Observations from a Hill

Sunshine beim Wintergarten heno [there's a linguistic mix for you...] with a brace of wooden ducks and artificial flowers for colour. More important though, is the glass of Italian Primitivo in the foreground, or rather the goblet in which it sits. This venerable old wine glass is pretty much the last survivor of the 1980/90s heyday of the competitive cookery that cemented our friendship with Alan and Irene over forty -odd years. I've written recently about the origins of this long-standing tradition [blog posts passim, and in response to observations about the difficulties of navigating the archive of my scribbles, I'm thinking about mirroring this site in a more accessible form, so I will keep you posted if this thought train hits the tracks any time soon], but since Alan's illness and passing, these collective culinary endeavours have essentially withered and ceased themselves. This rather knackered, chipped and wobbly old glass was part of a set they passed on to us...

I was just watching an interview with one of my favourite guitarists, Robben Ford, on YouTube this evening. He was extolling the virtues of a 1960 Fender Telecaster that he bought some number of years ago, and which has been one of his go-to stable of guitars over the years: a blonde, rosewood-boarded, white-pickguarded beauty, now much road worn and very much played-in example of Leo Fender's genius. Pictured is my bastard-caster, which is now nearly fifteen years old, and which has undergone much modification and mutation in its short life. It started out as a Fender Modern Player, with a middle pickup, Strat-style, and a humbucker in the bridge position. It's a tad different now: Ever since I started to listen to music, I'd always wanted a Telecaster, and almost bagged one back in the early seventies, that was at the sweet spot of the marque: a sixties' model identical to Robben Ford's beauty of a guitar, which I couldn't finance at the time, despite what now...

We had our monthly lunch club today at The White Eagle at Rhoscolyn on Anglesey. We were a few short in number of our customary tableful, but a pleasant time was nevertheless had by all. I made my usual mistake of taking a starter before my main, which didn't leave my shrinking appetite enough room to finish up, but there you go. However, on our way into the restaurant I had noticed the outside chalkboard wasn't advertising specials or offers, but had on it a very familiar verse that at first I couldn't place, as in written form it was totally out of context for me. It only dawned on me a while later during the meal, that it was a spoken piece from a record by The Moody Blues: 'The Dream' from the album 'On The Threshold of a Dream'. Pictured, Jane's original copy of the vinyl from 1969. The Moodies, as they were known by most fans, were a Birmingham band formed in 1964, and their earliest sartorial image would have suggested a lounge act rather than a r...

Well, the voting for the Senedd elections is over and the count is done. No overall majority, but as expected, the vote has gone the way principally of Plaid Cymru and Reform. No other party came remotely close to either. I can't say I'm either surprised at the outcome, or even - speaking as a lifelong Labour voter who still casts a red ballot at every election - particularly upset at the outcome. Bemused perhaps at the ludicrous success of the arriviste Reform and their frankly ludicrous figurehead, but upset, no. We live in 'interesting' times, and the political scene at the moment verges frankly on the surreal; but it's where it is, and for the duration we're going to have to put up with whatever tomfoolery transpires.  That Labour's century long Welsh hegemony was under threat was glaringly obvious from the outset, and the more perspicacious of pundits read it just right: the dual Labour governments were more curse than blessing on either, particularly h...

Just a diary post tonight as I'm winding down from yesterday's drive and meal at The Cross Foxes [yesterday's post]. Pictured, the view from the cottage door this evening with the sun setting over Ynys Môn, and some promising cloud formations in evidence. The Clematis has really established itself on the arch over the past two or three years since we planted it, and is now trending westwards in its search for the sun. I've noticed that the Italian Cypress behind it has also taken a bit of a spurt of late, which probably means it's on its way towards the species' normal height of around seventy feet or so. Apparently, they have a slow growth period of several years before a final sprint home, so to speak. Anyway, the thing is looking healthy and happy enough, so bon chance to it, I say...

I'm minded to be careful about talking politics tonight, as there will be much such chatter going about tomorrow evening, post-elections, anyway; so I'll ignore the subject entirely for the duration. I had a topic vaguely in the offing for this evening's little scribble, but frankly I can't bring it to mind: an all too familiar scenario these days, and one which I'm damned certain is not unique to yours truly. I'll pour another glass and ponder for a while on the matter silently, in like mind as my eighteenth century Herefordshire quaker ancestors. Although I don't suppose they would have used the wine bit of such pondering for a minute... Wine poured, horizon scanned for inspiration, but nope, it's gone; and no amount of mental prodding is going to retrieve that particular thought process any time soon enough for today's epistle to the ether, so a reflection on Levi's jeans it will have to be instead. When I was growing up and jeans were the mod...