Feathered hygge - birds of prey in Oxfordshire

April already!
It's been an unusual winter, mild and dry and, alas, the only snow that fell did so early in the morning and had melted before I was up and out of bed. Which lesson I did not fail to take on board even as I also try to relax, rest and let the world slowly spin without my stressing over things.

Because that's the rub.
The stress.
I've been under too much stress for too long and, as my health-care practitioners persist in telling me, stress impacts upon the immune system and a compromised immune system cannot be expected to protect a body against cancer.

It's a tough one. Especially for one who cares deeply, is loyal and dedicated and who works harder than really is good for her.

But this one is learning the lesson and letting go of the stress and a feeling of responsibility for everything that is wrong today. I cannot protect the planet, I cannot save every one of the starving, I cannot heal, mend, comfort all who are suffering. And so I do that which I can in my own little world and I try not to let the rest destroy my spirit.

Meanwhile, I enjoy small moments, quiet times and the occasional adventure.
Because, as this blog is all about, life is an adventure.  
N'est-ce pas?

Which brings me to the feathered friends that The Ragazza and I met one day last week.

Meet Leo, the little owl.

He was my favourite, I decided, as he stood on my gloved arm and totally ignored me.
Because that's what they do, birds of prey, raptors, owls et al. They focus on danger, on sex and on food, and if you represent neither of those three things then you are simply, a perch..

A pretty perch, granted. but still just a perch.

And sometimes your owl will be distracted and decide to take off and when that happens you must not join him in the flapping. You must be calm and firm and keep your head, lest you be towed away by your owl. Which is another lesson worth learning - that there are times in your life when you have to stand your ground.

It's daunting at first.
Having a killing machine on your arm. Even though the glove is thick and the falconer is nearby, especially when the falconer is nearby and recounting tales of the time when he was out hunting with a large bird of prey, felt a pain and glanced down to see its talons piercing his hand, right through, skewering him. The only action one can take is to stand still and to wait until the hunter releases his grip and withdraws his talons.

Respect the wild ones.
And, adorable as you may find them and much as you may wish to stroke their beautiful feathers and to bury your face in their downy chests, you really have to refrain from touching them because you damage their natural oils and preened plumage and, besides, much as you may find them adorable they care not a jot for you. You are just the perch.

Still, it's lovely to be able to stand and perform the perch-function while someone with a wealth of experience and passion for the birds teaches you about them.
And explains that sometimes appearances can be deceptive and that owls do not have ears.

And a buzzard on the hand is actually more amazing than a whole sky full of red kites.

And the raven is quite intimidating. Perhaps because of its darkness, its black wings and beak and feet and eyes and even its tongue. But probably because the falconer warned you before he emerged from its aviary with it sitting on his arm, that you should hold your hand as far from your face as possible and not tempt it with your pretty little nose.

But when it flaps its wings it really is hard to remain still.
Best to close your eyes, just in case.
Edgar Allan Poe has a lot to answer for!

 

 

Patience rewarded.
In truth the raven was more interested in its leg-wear than in the tasty flesh at the end of the perch.

And then to fly some birds.
And then you really are just a perch, one on each side of the arena, facing front, arm held out high so that your bird will elect to land on your arm rather than your head. You hope.

And a piece of chick on your glove that the owl knows is there

And flies to fetch.
Low, along the ground, conserving energy...
Before swooping up and onto the food.

The wingspan of this owl is almost five feet. Which means that if he and I both stretch out our limbs we will both be pretty much the same width,

It's difficult to stand still, to keep your left arm extended, high and still, and at the same time to take a photograph of an approaching owl with your mother's old camera. But The Ragazza did it.

And we proved that an owl in flight is silent.
We closed our eyes and waited while Ginger the barn owl flew to us and no, we could not hear her coming.  And that was an amazing conclusion to our morning with the birds of prey.

