An Adventure

I try to persuade my mother to start writing her memories, but although she says it's a good idea, she doesn't quite get around to it. Her father was the youngest son of a welsh mining family, near Swansea, in the south.
The family lived a hard life, and death was never far away in the coalmines. John's father, and all his brothers felt that he, the youngest, should have a chance to escape that life, and all agreed to put aside a meagre portion of their tiny wages towards his education. So, at the age of twelve, he signed on to the payroll of the mine. With his father and brothers, he toiled in the darkness and filth of the mine, but, each night, he had the first use of the one tub of bathwater that served six men, and then would go out to the mechanics institute, to study engineering. He became a pit engineer, a respected and privileged post, and after a few years, achieved the dream his family had for him, he left the mine, to travel to the seaport of Swansea, where he became an engineer on the docks. In this new life, he met a beautiful girl, Selina-Maria, and fell in love. But they were from different worlds, John Griffiths, a miners son, fiercely proud of his family. Selina-Maria, daughter of the manager of a large company, brought up in a big house with servants, and a stranger to want and hunger. Her father took John aside,and told him that whilst he liked and respected the young suitor, it would be inadvisable to ask for Selina's hand in marriage until he could afford to buy her a house of her own, in a suitable neighbourhood.
Devastated, John realised that he could never earn enough on the docks to meet that requirement, so, writing a letter for his beloved, he signed on as crew in a square rigger, and left his homeland on the evening tide.



The first voyage took him to Africa, the Gold Coast, where he found work as a mine engineer, but then left, along with three other adventurers, to seek gold in the jungles of the Congo, -one by one, the others sickened, John nursed them, then buried them, the african bearers killed and ate the dog. John slept with a gun in his hand, fearing he was to be next on the menu. One night the drums sounded through the jungle, and in the morning, the bearers were gone. John was never sure what time had elapsed before the day he staggered into a native village, delirious with fever, nor how long it was that the villagers nursed him, but by the time he was fit, he spoke their language. With their craftsmen he learned to work the little gold he had found, and from a part of it he made a ring, in the shape of two clasped hands, to send to Selina, before taking ship again, south to Australia.

For four years he travelled, working in mines, repairing steam cranes on docks, crewing square-riggers across the oceans, until he was paid off in Valparaiso, in Chile, where his uncle was a shipwright. He stayed there, working for his uncle, using his engineering skills, learning new ones. The uncle was childless, talked of John being his heir and successor.

Uncle wanted a commitment to staying, but John yearned for his beloved.

One day the two, uncle and nephew had a row. Harsh words spoken, not easily withdrawn.

John packed his sea-chest, and went to the docks. There on the tide, was a ship sailing for England. He signed on. The story goes that his uncle had men searching the town, frantic to find him and persuade him to return, but too late.

Apparently there is a statue to the uncle in Valparaiso... I've nevver been able to confirm the details, but it seems he was honoured as a hero, for warning the town of an impending attack by the Peruvian Navy...

The journey home was a bad one, the Cape Horn storms repeatedly drove them back, he described four months of gales, the ship beating into the wind but unable to round Cape Horn, four months in wet clothes, wet living quarters, rotten food, picking insects out of the biscuits they were fed, four months of shipmates lost swept overboard, of men falling from the rigging, men crushed by shifting cargo.
Eventually they broke free of the southern ocean, and sailed to the Falklands for repairs and provisions. John's skills learned in the shipyard earned him promotion from seaman to shipwright, and much welcome extra pay. He described bursting into tears at the scent of the land as they first approached the shore, to dock at Plymouth, on the south coast of England. When eventually, a week later, he reached Swansea, he arrived unexpected, and at first, unrecognised. The slight, nervous young man the family remembered was no more, At their door was a confident, tanned, weathered man, asking to see Selina. Her mother, puzzled and unrecognising, enquired who he might be and what business he might have, but was bowled aside by Selina, who knew just what business he might have.... The rest, as they say, is history, and I'm here to prove it. The stories are many that I have not written here, The first Motor Lorry in Uruguay, for which John was the engineer, driver trainer and assembler. The schooner found drifting with not a soul aboard, but a meat cleaver buried in the table as a clue. They need my mother to set them down."

