Leavin' on a Jet Plane...

The Red Dirt Mule, guest blogger of the previous post, is leaving on a jet plane. Now she's discovered my secret stash of piggy banks, and learned how to ransack them. See, I was reading a book called'Valverde's Gold'
about the lost treasures of the Incas, and it seems treasure fever got to her. No sooner had I read out a little excerpt than she was.... "Takin four paces nor-nor-west from the ponderin'tree, two to the east, pause by the bookcase and...... home-in on the piggies above the gas heater...............
"How do you get the money out?" she demanded, looking around for a hammer.... I explained the finer points of pig ransacking, then moved on to advanced pillaging.

The pig on the left was made in my pottery in Yorkshire, in the late 1980s, the other?1982, in Ristiina, Finland.
Oh yes, wherever I have travelled, I've made pigs.
I plan to teach the Mule to make them, in due course.
We hope to re-unite the pigs, sooner rather than later.

De-Mule is Be-Dazed and Be-Dazzled and Be-mudded

A guest post by Guestblogger Red Dirt Mule,
The first day trip of my mulish journeys was to the fair (fairly insipid) (Gritinthegears note:The mule saw only a bit of Haffilax, so, Haffilaxers, please extend a little courtesy and tolerance her way!)... town of Halifax to gather clay for my beloved donkey. First a stop at the Piece Hall...

The Piece Hall
(1779)

.....and a quaint book store run by an elfin impostor who fell under the spell of red dirt mulish charm.


Next, to the 'mud' store. (Navigation to such provided by the mule and her innate sense of location and ability to read the signs ...) Back end loaded with what felt like a ton of bricks (no pun intended) and away back to our abode.

Fast forward to the always too-soon ending of my British sojourns, and my donkey insisted ... no he DEMANDED that we spend a day in clay. I learned quite a few interesting tidbits regarding these potterish folk. Let me elucidate:

1. Spending a day with clay requires spending half a day in preparation: clearing out a workspace in Mum's garage was no sloucher's task.

2. When potterish donkeys begin muttering beneath their breath, it's time for the more horticulturally minded mule to find a pair of pruners and start working in Mum's garden. I called it my quiet red mule 'side-step.'

3. Potterish folk use a lot, and I mean A LOT, of stuff to do potterish things. Fetch me warm to the touch water; I need a smallish sponge; where's my work board ??? Now you might can see why I kept disappearing into the garden under the guise of 'helping Mum out .....'

4. So there the mule sat, with hooves propped up, sipping a delicious cup of tea with dear Mum in the garden - enjoying an unexpectedly sunny cool day. And the donkey ???? As I rounded the garage door to hand him his 'cuppa,' - but what to my wondrous mule eyes did I see ? But a fair bowl with a swirly line being neatly cut off the wheel.



5. Be prepared to be Be-Dazed.

6. In no time, my fair donkey was ram's heading his clay, twirling his swirly wheel, splashing fingers and sponges in water whilst amazing shapes rose and fell beneath his most capable of hands, (oops, I mean 'hooves.')

7. Mum and I brought our seats over to sit in THE FRONT ROW of this Be-Dazzling Display of Donkey and Clay Reunion! And we were quite rewarded for our efforts. Often our potterish teacher asked questions, lectured on techniques, explained the various strange tools of potterly trade and took requests.

(An aside: as a mule, I must confess that sitting at the front of the class is not always the wisest of choices as I tend to snicker a lot and Mum was NO HELP ATTALL in keeping me out of trouble. As a result, the donkey paused often to reprimand our errant ways ..... I'm still snickering ..... I mean, you should have SEEN how BIG that, ummm, 'column' of wet, pointed clay got before the donkey squished it down again .........!!)

8. Our donkey potter, back on the bicycle of throwing on a wheel, began taking requests: a goblet, an egg cup


(I think it's meant for an ostrich egg ....) and ....... A PIGGY !!

Yes, let me pause yet again for another aside: All who know the red dirt mule, know of my search and subsequent discovery of Gary Rith's pottery piggy banks. So what's the first thing I see when I reach my beloved Donkey's home ??????? THAT'S RIGHT! A piggy bank. A POTTERISH piggy bank made by none other than my beloved donkey hisself. Welllllll I'll swwaannn. (those are Lady-like mulish swearing words). Yep. I was fit to be tied. Donkey's been holding out on me. Knew I was on the hunt and kept his piggy secret-like from me. AND THEN ........ : add insult to injury, he showed me two MORE piggy banks of his that are in dire need of a firing.


So as a test of his BRAYING ways ..... I requested he throw a piggy bank. Not just any plain ole piggy - I wanted a BLUE RIBBON PORCINE!!

9. And away he went. A whirling, a twirling, a dampening, a sponging, a trimming, a blow-torching (yep, potterish folk like blow torches !!)






And he prepared the most BE-DAZZLING blue-ribboned pig in front of our eyes. Mum and I were quite impressed and clapped loudly for the top-hatted fellow.


10. Potterish donkeys are able to throw exquisite wine goblets in ONE PIECE..... yep ..... he started with a spirally stem and then flared a bowl and voila' - a cup.

Later I watched as he returned to his cups and hollowed out their stems.

11. Oh. And the donkey cooked dinner somewhere in between all of this potterish stuff as well. I told you he's BE-Dazzling!

12. Yes. The mule put her hooves to the wheel. My beloved is a patient teacher, centering the clay on the wheel for me; showing me how to hold my hands, one hoof steadying the other. And I was happy to play and smash and squish and TRY to form some sort of cylinder. The best part ?? When I was done, he 'autopsied' the piece I had squished and showed me where I had done well (fairly even wall thickness) and where I had failed (too thin on the wall; too thick at the rim.)