(Picture plucked from wikipedia)


The Ragazza and I spent the morning with Hawkwalk in Oxfordshire.
Conveniently close to Drayton, should we decide to return.
Which we definitely will.

As their website promises:
Hawkwalk  – Falconry Oxfordshire – British birds of prey up close and personal

La cerise sur le gateau...

When I look back on the summer of 2013 I will think of it as The Cherry Summer.

For the last four or five weeks we have been enjoying a heatwave here in England.

I say 'enjoying' because it does not suit everyone. There are some who suffer in a scorching sun, many people have allergies which, I am pretty sure, were rare and quite exotic when I was a child, the dog doesn't do heat, driving is a trial when the air conditioning stops working, sleep is elusive when the night is hot and humid, tempers become frayed...

But it is possible to adapt and to thrive in a heatwave, a canicule, as they say in France where, after the canicule of 2003, they take such events much more seriously than do we Mad Dogs and Englishmen. It simply requires a little adjustment to one's schedule and daily habits, such as walking the dog at 4:30am before the full force of the sun's rays has hit the fields, and keeping the bottle of gin in the freezer, from which it will emerge, frosty and delicious once the sun has sunk below the neighbour's ash trees, and evicting a bag of frozen peas in order to make room for ice cubes and ice lollies and ice cream, and raising the hemline while lowering the neckline, and sleeping as close to the window as possible and au naturel...  

And most of all, just jolly well enjoying the summer!


This year I made an important discovery while walking among my beloved walnuts...

which are, I am delighted to report, having a wonderful summer...

which makes me very happy indeed....

But this year I discovered a cherry tree.
How can it have happened that I, a self-confessed tree-hugger and explorer of nature, have managed to miss the cherry tree for three years? 

"The cherry is the fruit of many plants of the genus Prunus, and is a fleshy drupe (stone fruit). The cherry fruits of commerce are usually obtained from a limited number of species, including especially cultivars of the sweet cherry, Prunus avium." (Wikipedia)








"The native range of the sweet cherry extends through most of Europe, western Asia and parts of northern Africa, and the fruit has been consumed throughout its range since prehistoric times. A form of cherry was introduced into England at Teynham, near Sittingbourne in Kent by order of Henry VIII, who had tasted them in Flanders" (Wikipedia)

At first I was very restrained. I just picked a handful of cherries to munch as the dog and I wandered, and I pointed out the tree to my fellow dog-walkers, "There's a cherry tree over there, did you know?" But no-one else seemed to be interested in the cherries. So I took a bowl and picked a few and came home to sit in a shady room and eat my cherries and marvel at this free treat. And still no-one seemed to be interested in the cherries.

So I took a bag and picked enough to make a small pot of jam.

And still no-one seemed to be interested in the cherries and, other than putting up a sign saying "CHERRIES", there was nothing else I could do to encourage people to pick them. So I did.

Well, I picked enough for a cherry pie 

and for a cherry liquer made with vodka and brandy

it needs to mature for three months which will make it a perfect Christmas tipple...

And then, inspired, I made cherry vodka

This will be ready in time for me to take to France.

I'm planning to take a bottle for a friend in the village who delights in giving me 'interesting' drinks to try after dinner.



 



I left enough cherries for the birds to feast on.
And plenty for anyone else who cares to pick them.
But no-one has...

      
 There are other cherry trees growing among the trees on the other side of the green.

They're smaller and this one is quite sour.

I'm thinking a cherry relish to eat with pan-fried duck breasts?

This one is very, very small and very, very sweet.

And since it is ripe, cherry-ripe, and so abundant, I think more cherry vodka? 






I can't understand why no-one else has picked the cherries. It's such a waste to leave them on the trees and they are so delicious. And the price of fresh cherries in the shops! I think my harvest would have cost me a King's ransom had I bought them, instead of picking them for free.

And it has been such a pleasure, this picking cherries...
And such fun to make jam, and pies, and delicious drinks.