I'll try update this, after further quizzing my Mama.

Pointless Things

I was musing about pointless things.
Like this: -the remote control for my car radio.
Why... What is the point? I sit within arm's reach of the radio, as does any front-seat passenger.
Who in their right mind would gift control to anyone in the back?
I wondered maybe stretch limo?
No.. They would sell a hundred thousand ordinary car radios for every stretch limo.

What's the point?


Leave a comment, enlighten me.

And tell me of pointless things you own.

Sigur Rós:Starálfur

Starálfur
Artist: Sigur Rós
Albums: Ágætis Byrjun (1999)
Composers: Jón þor Birgisson
Kjartan Sveinsson
Orri Páll Dýrason
Georg Holm




Blá nótt yfir himininn
Blá nótt yfir mér
Horf-inn út um gluggann
Minn með hendur
Faldar undir kinn
Hugsum daginn minn
Í dag og í gær
Blá náttfötin klæða mig í
Beint upp í rúm
Breiði mjúku sængina
Loka augunum
Ég fel hausinn minn undir sæng
Starir á mig lítill álfur
Hleypur að mér en hreyfist ekki
Úr stað – sjálfur
Starálfur
Opna augun
Stírurnar úr
Teygi mig og tel (hvort ég sé ekki)
Kominn aftur og alltalltílæ
Samt vantar eitthvað
Eins og alla vegginna

I lived and worked in Iceland for a year.
I might post something about it one day.

52 Vincent Black Lightning

Richard Thompson , from Rumour and Sigh .
Just a song, that's all.

Oh says Red Molly to James "That's a fine motorbike.
A girl could feel special on any such like"
Says James to Red Molly "My hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952.
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favourite colour scheme"
And he pulled her on behind and down to Boxhill they did ride
Oh says James to Red Molly "Here's a ring for your right hand
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man.
For I've fought with the law since I was seventeen,
I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine.
Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22
And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you.
And if fate should break my stride
Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride"

"Come down, come down, Red Molly" called Sergeant McRae
"For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery.
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside.
Oh come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside"
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left
He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
But he smiled to see her cry
He said "I'll give you my Vincent to ride"

Says James "In my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl.
Now Nortons and Indians and Greeves won't do,
Ah, they don't have a soul like a Vincent 52"
Oh he reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
Said "I've got no further use for these.
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome,
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home"
And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride.

Being an Accounte of a Straynge Journey in a Foreign Land

I am, as your majesties know by now, no straynger to that which is straynge. In the month of septembre 2003, I did encounter of a gathering the like of which no civilised person might imagine. I was travelling upon the Queens highway, that which is named M-One, when for divers reasons I did feel the need to stop for a leake, and knowing from an earlier ~incident, that to do so would invite rude behaviour from the constables who prowl these ways, as like unto footpads, they would seek to incarcerate me and fine me until my purse of ducats should be quyte empty, I did seek to find a bye road more suited. Whilst adjusting my breeks, I chanced to spy a sign that did say ~ '4X4 event', and being interested by the idea that the rustics of these parts might practise mathematicks I did follow these signs to a farm closely surrounded by clever but mostly immobile carriages. Beyond this farm, through a stone tunnel I came across a sight akin to a army encamped for a mile or so in the valley. I followed the noyse and smoake until I found a line of carriages, which at interval disappeared into the woods, dispatched by a group of bucksome young ladyse who wore curious yellow vestes. I enquired here as to the location of the mathematickers, but they seemed not to properly understand, and sent me instead to a tent or booth, where a man looking like the magician Merlin did magick away my ducats and take my signature. He told me this was not mathematick but contraptions called 4x4 carriages. This kindly man commended me to attend the Mud Hole. I so betook myself in that direction. What a curious people these are. All over the countryside were these horsefree contrivances, snorting and grinding through the woods and crowds of people, both peasants and persons of quality urging them on, and crying out raucous comments. 1 found the Mudde-Hole to be most aptly named, being a large hole filled with mud. Like the executions at Tyburn which I reported in an earlier dispatch.

