Clarissa et al.

I have to admit that Brodsworth is not actually one of my favourite houses. It is one of those houses 'that time forgot', where the shabbiness and hoarding left by the last family members to occupy it have been carefully preserved. An Italianate house built in the 1860s, it would never have got to the head of my list of favourites even with a family still thriving and altering it generation by generation.

Joe, on the other hand, loves it and would gladly return every year. Moreover, whatever the house lacks it makes up for by having an absolute jewel of a setting. The first time we visited (not long after English Heritage opened the house to the public) the grounds were, except for some formal planting close to the house, still wildly overgrown except where they had been hacked back to the barest bones of the garden's structure. Now that structure is most beautifully clothed and maintained to the highest of standards.

We took just over an hour to drive the 58 miles, and arrived in time to have lunch - well filled ham sandwiches made to order for me and home-made vegetable soup for Joe - before starting to go round the house when it opened at one o'clock. Half way round the fire alarm went off, so we filed out as directed by the room attendants, and a few minutes later filed back in as it had only been a drill. After we had finished going round we had a cup of tea (at the table next to a lady out on a 90th birthday treat with her son) and went to look at the gardens.

The Formal Garden

The Italianate Garden

The Quarry Garden - absolutely magical

The Summer House from which you get a lovely view back to the house

From the Target House (another summer house) looking aling the walk where at one time the family practised archery.

The Rose Garden - not actually at its best now, but I don't think rose gardens have really had a best this year, and large areas of Doncaster were under water when the roses were in bloom.
The journey home was even quicker and easier. I called in to see Glen - who came home last night and, while not the happiest bunny on the planet, is a good deal happier at home than he was in hospital - and stopped to make him a cup of tea since everyone had gone out and left him alone apart from half-a-dozen dogs none of whom are capable of boiling a kettle, much less making a decent cuppa. The curry I had left in the slow cooker was cooked to a nicety and, before Pa got in, I even had time to make a batch of naan breads. (Yes, it is a leavened bread, but you can get away with half and hour for it to rise, and then cook it under the grill without waiting for it to rise again after you knock it back and shape it.)

Today started with having the bathroom painted: not a big job - just skirtings, radiator, windowsill, door and ceiling as everything else is either plastic or tiled.

Josh came in to tell me that his dad had fallen off his horse and had a broken arm. I didn't believe him because he is such a wind-up merchant. Then Jacob came with the same story, so I started to feel sorry for Glen, but was still convinced that the boys were over-dramatising a nasty bruise or sprain.

The news tonight is that it is rather worse than thought as he also has a broken pelvis and will be in hospital for a while. I get the impression that most of the family is more worried about being one man down for harvest than sympathetic to Glen himself.

In between these two lots of news, mainly because I needed to get away from the smell of paint, Joe and I went out to have a look at a couple of churches - Theddlethorpe St. Helen and Theddlethorpe All Saints. Both are predominantly perpendicular in style and period, but here the similarity ends.

St. Helens is a homely little church much altered in Queen Victoria's reign, which now doubles as a community centre with its carpeted floor, kitchen, loo and lack of pews.

All Saints (also known as the Cathedral of the Marsh) is massive, beautiful and redundant. It is well cared for by the Church Conservation Trust, and is well worth a visit for the architecture, but is no longer a living, growing place.

We then went for a quick look at the sea from the top of Theddlethorpe sand dunes.

And looking in the opposite direction.

Angievoluti was given a challenge to write a story in 100 words which she has passed on to others - so far she has given two titles, and here are my efforts.

Smokescreen

The consulting room door had remained firmly shut since she arrived. Nobody entered or left. Was the doctor even there?
Her chest was tight with the oppressiveness of the atmosphere - the artificially lit corridor, the enervating heat, the lack of air . . .
She could bear it no longer. A nod towards the nurse, a glance at her wrist, a gathering of belongings, and she was at the exit.
Taking a deep breath she rushed, her arms held protectively about her unborn child, through the smokescreen of nicotine addicts, and out into the clean fresh air of the hospital carpark.

Three Missing Fingers

The 'hostess with the mostest', that’s me. Everyone says that my finger buffets are unsurpassed for the elegance of their presentation and the sheer quality of the food. I simply will not skimp with second-rate ingredients.
One last glance around the table: each silver dish is geometrically perfect in its arrangement of canapés, until my eye falls upon the gravidlax on fingers of ciabatta bread. There are three fingers missing!
A choking noise under the table alerts me to the culprit. I lift the corner of the table cloth to find next door’s ginger cat vomiting salmon over the carpet.

I'll throw out my own challenge now with the title Mirror to Nature

I wanted to get things done, but - the bank holiday being over - the first job was to get my tyre seen to. It turned out to be a six inch nail! Fortunately a repairable hole and not a whole new tyre, but still just shy of £12.

On Facebook in the profile you are asked for favourite quotes. One that I give is "Peace, perfect peace, and loved ones far away." Today this was just what I wanted, but didn't get.

Joe has an infected insect bite which he keeps scratching while predicting his own death from blood poisoning. The answer is in his hands - literally.

Jess wants a set of agility jumps, seesaws, tunnels etc. for her dog, and tells us this constantly.

Father wants the house clean and tidy. So do I.

And everybody wants feeding every time they cross the threshold.

Anyone know of a coolish desert island which people can visit only by invitation? I want a cottage there with a large farmhouse kitchen, a small drawing room, two en-suite bedrooms (one for me and one for the guests who will visit me every other week), a good broadband connection, and plenty of shelves for my books (something over 5,000 of them). A gardener and cleaner who arrive with the groceries each week and stay for one tide would be useful.

There was supposed to be a barbecue in the village this evening, but apparently it has been postponed to September 1st.