I've frozen a few cherry stones.
As I explained to The Ragazza when she asked me why there are little pots of pips next to the ice cubes, they don't germinate until they've experienced a few sub-zero temperatures. I am hoping that they'll grow into little cherry trees which I will nurture and cherish and take to France to plant in my garden.

Cherish the cherries, that's been my motto this summer...

Cherish the cherries

The White Horse at Uffington and more..

It's no secret that I'm a fan of ice-age art, prehistoric sites and our earliest history.  All that contributes to the story of the journey that our human species took as we evolved from the tree-dwelling apes to who we are now.

Anything that could be called "Making Us Human".
So as soon as  I returned to England from France I set off to search for some local sites that would feed my need to dwell, from time to time, in the past.

Here's the first, The White Horse at Uffingon.

First the Wikipedia bit:

 



The Uffington White Horse is a highly stylised prehistoric hill figure, 374 feet (110 m) long, cut into the turf of the upper slopes of White Horse Hill in the parish of Uffington, Oxon.





It is located some five miles south of the town of Faringdon and a similar distance west of the town of Wantage. The hill forms a part of the scarp of the Berkshire Downs and overlooks to Vale of White Horse to the north.







We set off walking along The Ridgeway path in search of Wayland's Smithy, a neolithic long barrow and chamber tomb site.





During my two years living in central Brittany I developed a deep love of standing stones, burial chambers, megaliths, menhirs and dolmens. Encountering this unexpected treasure was a real delight, I felt at home instantly...



 


Wayland's Smithy is one of many prehistoric sites associated with Wayland or Wolund, the Norse and Saxon god of blacksmithing. The name was seemingly applied to the site by the Saxon invaders, who reached the area some four thousand years after Wayland's Smithy was built.





 

According to legend, a traveller whose horse has lost a shoe can leave the animal and the smallest silver coin (a groat) on the capstone at Wayland's Smithy. When he returns next morning he will find that his horse has been re-shod and the money gone. It is conjectured that the invisible smith may have been linked to this site for many centuries before the Saxons recognized him as Wayland. The Ancient Britons may have been accustomed to making votive offerings to a local god. (Wikipedia again)



Around the burial mound there are majestic beech trees.
Being somewhat of a tree-hugger and having suffered recently from withdrawal symptoms due to an absence of arboreal adventures, I couldn't resist lying under a tree and gazing, in silent admiration, up into it's branches.

Isn't this the most amazing view of a tree?

Can you imagine climbing up into that leafy, green canopy?

I spent most of my childhood sitting in trees and a great deal of my adulthood wondering if I had grown too old to climb them again.





This is the Ridegway National Trail

The Ridgeway National Trail, 87 miles (139km) through ancient landscapes. Over rolling, open downland to the west of the River Thames, and through secluded valleys and woods in The Chilterns to the east, following the same route used since prehistoric times by travellers, herdsmen and soldiers.







Back to the White Horse. As a group of volunteers with yellow buckets were earnestly cleaning the horse to our right, we could hear the commentary of a nearby horse show broadcast on loud speakers.





It seemed very fitting somehow that the White Horse should have a 'seat in the stalls' as flesh and blood horses performed on a grassy stage.

There is a great deal to explore along The Ridgeway. We only dipped our inquisitive toes in the shallow water of this special place. One day, before I return to Brittany,  it would be nice to walk its length. I am making plans...

Walking with Walnuts...

I had to use that title, it's so alliterative

The house that I rent here in England is small, so small that I call it The Doll's House, it's about one fifth the size of my house in France and very, very expensive. I know, it's a little crazy, this situation, but it is as it is and for now it must be tolerated.

There are compensations.
Here is the principle one...
 

.

Welcome to the green...

As seen from my bedroom window which I keep wide open for most of the year, even in winter, so that I can sit in bed and gaze at the green








  At four o'clock on a June morning when the green is shrouded in mist the dog and I are out early, too early for other walkers, we have the green all to ourselves.






