Jelly Babies Rule Ok!!

Dusk falls over the Botanic Gardens, the gates are closed and a late autumn chill takes hold as darkness begins to creep across the lawns and envelop the trees. The squirrels are long gone, the birds have returned to their nests and the quacking of the ducks is silenced as a misty moon begins its journey across the skies. It is into this twilight world that mysterious visitors emerge from the shadows, visitors who appear when all others are gone, when they are safe from prying eyes and mischievous fingers. Only when the world lies silent do the Jelly Babies creep out from their hiding places and take over the Gardens. Not many know of these Jelly Babies, of the adventures they have when freed from the confines of their yellow bags. This is a secret known to only a few, so read, enjoy and then forget .........
Red, yellow, green, black, orange, they are all there, climbing, exploring, running across the grass, swinging from the branches of the trees. Jelly jockeys ride the fir cones as their spiny branches sway in the evening breeze. Jelly ladies gaze at their reflections in the pond as the same breeze ripples its surface, holding their faces until sending them shimmering into the reeds that hem the edges of the water. Giggling Jelly juniors play hide and seek amongst the leaves and dangle from the heads of flowers desperately trying to close their petals for the night. Picnicking on the dew-laden grass, sparkling beneath the first moonbeams of the evening, the Jelly Babies feast on jelly beans, jelly tots and jelly sandwiches. Oh yes, the Jelly Babies love their time in the Botanics when the world is their own, no-one to trample on them, chase them or eat them! Chattering with the scarecrows, splashing in the waterfall's dancing spray, indulging in a berry fight or two, what a wonderful way to spend an evening. And not one piece of clothing in sight so no dirty washing!
No-one has seen the Jelly Babies, not man nor beast, alive or dead. Until now, that is. I have a very dear friend in the Gardens, a certain Sammy the Squirrel. And he has watched from on high, shielded by the treetops, as the Jelly Babies laugh and play in their secret land. During one of our many chats, sat on a bench watching the seasons change and the landscape shift from green to brown and gold to wintry grey, he revealed this lovely tale, promising to bounce pine cones off my head if his secret was ever passed on. So you see you can enjoy the tale of the Jelly Babies, smile at their antics ...... and then forget. Enjoy a glass of wine, walk the dog, relax in a long. hot, bubbly bath, get out your x-box, your i-pad or your kindle, do whatever it is that floats your boat ..... but please forget. Look into my eyes ..... you are feeling very sleepy ........ count to three and when I snap my fingers all thoughts of Jelly Babies will be erased from your mind forever. Or will they? If I pass by the Botanics after closing time and I see folk climbing the gates, tunnelling under the walls, vaulting the fences, then I know I have failed.  But just pause for a moment and imagine a world without Jelly Babies, a world where these loveable little creatures are no more. Look at these pictures. Do they not tug at your heart-strings, bring a tear to your eye, have you sobbing into your hankie at the thought of these sweet little people -  for people they are - joining the ranks of the extinct and the defunct? Then leave them to enjoy their moments of freedom, leave them to play in peace .... and save my head from the inevitable onslaught of deadly cones if this story gets out!!!

We shall remember them ........

