays eulogy on the delights of autumn and the pleasures of prudent house keeping I am today in the mood to show the other side of the idyll,after all ,let us be honest of die trying!

Harvesting the fruits of ones labours should be, and often is a very rewarding experience,I get a real buzz from knowing that the food on the table was grown by my own hands and with the sweat of my brow,yet it must be faced,there can be drawbacks.

Many of the fruits have thorny branches,enough said , one expects to pay for ones pleasures.

Then there are the biting beasties,of which there are a great multitude, gnats,midges,horse flies,which lay there eggs under ones skin ,the resulting grubs are called Bots, and very unpleasant creatures they are.

Wasps, always feisty are, at this time of the year drunk through eating rotten and fermenting fruit in which condition they will sting you just for the hell of it! I have in the last month or so spent a fortune on insect repellent, most of which seemed to act more as a relish than a deterrant!

Then there is the experience of picking fruit in the pouring rain, this not unusual occurrence made today’s picking of ten pounds of damsons damned unpleasant and the damp air caused the gnats to be even more voracious than usual.

Picking apples,especially in a group requires the deployment of a tin hat,similar to those worn by A.R.P. wardens in the second great war. The alternative,bumps on the head or worse rotten fruit in ones hair.

The making of jam is a messy business,bubbling cauldrons of jam splash the kitchen with a substance similar to Kensington Gore and are often found a considerable distance from the pan. Then there is the matter of the damson stones, which have to be skimmed of as the jam cooks,failure to perform this annoying task can lead to broken teeth and fractured friendships. It is a job I detest and I usually say a rude word to every stone as I chase it around the bubbling pan with a skimmer,getting spattered with boiling jam the while.

Storing the blessed jam jars during the time they are not in use is a right royal pain in the rear as is scrubbing off the labels which proclaim the jar's former use. This task is often the cause of much course abuse on my part as the recalcitrant labels refuse to budge.

Having said all of this I still believe that it is fun to make ones own preserves........most of the time!

AUTUMN FIDGETS

Every year at about this time I feel an overwhelming urge to make ready for the winter months ahead and like a squirrel I stuff my pantry with foodstuffs and prepare the house for the dark cold days and nights ahead.

Today this may seem odd and has ,in the past called froth a degree of ridicule from some of my city friends,yet in the country side where I grew up it was and still is quite normal to lay in supplies against possible shortages when the bad weather comes.

Already our cupboards and shelves are bulging with a variety of preserves and there is more still to be made, beans and apple rings blanched and frozen on trays join the gooseberries and black currants,wine berries and strawberry pulp. All will,in time find their way to the table in one guise or another,when bought fruit becomes expensive.

Light summer curtains are taken down and thicker lined ones take their place, fur rugs and thick patchwork quilts replace the fine thin cotton sheets and summer throws.

Of course these are not deployed all at once, but little by little as the weather cools and the nights draw in these winter delights will appear once more.

Vases of wild flowers are replaced by candles and oil lamps. The search for the hot water bottles begins(every year we forget where we put them) all in all it is a busy time for all of us at the cottage.

The pay off..to coin a phrase is that no matter what weather winter throws at us we shall be self sufficient. Should there be power cuts we have the lamps and candles to fall back on,not for us a frantic hunt in the dark for a missing flash light. Last winter when the power failed we had light in all the rooms within a couple of minutes and life carried on uninterrupted.

Most people buy charcoal during the summer months,we begin to hoard the stuff in the autumn, to be used if the gas and the electricity fail at the same time.

I have the means to cook out of doors on an open fire or in a brick oven,it works well, I have used these things often.

I can guarantee that the very people who crack wise over my squirrelling tendencies will be the first to appear on my doorstep to “borrow” a candle,some paraffin,or some other scarce commodity,it is always so.

By the time lovely autumn has flung her brilliant beauty in to the wind and fingers of frost begin to appear on the glass we shall be snug and warm and ready. For whatever winter has in store,we have our own stores to fall back on while we wait the return of spring.

GHOST CAT

While we are on the subject of the paranormal I really must make your acquaintance with our ghost cat,I am quite serious we really do have the ghost of a cat wandering round the house.

Pa and I were aware of him before we actually saw him,in fact it was some years before he deigned to materialise to anyone except another cat. Our lovely and much missed Lord Tom would ,on occasion appear to be chasing nothing around the room. He would hiss and fizz like a dodgy firework and stare at a particular spot at something only he could see.

Twiggy,has had a slightly better relationship with the ghost,she simply stares at it and follows its movements about the room with interest. Only once or twice has she taken exception to it's presence and chased it up the stairs.

It is since the advent of Moth, my sons little calico cat that the ghost has been visible to us all. Whenever I sit to write at my desk it comes and rubs its self against my legs and then dives under the bed, Sometimes I see it whisking out of my bedroom and on to the landing. There is no mistaking ,this cat is all black unlike any of our moggies.