I always try to walk into the mist and the mist always eludes me. I love that! Maybe one day I'll catch the mist.

 

In winter I sometimes wake with the scent of snowflakes in the air and I leap from bed and look out on this scene...

This is my favourite weather, I am addicted to snow and should probably live north of the Arctic circle.

When it snows we spend a lot of time on the green, of course.




Those trees are walnuts. When I first moved here I was delighted to discover them, partly because I am a faithful forager and in autumn I love to return home with my pockets full of walnuts, and partly because they are such magnificent trees.

 

Walnut trees are good for us.
And all parts of the tree are useful...
The leaves have laxative, astringent and detergent properties. They can be used fresh, when their oily aroma is delicious, or dried, seeped in water and drunk daily or applied externally. I have to admit that I haven't tried them, not being in need of them medicinally, but now I'm curious...   
The bark can be dried and crushed and used as a purgative. I think not... 
The nuts are rich in omega-3 fatty acids, magnesium, B vitamins and antioxidants, they help to lower cholesterol and keep blood vessels supple and free of deposits. All of which adds up to wonderful mood-enhancing, brain-boosting, heart-healing goodness.


Walnut wood makes beautiful furniture, but years ago we British fell in love with mahogany and our walnut plantations were abandoned when we preferred to import that hardwood from the ravaged rainforests of its native lands. Mahogany makes strong, sturdy furniture but it takes a long time to grow, it costs a great deal to transport and it's felling causes a lot of damage to its forests. I think it's better to stay local, to grow the food, to make the clothes, to manufacture the goods, that a community needs, close to home.

If I had the means, I'd have a walnut plantation. I wouldn't be able to chop down the trees, I'd be too sentimental, they'd have to grow until I am no longer around and someone else would have to harvest their wood. Which reminds me of my former partner in France and the irony of a fate that brought together an unashamed tree-hugger and a skilled and enthusiastic carpenter. 


But science and sense aside, walking with the walnuts does wonders for my well-being.
I can't even begin to describe how relaxed and happy I am when I'm out there on the green, or how much better I am because I live next to it. It's unquantifiable. Suffice to say that I am grateful to have found this place.   

So I adore the walnut trees
And I worry about them
Last year the weather was so wet and so cold that the trees succumbed to a nasty blight, the leaves rotted on the branches and fell much too early. And, having unfurled their flowers in the midst of a monsoon, they were unable to produce any nuts. Last year the walnuts suffered and I fretted...

 This year winter held us in its icy grip for a long, long time. It was the coldest March on record. Some days it felt as if spring would never come. I watched the walnuts and I worried...

And then, suddenly, it was spring...

The tight little buds on the bare branches of the walnut trees burst open...
Delicate red/brown leaves unfurled...

The male flowers appeared...   

And the small, yellow female flowers could be seen sheltering shyly in the tips of the branches....

And every day as I walked among the walnuts I watched over them, as anxious as a doting parent



And the sun continued to shine and the rain was light and infrequent, and the walnuts flourished and I breathed a sigh of relief.

And now the walnut trees are growing well in the sunshine that we've enjoyed for the last few weeks. The nuts are swelling nicely, the leaves are glossy and strong and I am content, although I still watch over my walnuts and I still inspect them during our thrice-daily walks.

Life isn't always easy and often it doesn't go the way we'd planned
Some years are good, some years are bad
We have to have faith that finally, tout serra bien

Last summer was not kind to the trees on the green...


This autumn there will be walnuts to gather...

French Markets, in Abingdon and in Callac

Yesterday I met up with a co-worker for a cup of coffee and a slice of cake in a delightful little cafe in Abingdon. I'd driven past lots of times on my way to work and read the board in the window offering pudding nights and knitting/chat sessions, but yesterday was the first time I'd walked through the door, which is a shame.