When I asked him how did it feel to be pottering again (after .... 9 years + ????) The donkey paused ...... 'Well, it's a bit like riding a bicycle. You never forget how.' And indeed, my beloved potter turned his wheel, cupped his hands and formed beauty out of clay ... with nary a sweat bead on his brow. He makes it look so darn easy !!!!

My beloved is a potter extraordinaire.
xxx
rdm

(ps. he still can't beat me at scrabble. but i do take pity on him. donkey dictionaries are notoriously lacking ....)

xLDru>en GoogleC

(Gritinthegears note: The mule saw only a bit of Haffilax, so, Haffilaxers, please extend a little courtesy and tolerance her way !)...

Further Travels With a Red-Dirt Mule.

"Giddap!", he yelled, as the alarum clock shrilled, "Giddap, Mule", "Oh-ohhhhhhhhhhh!" the mule moaned, piteously, "it's toooo early." "Breakfast is at eight thirty," he insisted, "Git yer hooves on the carpet, quick-fast!" "Oh-ohhhhhhh, I'se a-sleepin', "says the mule, screwing tight shut her eyes. Her morning procrastination is monumental, she's an olympic procrastinator, once out of bed, you might think that one was close to breakfast? Hmm. Shower, hair, clothes, make-up, hoof polish, mane knotting.... I learned, on a previous expedition, that time and breakfast in hotels wait for no mule, so I had to drag her, muttering darkly to the room where the cheery fellow- guests were tucking into fruit, cereals, porridge, omellettes, fried eggs, bacon,.......... Mmmm, all that over-caloried goodness that a holiday renders essential. "How about a day on the beach?" I murmured, as she wrapped herself around some toast. "MMMMMM!" Yep, she fell for it. As soon as the last smear of egg-yolk was polished off the plate she was away, up to the room. "bikini?, check, sunglasses? check, sunlotion, book, beach-towel, fruit-juice, sun-hat......"

(The picture in the Mule's head was something like this)

So out we went, past the hotel's mysterious set of gay-plastic-meercats....

(The pink Pig had found some friends)

Into the car-like thing, and off, toward the slightly sub-tropical shores of Port Mulgrave.

We were some distance from Tahiti, and far to the north-west of the spice-islands. The weather forecast promised some sunshine, honest. The road to Port-Mulgrave passes through a small, and somewhat surreal village infested with scarecrows, the mule shivered, slightly...
"Toto, we're not in Kansas now...." It's probably wise not to ask what's going on in Hinderwell, probably the result of hallucinogens in the water supply.

Aliens seem to have invaded the village, but there's a strong police presence,

(Picture removed, by order of Mule)
The President of the United States of America is making a statement in front of the Fish'n'chip shop,

and Doctor Who has arrived to save the day.

The Pied Piper is ridding the pub of rats...
Michael Jackson is visiting...


Little Red Riding Hood has STOMPED the wolf

And so, we passed on, toward Port Mulgrave. What I had not told the Mule was that Port Mulgrave ceased to be a port in the nineteen twenties, that the "village" is more of an illusion than a reality, (blink and you've missed it) and.... There's no road down to the sea from the cliff-top. Oh. And there's no beach. Um. That's about it then. Otherwise a tropical paradise, minus the tropics, and short of the paradise...


Once upon a time, of course, it was tropical. Warm seas, steamy swamps, plesiosaurs... in jurassic times. The way down to the sea is a steep little path through bushy vegetation, with a few stone steps here and there, no handrails, some mud, brambles, nettles... it takes a while to get there. "Are we there yet?" she sings out... -not even close, -it's steep.

Precipitous in places. And you need to check the tide-tables before descending, because the tide comes in all the way to the cliffs, get caught in the wrong place and ummmm. well, not a good idea, anyway.

The bottom?

On a sunny day this could be the caribbean... or New Guinea..
-or maybe not.

The cliffs are tall and crumbly, rockfalls are happening all the time, wise not to go too close,

So why are we here?


Because at an earlier time, we bought a fossil, an ammonite, as a kind of unusual reminder of Yorkshire, and I'd promised that one day we'd go find our own, so here we were, on a foreshore where the strata laid bare are the remains of the Jurassic era, and where millions of years worth of fossilised sea-bed and swamps are falling from the cliffs and being ground up by the sea.




Just innocent looking rocks...

I always loved geology, geomorphology, but eventually loved art and ceramics more. If I'd persevered with it, I might by now be bored and unmoved by sights such as this.

Choose a likely-looking stone, smack it carefully with a hammer, to split it.

Peel it apart. Be the first mammal ever to see its contents.

An Ammonite (dactylioceras) that swam in warmer seas, right here, a hundred and sixty-five million years ago.






These bivalves were glowing like gold. We left them there, maybe for the next hunter, maybe never to be seen again, depending on the whims of the sea.



In the background, frequent rumbles and rattles as more rockfalls replenish the beach.
Eventually, satisfied with our haul, and with the waves a LOT closer, it's time to return to the old harbour, and face the long, steep climb up, back to the world. In all this time we've seen maybe five other people.



She moaned on the way up too, "Are we near the top yet?" "No".


But there's a respite, a seat about a third of the way up, dedicated to a man who fished from this bay for forty years, there are a lot of easier places to fish from, I think, but up and down that cliff every day must have either kept him very fit, or killed him.


More trudging. She knew I had the rations, so she had a motive not to just curl up in an exhausted sobbing heap...
And eventually, the top of the path, car in sight!

And so, back to our own little haven, a couple of miles down the coast, and a day well spent, treasure found, aching muscles, but a sense of worthwhile achievement.