This crowd did roar most mercilessly when one of the carriages did stop and fill with mud at the bottom of the hole. Then another navigator of the clag would descend into tile ooze to attach some sort of hawser to the stricken vessel and haul it free, in time for the next victim. Never have I seen a more stupid activity, yet in the glorious sunshine, it was strangely compelling and I did spend some time there, watching, and jeering and cheering with the crowd, for the multitude were not in the least passive, yet rather were they alike those at a festival .... But only were they fascinated by those strange carriages, and their brave navigators.

Becoming eager to learn more, I walked back to the main tented area, where divers hawkers and charlatans were to be seen haggling over rusty items.of no obvious value. One worthy I asked about this explained that each year at this fair, the people's object was to buy one of these filthy totems, usually against the strongly expressed wish of their dear beloved, and to then brag about the ‘bargain’. They would then take the item back to their hovel, and set it to acquire a denser patina of rust After a year, they take up their bargain, and journey again to Langley Farm, where they attempt to sell the item for about half what they paid for it. If they so do, they feel that they are now rich, and seek out another trader, to exchange the newly returned money for some other filthy trinket. A special glee is to be had when the new item goes home and is found to have a left hand thread, and to be incompatible with any of the vehicles littering their premises.

In fact, the absolute prize is to find a part that looks identical to the one on their vehicle, except all the bolt holes are a different pattern, and to find it fits only centre-steer land rovers built for export to Patagonia, As no Land Rovers of centre steer variety were ever known to be exported to Patagonia, and the one built is lost, this part is lovingly kept, and returned to Langley Farm next year labelled ~Water Pump 200 Tdi?—offers?' and sold again, at a loss, to the next delighted customer, who will laugh, and tell anyone who will listen, that it's not a 200 tdi part, but they spotted at once that it's the legendary roots supercharger off a Le Mans blown 80".
The most learned amongst you my friends will have noticed a change in my style of writing. I have employed a scribe. ~my olde boanes like not this cold aire of Engerlund, and I fear the goose quill quivers in my hand, so a slave, or strumpet need be imployed occasionally. But they do not wryte as do we, grinding oak gall for ink, but rather press along a board inlaid with inscribed ivory pieces. As they press magically the word is shewn on parchment in a dosed box, behind glass, and lighted from behind. The letters are not as written but are alike to the wooden type invented by herr Gutenberg, and coppied in Enger lund by the plagiarist maister Caxton.
I digress; Oh, yes, where better: could I gauge the mood of a crowd but in a tavern! In the field was a splendid canvas pavilion, within which a tavern keeper was plying his trade, to an eager crowd.
The beer was most welcome. I was bewildered by the sights I had seen, and overwhelmed by the gaudily clad revellers, in truth, I was afeared I was set so adrift from our world that I may never see reason again.
The multitude stirred, and rushed outside. There was a roaring and whistling along the field, and then upon us came the hugest contraption I have ever seen. I know the tales of travellers are oft discounted as whimsy, but I swear I do not lie when I say this contraption had no fewer than SIX wheels and was so huge as to blot out the sun. I recoiled in- well, I must confess it was a moment of fear, but as I peered cautiously upward I spied, to my amazement, a fine lady, dressed not in any outlandish mode, but even as our Queen might dress, with a fine brocaded dress, modest headdress, a properly starched ruff.