'Rosie's Tea Room'   is a lovely little place, independent of those large and somewhat faceless corporations who've sprung up on our high streets, quirky and unique. We sat on a squashy little sofa by a bookcase and smiled in approval of the old building, with its beams and flooring, at the pictures on the walls and the little, amusing touches, such as this crocheted teapot and cups...

Over our drinks and cakes we chatted, about some issues we have in common, plans for projects that we're both working on, families, the usual therapeutic and helpful stuff that we women are so good at.

And then we wandered, in the rain, round the French Market.

  

It wasn't a proper French market, not the kind that you'd find in a French town where there are all manner of people selling all kinds of goods, the kinds of good that are essential purchases for daily life...

 It was more 'A taste of France', but even so it was lovely to wander round and indulge in some nostalgic reminiscences

 

 And I was tempted by the stall selling sweet goodies and bought a bag of cream-filled pastries from the smiling man who was also making crèpes, although I'd have preferred a paper bag to the plastic one I was offered....

 I was not tempted by the sausage stall. It reminded me of the one in Caen that sells donkey-meat sausages, which discover put me off for life...

 

 

I would have liked to have bought some paté but it was too expensive for my budget, and so common sense prevailed....

 

 

 

 

 The lady selling cheeses was charming. We chatted in French, she told us that she lives in Quimper, I told her that my home is near Guingamp, she complained about the music that is constantly played at the next stall, how it's repetitive and boring. I laughed and danced a little waltz as we walked away.

And then my friend and I parted company and I came home to re-read a post that I wrote a couple of weeks before I returned to England to start work, about a real French market, the one at which I used to do some of my weekly shopping. 

If the spacing is inconsistent and annoying, my apologies. I'm rushing to write this before getting ready to drive to Oxford where this afternoon I will be helping to teach an English class, more on that exciting new project later. 

Callac Market

One pleasure of life in rural France that almost makes up for the lack of fish and chips, curries and decent ready-meals (and never underestimate the importance of the small but reassuringly familiar things in life), is the weekly market.

Fridays are special, that's when the larger Guingamp market is held and it's always followed, for me, by coffee and a raspberry macaroon at my favourite cafe in the main square

On Wednesdays though, I do my main shopping at Callac market

The formula rarely changes, twelve large organic eggs from the 'chicken lady' who throws in a French lesson for free, a basket full of whichever organic vegetables the gentle lady in the headscarf is selling from her modest table, a loaf of bread and a moist, sugary brioche from the sexy organic baker (are you spotting a trend here?) and then either live langoustines and fresh fish or slabs of marbled meat, depending on my preference on the day. Some days I cope well with the killing process, most days I still find it hard to watch live creatures die in boiling water, even as I know that I should be prepared to do so....

It's a very social event, the weekly market, with much meeting, greeting and kissing as old friends catch up with each other

After two years some of the older Breton ladies now recognize me which gives me such pleasure, and I really appreciate the sense of belonging and the feeling that I have become a part of the community

So, wander with me around a typical market in a small Breton farming town...



Like this small girl I wanted to buy baby rabbits to keep as pets. Sadly these bunnies are destined to be reared in small hutches, fed on stale bread and garden greens and then dispatched for the pot.

Likewise these ducklings.

The first time I saw them I was overcome by a strong maternal instinct to buy the whole lot and let them fly free.

This is the statue of a Breton horse that stands in the car park near the post office where I arrive, breathless and panicking to post a late essay to my O.U tutor more often than I care to admit...

I will miss the horse fair in Bulat Pestivien this year which is probably just as well, the temptation to buy a pony is becoming increasingly difficult to resist...

A pile of wooden clogs

Sabot...

The word sabotage derives from the name of this footwear, clogs having been used to sabotage factory machinery at one rebellious time....

Practical people the Bretons, though I prefer flipflops or furry Finnish boots to this kind of footwear

I often stop and smile at this stall. Who amongst the solid, sensible Breton ladies would waste her hard-earned money on a belly-dancing outfit?