"When you go home tell them of us and say: for your tomorrow we gave our today." The Kohima Epitaph, so few words yet words that say so much. At eleven o'clock as the chimes of Big Ben ring out across the land, the world falls silent. On this day we remember, as one, the sacrifice made by so many, a sacrifice that continues to this very day and will continue well into the future. Young men full of hopes and dreams, their journey through life just beginning, only to be tragically cut short fighting for their country, for freedom and for the right to live life without torture, without imprisonment and without oppression. As we stand, heads bowed in silence, all around is still. For a brief moment the traffic pauses, conversation lies resting upon the lips, the hustle and bustle of everyday life ceases. The only sounds to be heard are birds singing in the trees, the gentle cry of a baby too young to understand, the barking of a dog in some distant garden. Each year we give two minutes of our time to remember, two minutes from our lives to remember those who no longer have two minutes to give. Pain is etched on the faces of the veterans, a pain we cannot understand nor begin to feel. Tears trickle from eyes that have witnessed the horror of war, a horror no man should have to behold, a horror no man, or indeed woman, should have to live through. So many friends lost, so many families torn apart, and yet it continues. The blood of our young people is shed on foreign soil, the grief goes on, the list of the fallen grows ever longer. And every year wreaths of poppies will adorn our memorials, standards will be lowered, prayers will be offered up ... and the list of conflicts will increase. Memories stay with us, however sad, however hard to bear, hearts will be broken time and again as they have since time began. A letter, a photo, a medal are all that remain to keep these memories alive ...... but keep them we must. The past paves the way for the future, but this path may not always be easy to follow.
Every November, in towns, villages and cities across the country, we remember in our own way. We gather at war memorials, in churches, in Gardens of Remembrance, each one of us touched in some way by the sacrifice of so many men and women. Look upon the Field of Remembrance in the heart of Edinburgh, cast your eyes upon the simple crosses, each with a poppy in its centre, laid out in row after row. There are around 11,000 symbols of remembrance here, dedicated by members of the public in honour of past and present members of the Armed Forces. Such an unique display of both individual and community remembrance, every cross bears a personal hand-written message, a regiment, maybe a photo. So many crosses, so many poppies, yet this is just a drop in the ocean, just a handful of names in a rollcall of millions. Leaves freshly fallen from the trees lie amongst these memorials to those fallen in battle. Yet unlike the leaves lying on the ground, leaves that have lived out their natural lives to return again in spring, those named upon the crosses will never live out their natural lives, will never see another spring.
Why, you may wonder, after two World Wars, do we continue to destroy so many lives, devastate many others and bring death to countless innocent men, women and children. Will it ever end? Will lessons never be learnt, will our leaders never listen. How many conflicts have vented their fury upon the earth since 1945? Korea, Suez, the Falkland Islands, Northern Ireland, the Middle East, Kosovo, Bosnia, Iraq, Afghanistan to name but a few ........ From every corner of the globe the futility of war tears the world apart. Those who died in the Great Wars died to protect our freedom, to allow us to live our lives in peace and harmony. Is it not time we began to respect their memory, respect the ultimate sacrifice they made for their country, by making war a thing of the past. It will not be easy, it will never be easy, we may never achieve peace in our lifetime, but we owe it to these brave men and women to try. Their lives should not be lost in vain, yet lives will continue to be lost, we shall continue to mourn ...... I shall leave you with some of the most poignant words to be uttered throughout these days of remembrance, words written by a gentleman called Laurence Binyon, a Red Cross medical orderly on the Western Front, taken from his poem "The Fallen."

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We shall remember them."    
     



A Berry Nice Time in the Gardens ...........

Autumn, a time when I can return to my childhood days without fear of reproach, without that look upon my mother's face which said: "I could tell you to behave but what's the point. You are going to do it anyway." And my crime? Brand new, shiny red wellies just waiting to crunch through the autumn leaves, crackling under foot, and kick them high into the sky. Then with my very best "I'm sorry but I am a little girl and this is what little girls like me do at this time of the year" I would giggle to myself as my poor mother apologised profusely to the elderly gentleman with the well-used broom who had spent the last hour sweeping up the leaves. And then of course there were the puddles. Brand new, shiny red wellies drawn to muddy puddles, splashing, jumping ....... "But mummy, this is what little girls like me do when the rain is kind enough to leave such wonderful puddles. After all, mud washes off, and you do want me to make the most of my brand new, bright shiny wellies. Feet grow so fast, you know, so I really must get plenty of use out of them while I can ....."

How beautiful are the Royal Botanic Gardens as autumn takes a firm grip. Mosaics of gold, red, green and brown pepper the lawns and adorn the flower beds as summer leaves this colourful month to momentarily delay the onset of winter. To many plants autumn is a beginning and not an end, a time for them to rear their heads and challenge the spectacular blooms of summer, to declare they too can be colourful, splashing the landscape with their own autumnal shades. Deciduous conifers add to the stunning swathes of colour, their needles shifting through the seasons as suble as the changes on an artist's palette. Larch trees hold a mellow shade of yellow until their needles give in to winter's beckoning and fall to the ground. Summer-flowering heathers defy autumn and hang on until the cold fades their blossom and they sleep, awaiting the return of the warming sun. Drowsy insects slowly flit from flower to flower, gathering the last of nature's nectar, attracted by those still holding fast in defiance of the long winter days ahead.
Berries and fruits, they are what autumn is about. Adorning the trees and bushes like decorations on a Christmas tree, clustering in groups, brightly coloured in hues of red, yellow, gold and black. Rowns, whitebeams, blackberries, tempting the birds and the animals, warning them of a harsh winter, enticing them to fill their larders while there is still time. Small, succulent, pecked by birds, picked by squirrels, nature's supermarket bursting with goodies to survive the days ahead. Falling leaves, carpets of gold and red, spectacular displays of berries in a watery sun hanging low in the sky - this is what autumn is all about. Conkers bouncing from horse chestnut trees, acorns leaving the safety of their "egg cups" to be snapped up by sqirrels seeking a meal or two, holly berries awaiting fame on the front of a Christmas card - oh yes, they are all here in the Botanics, an ever-changing landscape changing yet again. New life replaces old, colours shift like the tides of the sea, the weather weaves its magic and another corner of the Gardens holds you spellbound as you wander, hat, scarf and gloves firmly in place to discover a tree, a flower, a bush you may have missed before.
Yes, autumn is well and truly in situ at the Royal Botanic Gardens. Forgive all the pictures, but I had to share some of the beauty abundant in one of my favourite places, a wonderland to rival all others, a living exhibition of colour framed by the world around it. Where better to walk on a crisp, autumn day ........... And yes, I do still crunch through the leaves and kick them high into the air. And yes, I very definitely still jump into puddles, more effective now there is more weight behind my landing! Pure childish fun. Second childhood? No, I'm well past that. Must be my third? fourth? fifth? .........   
 