Oh, at last a sign of civilisation! The lady, or Queen as she was of these parts was attended by a fine gentleman, a charming baronet, I am told, one Blackadder-Bill Smith, it seems. Queen Helen had attended this affair before, when she was first captivated by the Knight of the Suzuki, resplendent as he was in billowing pantaloons. And this year, they were here to celebrate with the 4x4 abusers a blessing of their marriage on the field of Langley.
A worthy and somewhat rotund gentleman did conduct the ceremony, which was so moving a tear did escape my eye.
The couple were waited upon by a hideous and noisome churl, who betimes chew'd vigorously upon a turnip, ad threw sweets to children. I was told he was once a comely fellow, but I tell you he was so pox'd and scabby, It was hard to imagine.
When I came downwind of him, it was alike to being in the lee of a Turkish slave-galley; fearing contagion, I bathed as soon as I could in vinegar, or rather, non brewed condiment, obtained in hundreds of bottles from the chippe-oil.
I fear if that churl remains free there will be another outbreak of plague to punish these parts of yorwickeshire, It was with great amusement that I observed the any creature unafraid of this 'Lesbrearley' as the churl was known was a small dogge, which seamed also to have an eye upon his turnippes.

The Queen and her consorte being now within the tavern, a crowd of small childeren begged to clamber up onto the six wheel'd leviathan, and not a few adults, claiming they needs be aboard in order to safeguard the infants. I pleaded my status as a traveller in these beleaguered parts, and was allowed to climb up, to the top, then down through a hatch into the captains cabin and wheelhouse. Even the poorest of vessels in Suez has better accommodation for its master. This poor fellow has but a small space with three seats, and a multitude of levers and handles. The machine is capable of sailing the oceans, as well as careering over the land. But how the poor fellow sleeps in a storm is beyond me.

Betymes, he steered the giant around the fields, grunting and muttering in the yorewickeshire language, of which I could understand little. The carriage/boat is called a Stalwart, and IS a weapon of war. Indeed, I can well imagine how our camel cavalry might flee, faced with a troop of these, Even the elephants of Siam would seemly be daunted.
I was too overwhelmed to continue.
I slept in a small wheeled cabin they call caravan. Funny.
On the morrow, I breakfasted heartily, and betook of myself to the muddehole, where a handsome chap was running a pump to raise the level of filth for an eager publick. To my great delight, the fellow revealed that he was the celebrated alchymist, Soubriquet, recently come to the farme on a straynge contrivance of his own invention. He had exscaped from captivity, where he had beene chained uppe by an individual yclept 'Muck Moases'; aided by a ‘ladye' of little remorse’, who is known as "Gail". My new friend warned me that these were hardened codnippers, and not to he trusted.
Soubriquet- or "Ersatz", as I was privileged to call him, was deeply interested to meet me, a learned traveller from afar, he toald me it was refreshing to meet a gentleman of quality, and that he felt I was the one person to whom he could divulge the mystery of making gold from a bucket of yoreckeshire fog. I have paid all of my ducats for this secret, and am reduced to selling my buttons to live. But I have the bucket and other apparatus safely parcelled and am making all haste to return to my home in our civilised land. I confess I look foreward with happy anticipation to a future of riches beyond imagining. Soberquit has toald me to be not too hasty, and that sometimes the first few tries do not yield gold, but perseverance and practise will bring success.
He is a good and honest man, and to betoken this honesty has given me a 'Comet Extended Warranty' which in his land is a powerful juju. Also, if as soon as return hoam, I send him a gallon can filled with Rubies, he will despatch a new publickation of his, called "How to Build a Lan-Drover, for pleasure or profit"; he soald this before to some brothers called Wilkes, and they made a whole career of it.
I will build a Land-roaver, and return, next yeare to The Languley Farm 4X4 event.

I, Sire,
Remayne Your True,
Loyal,
Servant,

Bogus Cognomen

Grand Vizier Pompousbogman said...