Often it is a while before I realise that my visitor is not either Moth,or Twiggy,it is only when I put my hand down to stroke it fur and find nothing that I become aware of the ghost.

Shortly before his holiday my son woke and poured himself a glass of water,a cat which he assumed was Moth was washing it's whiskers while sitting on his armchair,suddenly it dawned on him that this cat was black,and when Moth strolled in through the door he was much taken aback!

Moth id very fond of our spectral cat and the two of them play chase for hours,hiding from each other under beds or behind the shower curtain. Our neighbours cat, a dashing tom cat named Harry takes a haughty air in it'd presence,well his is still quite young.

Our ghostly cat has become as much a part of the family as our other cats and I feel that we should name it,and there is the problem. Black cats names such as Sooty,are out of the question and I am loath to call it Spook in case it takes offence

Privately I call him Bast after the Egyptian cat God of that name,it suits him too. On the other hand he is so playful that perhaps my choice is to solemn! Perhaps he already has a name. OH well even with all theses trouble he will cause less problems the the other cats,after all ghosts don't eat!

THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT!

Actually it was not so much a bump,more a blood chilling shriek,and it certainly gave my son and I the jim-jams.

It was Sunday night,around midnight. I was about to turn in and my son was in his room writing, the night air was still,all was quiet when from high in the air and to the right of the cottage an ear splitting shriek made me almost jump out of my skin.

The shriek became a dreadful wailing and had moved quickly to a position in front of the house. I am finding it impossible to describe the terrifying sound,it was certainly not animal,we are used to the peculiar sounds made by foxes and the horrible screaming of their victims, this was no fox.

Nor could it have been human,unless able to fly! By now whatever it was it had taken up a station beneath my bedroom window on the orchard side of the house and the noise through the open window was appalling;it was at this point that my son heard it too.

By the time we met on the landing the screeching and wailing was coming from the churchyard and in the course of a few moments it was back where it began and had circled the house completely.

Once again all was quiet and had my son not also witnessed the event I might have though I had dreamed the whole thing. Even though the cries had stopped somewhere in my head I could still hear it and this continued for several hours. Much later I went to make coffee as I could not sleep, my son,also sleepless met me on the landing. Coffee made my son quite out of the blue asked me if what we had heard could have been a banshee!

There is in my families genes a little of every country that makes up the British Isles and so the answer could be yes. We laughed it off and went back to our rooms ,this time to sleep just as dawn was breaking.

Now here is the really odd bit of the story,although Pa was wide awake and in spite of the fact that whatever the beast was it performed for some time under his open bedroom window ,he heard nothing, not a squeak!

This has me almost convinced that one of my family's harbingers has paid us a visit for this one is peculiar in so far as it can only be heard by those related by blood to the family it haunts.

This is the first time for me and I fervently hope it will be the last................perhaps I should rephrase that last remark!

JAM OF A THOUSAND CURSES

There is a delectable confection loved by all who try it,the recipe is very old and not to be found in modern cookery books. In the age of ready meals and microwaves it would seem that these old recopies have little place ,but in times of austerity such a delicious and nutritious preserve is worth considering.

Should you attempt this recipe I give you fair warning that its name is well deserved,also known as apple and rose hip marmalade the process is painful and sticky in equal measure and for shear aggravation value it is second only to rose hip wine,I made this beverage only once and in spite of the fact that it is a wonderful wine my courage was not sufficient to attempt it more than once.

2 kg rose hips

2 kg cooking apples

juice of 1 lemon

one and a half pound of sugar

Wash the rose hips and place in a sauce pan with a litre and a half of water. Bring to the boil and simmer until the hips are soft crushing them occasionally. When they are soft empty in to a small jelly bag and strain over night.

Next day peel the apples and put them in a saucepan with a little water,bring to the boil and simmer gently until soft. Add the rose hip juice and the sugar then bring to the boil stirring until the sugar had dissolved. Boil for about ten minutes until setting point is reached then pour in to prepared jars.

This preserve is wonderful as a relish served with cold chicken,turkey or ham and is equally delicious eaten on a scone with a little cream.

Here is an important tip for anyone rash enough to attempt this recipe. The wild rose ,on which the hips grow is a thorny little devil and no matter how careful you may be you will fall victim to it's revenge on anyone stealing it's bounty. Removing the thorns is well nigh impossible and the best thing to do is wait a few days for them to pop out of there own accord.

I once,by grave mischance sat down on a wild rose bush ,the consequences of this accident haunted me for days. You have been warned!

ALL STUCK UP

his morning for some reason both my son and I were completely shattered,it was as if neither of us had slept at all. In fact I had slept little and my son not much better and to make matters worse Pa was up,dressed and as bright as a button, something which has not occurred for some years!

Very late and very rusty we hobbled downstairs and on auto -pilot I made a batch of pancakes for breakfast after which Pa went shopping my son limped back to his lair and I decided to make some preserves.