Greyfriars Bobby ........ fact or fiction

The touching story of Greyfriars Bobby, the devoted Skye terrier about whom so much has been written, has always been the subject of much speculation. A tale as loved as the little dog himself, have the years seen the imagination add fiction to fact, the odd embellishment tucked in to keep the legend going and ensure visitors still flock to the statue of Edinburgh's favourite pet and stand awhile at his grave? One thing is for certain, and that is that records show Greyfriars Bobby was a real dog who lived and died in the city. So this is his story as I understand it. Others may not agree ......
It was 1850 when gardener John Gray, together with his wife Jess and son John, arrived in Edinburgh. Unable to find work as a gardener and wishing to avoid life in the workhouse, John Gray joined the Edinburgh Police Force as a night watchman. The long, cold winter nights were lonely, so John found himself a companion to keep him company through the hours of darkness. Enter stage left a diminutive Skye terrier called Bobby. The two of them soon became a familiar sight walking the cobbled streets of the city, Bobby trotting happily beside his master. However, years on the streets, out in all weathers, took their toll on John and he eventually died of tuberculosis on 15th February 1858. Buried in Greyfriars kirkyard, it was soon evident that he would not be left alone with little more than a headstone marking his final resting place.
Faithful to the end, Bobby was lost without his best friend and master. He touched the hearts of local residents when he refused to leave his master's grave despite all the Scottish weather could throw at him. The gardener and keeper of Greyfriars kirkyard tried time and again to evict Bobby, but to no avail. The little dog had no intention of leaving. So, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Admitting defeat, he provided a shelter for Bobby by placing sacking beneath two tablestones that lay beside the grave, and there, so the story goes, the determined Skye terrier made his home. His fame soon spread across the city. Crowds would gather at the entrance to the kirkyard awaiting the sounding of the one o'clock gun echoing across Edinburgh from the Castle. This was the signal for Bobby to leave his post and follow local joiner and cabinet maker William Dow to the same coffee house he had frequented with the now dead John Gray. Suitably refreshed, he would then return to his lonely vigil, keeping watch with his head resting silently on his paws.
1867 saw a new by-law passed in Edinburgh which required all dogs to be licensed or destroyed. What would happen to Bobby now? Would he be spared? The Lord Provost of Edinburgh, a certain Sir William Chambers, knew of the little dog and decided to pay Bobby's licence himself. The Skye terrier had been spared, and was presented with a collar bearing a brass inscription: "Greyfriars Bobby from the Lord Provost, 1867, licenced." For fourteen years the faithful dog remained loyal to his master and kept constant watch over the grave. And the kind folk of the city took good care of him until he finally died in 1872. Baroness Angelia Georgina Burdett-Coutts, President of the Ladies Committee of the RSPCA, was so moved by the story of Bobby that she asked the City Council for permission to erect a granite fountain in his memory, an octagonal lower drinking basin for dogs, an upper spout for humans, and a statue of the Skye terrier sat on top. This can still be seen today, although public health concerns saw the water supply discontinued in 1957. And so the memory of Greyfriars Bobby lives on, now buried beside the grave of his beloved  master.
This story has been challenged many times by many people. The ownership of the poor little dog has been disputed. Was it John Gray night watchman, or another John Gray, a local farmer. Was Bobby no more than a cemetery or graveyard dog, a stray fed by visitors and curators to the point where he knew he was on to a good thing and made his home here. Thus people would come to believe the dog was watching over a grave and continue to feed him. There are others who believed the original Bobby died in 1867 and was thence replaced by a younger dog. Bobby had, after all, drawn people to the kirkyard and proved more than a little lucrative for businesses around Greyfriars. No dog, no more money ..... And me? There is a real need for such wonderfully heartwarming stories, tales of love and devotion, undying loyalty and genuine kindness. So I say leave it alone. The legend will continue, Bobby will attract visitors for many years to come, reliving his story from beyond the grave. What harm can a few inaccuracies - if indeed there are any - really do to a delightful snippet of Edinburgh history. Life is hard enough without destroying what little comfort we can draw from such a lovely tale as this. "Let his loyalty and devotion be a lesson to us all." These words are written on Bobby's headstone. So critics, cynics and non-believers lay off. Long live Greyfriars Bobby say I!!!  