To Our Most Highly Esteemed Bogus Cognomen,
I have hearde talk of these great carriages, but dismissed them as fancyfull myth.
Please to send a specimen forthwith, the servant Hagenbrothe the Unusually Large and Strong shall carry it back to the palace.
Her Royal Divinely Illuminated Majesty Bibelot (May Her Beauty Delight This Land For One Thousand Years)has requested you also fetch one of those brayve knights who rides these noisy contraptions so that She may learn how to ride such an amayzing conveyance.
We are delighted with your tayles, Master Cognomen, and trust that as you traverse this foreign land we shall receive more fantastic accounts of your adventures.
Regards,
Grande Vizier Pompousbogman
PS Her Royal Divinely Illuminated Majesty Bibelot (May Her Beauty Delight This Land For One Thousand Years)is also desiring that you send another crate of that which you call soda poppe. She finds these fizzy libations most ambrosial.

We Have a Map of the Piano

Múm, from Iceland, from the album 'Finally We Are No -One'

Beeswing, Richard Thompson

BEES WING by Richard Thompson

I was nineteen when I came to town
They called it the Summer of Love
They were burning babies, burning flags
The Hawks against the Doves

I took a job in the Steamie
Down on Cauldrum Street
I fell in love with a laundry girl
Was working next to me

CHORUS:

She was a rare thing
Fine as a bees wing
So fine a breath of wind might blow her away
She was a lost child
She was running wild, she said
As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay
And you wouldn't want me any other way

Brown hair zig-zag round her face
And a look of half-surprise
Like a fox caught in the headlights
There was an animal in her eyes

She said, young man, O can't you see
I'm not the factory kind
If you don't take me out of here
I'll surely lose my mind

(CHORUS)

We busked around the market towns
And picked fruit down in Kent
And we could tinker lamps and pots
And knives wherever we went

And I said that we might settle down
Get a few acres dug
Fire burning in the hearth
And babies on the rug

She said O man, you foolish man
It surely sounds like hell
You might be lord of half the world
You'll not own me as well

(CHORUS)

We was camping down the Gower one time
The work was pretty good
She thought we shouldn't wait for frost
And I thought maybe we should

We were drinking more in those days
And tempers reached a pitch
Like a fool I let her run
With the rambling itch

Last I hear she's sleeping out
Back on Derby beat
White Horse in her hip pocket
And a wolfhound at her feet

And they say she even married once
A man named Romany Brown
But even a Gypsy caravan
Was too much settling down

And they say her flower is faded now
Hard weather and hard booze
But maybe that's just the price you pay
For the chains you refuse

She was a rare thing
Fine as a bees wing
And I miss her more than ever words could say
If I could just taste
All of her wildness now
If I could hold her in my arms today
Then I wouldn't want her any other way

RedDirtGirl posted the Lyrics, Steve requested the sounds.

Kargyraa Moan, Paul 'Earthquake' Pena, Kongar Ool Ondar

Blind all his life, the late Paul Pena was playing music by the age of five. He moved, as an adult to San Francisco and immersed himself in the blues, playing with T Bone Walker, Jerry Garcia,
writing, performing... Most people have heard the Steve Miller Band song 'Jet Airliner', Paul wrote it.
Listening one night to the static crackle distorting Moscow Radio, from the Soviet Union, he first heard the strange sound of throat-singers from the Soviet Republic of Tuva. He was hooked, had to know more...



He taught himself throatsinging... Went, after the collapse of the soviets, to Tuva, to hear the national singing competitions. As a musician, he was invited in, met some of the great singers, And sang! They were stunned that a westerner could sing Kargyraa, he went on stage, a blind, nervous american, and left to thunderous applause. His voice, his passion had earned him the nickname 'Earthquake' in Tuva. Paul lost his battle against diabetes and pancreatitis, on October 1st, 2005.
There's a film of his journey to Tuva, and a cd, both are called Genghis Blues.