In these parts people please themselves and individuality is expected rather than frowned-upon

Onions and garlic, bien sûr

It wouldn't be France without such staples, would it?

 

I see this old man every week. He always wears leather trousers, the same jerkin and hat and he always has the gentlest, most well-behaved Alsation dog on a leash and a pipe in his mouth.

He is typical of the free-thinking, individual folk that live here and everyone recognizes him and greets him

Next week The Ragazza and I will enjoy one last trip to Callac market. My life at this time has become a series of One Last's as the date for my departure draws near and I become increasingly aware of all that I will have to sacrifice when I return to England  

 

Words at the Ashmolean, Oxford

Do I give the impression that I spend all of my time wandering round the galleries of museums?
Al least when I am not revisiting the memories of my home in Brittany?

 
In reality I spend most of my waking hours, and a great deal of my energy working here, as an internet threat analyst, or, to the layman, a computer virus analyst.

 It's a demanding role, fast-paced, the threats are always changing, evolving, becoming more sophisticated and challenging.



At work I live very much in the here and now and, of course, in the future as we work to second-guess the Bad Guys' intentions.

 Which is perhaps why, when I am not at work, I am drawn to return to the past and to a time when life was simpler, more easily comprehended, when we lived at a pace more in keeping with our human nature.

And so, after a visit to Brittany, I'd like to take you now to my second favourite, no wait, my fourth favourite, museum, after the British Museum, the Louvre and the Natural History Museum, the Ashmolean in Oxford when I went in search of Words which are, it must be said, one of my passions, after all, where would we be without words?

 

Walking through the familiar entrance door to the Ashmolean is wonderful enough but the host of lovely guides made it even more special. Each and every one of them seemed to be really happy to be there and each and every one of them was kind, helpful and gracious. So much so that it felt as if we visitors were all specially invited and very welcome guests.

I have to mention the lovely man who, when asked "Please could you tell me where Egypt has gone?" replied with a twinkle in his eye "Ah, that's too large and heavy to move far so Egypt has stayed where it was" and then proceeded to lead me through various rooms until we reached the Egyptian collection where he waved towards the exhibits with a flourish and said "Enjoy your visit".

And the quietly-spoken man who walked up to me as I took pictures and said gently "You are permitted to use flash photography Madam, we've found it doesn't damage the exhibits".

And all of the other guides who were so happy to help us navigate our way around the new museum and for whom nothing was too much trouble.

Where to start?
I decided that to try to see everything would be too exhausting and wouldn't do justice to the exhibits so I thought I would wander around the Ashmolean looking for a few of my favourite things, words, language, books and writing....


You wouldn't think that a museum would be the place for such things, would you?

Well it is, if you look carefully

Starting here...







Of course I headed first for "Egypt". I have spent the best part of twenty years accompanying the Ragazzi to Egyptian exhibitions. Along with dinosaurs all children are fascinated by mummies.


I prefer the hieroglyphs, of course, though I did linger by a very small mummy case containing the mummified remains of a woman and as I was trying to imagine just how petite she must have been a few passing ladies and I discussed whether our own hips would fit such a small burial box, and concluded that no, they wouldn't!


One of our group of casual debaters was almost compelled to stretch out on the case containing the mummy but we managed to persuade her that it was not a good idea to measure herself for a coffin just yet!



A copy of the Koran...
Open at Sura 23 - Believers

" Prosperous are the believers who in their prayers are humble, and who from vain talk turn aside, and who in alms giving are active"

Arabic script is so beautiful. I wish I could read and write it



Upstairs in "Early Italian Painting" I found a picture of one of my heroes.

This is St Jerome

Jerome is the second most voluminous writer (after St. Augustine) in ancient Latin Christianity. In the Roman Catholic Church he is recognized as the patron saint of translators, librarians and encyclopaedists.

Well, of course a patron saint of translators would be one of my heroes, n'est-ce pas?




Mary reading a bedtime story to an infant Jesus?