Beadnell Limekilns ....... and more ......

Beadnell, a delightful village on the coast of Northumberland, has a stunning shoreline which at times is as wild as it can be calm and peaceful. Pounded by waves whipped up by high winds, white horses rush for the beach, riding the crests of the waves before breaking upon the rocks or hurling themselves against the sea wall. This is the sea at its magnificent best, a time to admire from afar, to fear and respect in equal measure. I love it. And when the storms abate, a tranquil, more sedate ocean laps the coast, gently touching the rocks with salty kisses before sprinkling splashes of white around dune and rock.
Beadnell, an ancient village, was in all probability established in Saxon times. Bronze Age burial chambers have been found along the shore, and the remains of an ancient chapel were discovered in 1853 on the headland of Ebb's Nook. Excavations suggested that the building erected on this spot was dedicated to St. Ebba shortly after the arrival of
Christianity in Northumberland. For a small place, Beadnell has an interesting history. During the 18th century, the popular Beadnell races took place along the sands. However, tragedy struck in 1794 when one of the riders was killed, and the races were no more. Sandstone and coal seams run out to sea, and mining took place here until early Victorian times when seemingly more lucrative activities came to the fore.
By the 19th century, Beadnell was an important fishing village. A century earlier it had the unenviable - or maybe enviable - reputation of being a first class resort for smugglers. One of their secret hideouts, a hidden vault, was disovered on the Farne Islands during the restoration of the Chapel of St. Cuthbert. A wonderful haul was seized by customs officers on a particularly eventful September day in 1762 - though not for the unfortunate Scottish smugglers involved - when they stumbled upon 2,700 gallons of brandy, 400 gallons of rum, 23 hogsheads of wine and some tea, presumably for the hangover!!
You want more fascinating facts? Of course you do. Beadnell has the only west-facing port on the east coast of England. Cool eh ..... Limestone is also present around the village, and to exploit this profitable commodity, the first kilns were built here in 1747. Next problem? Exporting this commodity. To facilitate this, the harbour was built. Limekilns needed coal to operate. Hey presto, coal seams were also present in Beadnell. And so it grew in importance, this quiet little village. Fishing was also rapidly expanding, the exporting of fish and lime as well as salt made a better harbour a neccessity, and by 1798 the pier had been built and a gentleman by the name of Richard Pringle found this an ideal spot on which to construct his limekiln. However, herring fishing was set to overtake lime in importance and Beadnell fast became the main herring fishing village on the north-east coast. In fact, so the story goes, one thousand fishermen entered the harbour one evening in 1828 to shelter from a storm. 1822 had seen the decline of the poor old limekilns, by this time used to cure herring. Today they have been rescued and restored by the National Trust and are used as stores by the local fishermen.
I love it here in Beadnell, stormy skies, angry waves, howling winds, Mother Nature showing just why she is in charge of our world and not ourselves as we would often like to believe. Wander among the sand dunes, stretching as far south as the eye can see, wonder at the power of the sea, feel the wind in your hair, taste the saltiness of the water clinging to your lips. Then pop along to the Craster Arms for a lovely meal and well-deserved drink. This friendly inn was once Beadnell Tower, a three-storeyed pele-tower built in the 16th century. And much of the original building still survives - the vaulted basement now used as a beer cellar, the remains of the newel staircase which led to the next floor, an old fireplace on the ground floor, and the walls which in places are eight feet thick. When you are suitably refreshed take a turn around the village. Discover the Beadnell Tower Hotel - a former granary - the chapel on the green originally built in 1740 and rebuilt in 1860 ..... go see it all for yourself. My fingers need a rest, they are not as nimble as they once were, so it is over to you .........