Jam making is a total experience in so far as everything ,including me becomes totally sticky,today was no exception. I quartered six pounds of Bramley's and set then to simmer with half a dozen sticks of thyme, then ,in another pan a kilo of rose hips were left to simmer while I hied me to the orchard to pick six pounds of damsons.

Damsons are pesky little devils as many of them are infested with small grubs ,so unless you wish to find these unsavoury little critters floating about in your jam it is necessary to carefully check each one for the tell ale signs of occupation by these nasty little pests.

If grubs are present there will be a small droplet of clear liquid,sometimes solidified at the base of the fruit, this is the result of the grub having digester the fruit inside....in other words it is grub poo!! Not a pleasant thought when tucking in to jam and cream scones on a cold winters afternoon to be sure.

Having sorted through about ten pounds of damsons to find six grub free specimens I returned to the house,poured the apple pulp into a jelly bag to strain over night,ditto the rose hips then I tied the apple bag to a camera tri-pod and hung the rose hip bag from one of the kitchen cupboard doors, and vastly tricky it was to do.

I then turned my attention to the damsons and set them to boil in a large maslin pan, as they softened I made ready the jars for bottling then, when the fruit was soft I added the sugar and commenced the business of skimming of the damson stones,of which there were a great multitude. This task is the epitome of the dreary yawn feste and on a hot day it is unpleasant to have to stand so close to the pan in order to remove the teeth breaking stones. Note to self,next time make damson jelly!

At last all the stones were gone and the jam safely bottled in hot jars, now all I had to do was clear the kitchen......................what a mess. Every where I looked there were dark red splotches of damson jam, lumps of apple pulp, sugar granules and above all a mountain of sticky utensils, the cleaning of which to over an hour.

Free at last I took the buggy out for a spin to cool down and get some fresh air and all went well until I stood up to pick some delicious looking elderberries. A large blob of jam had adhered to my trousers and I was well and truly stuck to the seat of the buggy,I got up and left my elastic waisted trousers behind. This could have been very nasty luckily there was no one around so I pulled up my trousers and headed for home...cursing horribly!

With every bone aching I set about making the pasta meal I had promised the boys although my whole desire was to go directly to bed and when at last the meal was over and the dishes washed I fled to the bathroom and bagged first shower.

Now, with my eyes closing I write my daily account .in the certain knowledge that by the time I fall in to bed I shall be wide awake and will spend most of the night watching the rolling news. BUMMER!

HARRY'S CHOICE

Roughly around the time we acquired our little cat moth,our next door neighbour but one (that sound wrong but who gives a damn?) also took in a wandering stray,a ginger tom kitten who the named Harry.

Harry,now fully grown to the prime of Tom cat hood,minus a few bits, has been a regular visitor to our house and garden for months. His fur is sleek and glossy,he is superbly fit and undeniably hansom,his is,quite simply irresistible. Not to our female cats so much as to the human residents,we all adore the dear boy and the feeling is mutual.

Day by day Harry spends more and more of his time at our house or in our garden,on wet days he curls up on a chair or on my bed and sleeps away the day,as do our girls and with the exception of the odd spat they are getting along very well. Even Twiggy has been seen to smile benignly from her vantage spot on the radiator at Harry,asleep on Pa's big leather armchair;miracles will never cease!

Harry, used to remaining with us until darkness falls and he was called home now has something of a problem for as the nights drawer in he is called home earlier each night and ,frankly he is always loath to leave. Often he goes when he hears his name called and the returns a little latter and remains for an hour or two,in order for his owners to let him out after dark he must be driving them batty in his eagerness to return to us.

The fact of the matter is that Harry,Haribo or Hal as he is variously called feels that this is his home and the poor creature seems torn when it is time to leave. I would adopt the old boy like a shot but he is,after all someone else’s cat. Not only that but the people he belongs to are the most unpleasant pair of individuals you can imagine ans so ,as you see it is difficult, not only for Harry but for us also.

So as the say Up North “What's to do?” I honestly wish I knew,bit this much I am certain of Harry wants to live with us,he likes our house,he likes the company and he certainly likes the food .

Like Moth he is desperate for love and reassurance as is often the way with cats who have been abandoned,Twiggy has always been clingy in spite of the fact that she has been with s for around nine years she is still very insecure.

When Harry asks to come in I have not the heart to refuse him,his cries are heartbreaking and I am an old softy. There is one more thing,his owners also possess two huge dogs who were until the advent of harry unused to cats in their domain. When in doors,which is most of the time they are kept in cages in the living room they are never taken for walks and apart from being let out in to a very small garden for half an hour here and there they are caged for most of the day.

Harry if terrified of dogs ,even small one give him the jim jams so what it must be like to share a small living room with two huge dogs I can only imagine.

I am convinced that when cold winter arrives harry will settle down in his favourite chair and refuse to budge and I must confess I am worried about his future. I have heard it said that cats choose their owners and I believe this to be true. Harry will decide,but weather his owners will abide by his choice remains to be seen. Dear Harry, I do hope they will.