I expect that the book is the bible but I rather like to imagine that Mary is reading a Beatrix Potter to her baby.

It's so important to read to your children. I still do it even though the Rags are both adults now. In fact when we cleared out all of their old toys and gave them to the children who lived next door I kept the books back. They're sitting in boxes in my house in France, safely stored for future visits when I will, once again, sit and read to the Rags.


St Catherine
Saint Catherine of Alexandria, also known as Saint Catherine of the Wheel and The Great Martyr Saint Catherine (Greek ἡ Ἁγία Αἰκατερίνη ἡ Μεγαλομάρτυς) is a Christian saint and martyr who is claimed to have been a noted scholar in the early 4th century.

The Catherine wheel firework is named after the instrument of torture, the breaking wheel, on which St Catherine was martyred.







It's all Greek to me...

An ex-colleague, one of the nicer of the people I once worked with, studied Ancient Greek so that he could read old biblical texts. When he told me that I was deeply impressed.

His tales of ice-fishing in Norway and his lecture on how to bone a pike also impressed me greatly though when he told me "I expect you're like me, a portfolio of less than $4,000,000 is worthless when you come to retire" I realised that we live in different worlds!




More Arabic.

Since it is forbidden to use images of living creatures in mosques you will find some very elaborate and beautiful calligraphy used as a decoration instead.

Suits me, I find words as beautiful as artwork any day

I really must study calligraphy one day.





There's a manoir in the next village in Brittany which is owned by a fascinating man who offers courses in it. Now why didn't I enroll on one while I had the opportunity?




I can't recall what this is!

But it forms part of an exhibition on restoring old manuscripts and reminds me of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Apparently they use some form of magnetic scanning thingy now which reveals the words hidden under the grime and dirt of centuries.

So much better than the days when such scraps were stuck together with sellotape and washed with detergent!




I think this is in praise of Allah.

I listened to a BBC World Service programme a few weeks ago devoted to the Most Beautiful Names Of Allah...

Allah, Ar-Rahman, Ar-Rahim...

As well as learning calligraphy and Farsi (see a previous post on Iran), I would love to visit some of the world's beautiful mosques and sit and gaze at the "writing on the wall".




This is a scrap of Old English.
It's not very impressive, is it?
It's not even real, being a picture of the original page.

Hwæt. We Gardena in geardagum,þeodcyninga, þrym gefrunon,hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon.Oft Scyld Scefing sceaþena/ þreatum,Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,monegum mægþum, meodosetla ofteah,egsode eorlas. Syððan ærest wearð/feasceaft funden, he þæs frofre gebad

Of course I'm not serious.
This is Beowulf, the oldest piece of Old English writing in existence. A linguistic treasure.


"Noumenis, an infant, lies here"A child's gravestone.
A few years ago I took The Ragazzi to the museum in Viterbo, Umbria. I will never forget wandering round that dusty, empty museum with a forbidding old female guardian following us to ensure that we didn't touch anything.

When we reached the little stone sarcophagi that held the mortal remains of children my daughter asked me to translate the words engraved on the sides and, as I whispered the grieving prayers of parents she cried.





Japanese.
I think...
Correct me if I'm wrong.

I thought of learning Japanese once.
When my daughter was born I embarked on my first French course. Those were happy days, her safely in the creche at Caversham Adult Education Centre, me sitting at a desk conjugating irregular French verbs...

When my son was born I took up Italian. A double blessing because that's where I met my best friend Jeannie and together we studied for the Institute of Linguists exams that were to earn us both distinctions.

Had I had more babies I would have enrolled for Japanese and German.
Perhaps it really is time to start studying Farsi?

So,that's my linguistic tour of the Ashmolean museum.

Please excuse my self-indulgent memories but this is the real treasure of a museum like the Ashmolean. It leads you on a voyage of discovery, not only into a whole world that you never knew existed but also into the depths of yourself that you often forget.