We followed are usual custom on a bank holiday of not going out, not least because when I came out of church yesterday I discovered that I had a flat tire. I borrowed Carolyn's foot pump and blew it up to drive slowly home. It is now spongy but not flat, which may just be that I didn't inflate it sufficiently yesterday after someone with a warped sense of humour let it down deliberately, or it may just be a very slow slow-puncture. I'm hoping Jacob will find time out from harvesting today or tomorrow to have a proper look at it for me.

Helen was at work, so Jess came here and we played our own special game of Progressive Boules. This game is a cross between boules and golf. It is played with a boules set. Youngest player chooses a place to start and throws the jack, each player takes turns to throw one of his/her boules to be as close as possible until each has thrown three (if two players) or two (if three players). Nearest to the jack takes the point. Standing where the jack landed on the previous round, the next player in age throws the jack to wherever s/he wants it, and the next round is played. Obviously the wise player uses the lie of the land to his/her best advantage. I play long uphill shots best, while Jess does best on short and downhill. Gradually the game progresses around the garden. In the end, after a match where the lead changed several times and neither of us ever led by more than two games, I declared myself the winner with a lead of 20 - 19, despite the fact that on a couple of occasions Jess's spaniel decided to move my boule away from the jack to give Jess an unfair advantage! My back aches with all that bending.

One of my favourite treats at this time of year is summer pudding, so I walked down to the chalk pit to pick some blackberries. Last year they were abundant there, but this year the few there were were inaccessible behind plastic covered bails of silage and smothered in enormous nettles. However my nephew Jacob was driving by in his tractor so I asked whether he had noticed any good crops of brambles this year and he told me to go on the path round the edge of the wood. So I did.

It was a lovely walk, and, while I didn't manage to fill my bucket with berries, I did manage to gather enough for two very generous puddings (one for tomorrow and one for the freezer) and for a bramble and apple crumble for Pa's tea today (always tea on a Saturday, never dinner) in a perambulation of about a mile. I'm afraid that to gather even as many as this I had to disobey one of the rules I have obeyed since childhood of never picking wild berries low enough for a dog to have peed on them; however, I think that this rule dates back to the days when picked berries went straight into my mouth rather than home to be washed and cooked, and it is a private woodland so there shouldn't have been any dogs in it. And, yes, strictly speaking I was trespassing, but my brother-in-law and his family farm all the land surrounding the woods and have carte blanche to ride and walk in them - a right I happily extend to myself.

Recipe for Summer Pudding

Cook your choice of red berries with enough sugar to make them just a little sweeter than is really good for you and a little water (or port if you prefer). You can do this on the hob or in the microwave.

In an ideal world my choice is blackberries, raspberries and redcurrants - but they aren't actually in season together so some have to come out of the freezer. Blackberries on their own are fine.

While the fruit is cooking line a buttered pudding basin with crustless bog standard white bread.

Pour the fruit and juice into the lined basin.

Seal it with a lid of more bread - making sure that there is enough liquid to soak and stain the bread.

Put a saucer on top, and a weight (standard sized tin of beans/soup/tomatoes) to press it down.

Allow to cool in the kitchen, then place in the fridge overnight.

Just before serving, turn it out very carefully into a soup plate or similar. Some people do fancy stuff with loads of clingfilm to make turning out easier.

Serve with very thick cream (or yoghurt if you insist)

The apples in the crumble were the delicious little Discoveries of which we have two trees and which provide fruit from late July to mid-September when the other apples kick in and keep us supplied with fresh pickings until the middle of November and stored apples until the spring. Not being a fan of cooked apple (blame school dinners) I had the first of the Victoria plums sweet, juicy and warm from the tree.

No mists today, but loads of mellow fruitfulness.

Update after Sunday Lunch

Yummy Scrummy!!!

Today it was warm and sunny, and I spent all day at the museum slaving over a hot photocopier in preparation for next term's History Detectives. Grrrrr!

Meanwhile Father went to Eddie Broadburn's funeral, a lifelong friend and a few years senior to him at school. This led to discussion of boys in Pa's school photo. He is one of the little ones at the front, there was an assortment of cousins throughout the school, and Uncle Peter is among the sixth-formers who are clearly identified by their wearing sports jackets rather than blazers. A good few of those hopeful young men (born in 1920/21) would be dead within a few years, but of those who survived the war we think that Uncle Peter now is the only member of that sixth form left.

Joe has been to Wrexham on a fact-finding visit (jolly) with members of the West Lindsey Churches Festival Committee - that's a heck of a long way in a minibus! Sooner him than me. He had my camera (he took 64 pictures) which is what delayed my taking a photo of the photo above to post here.

Well, my account has automatically been debited for another year's blog subscription so I'd best keep on blogging for another year.

Actually I really enjoy keeping my diary this way as I have never really resolved the question of whom I am addressing when writing a diary.

Posterity? How pretentious! I know that the diaries of the most ordinary people are potentially of great interest to historians, but writing a diary with that in mind? I think not.
As an aide memoire? Well, that's all very well, but short notes in an engagement diary would be sufficient to remind me. "Went to X with A B and C" will bring memories flooding back, but tells another reader almost nothing. Only the constancy of my friendships would get in the way of accurate memory: "Was this the occasion when A sat on an ants' nest? Or was it the time that C brought all that amazing food left over from the previous night's wine lovers annual buffet?"
For some imaginary "Dear Diary"? - a friend in whom I can confide all? No, I tried that when I was in my teens and very artificial it is too, and a few years after (though less so at so great a remove) quite dreadfully embarrassing, especially my attempts to empathise with people "What dear so-and-so must be feeling at such a time. . ." just like those frightful journalists who ask questions like "How did you feel when you learned that your son had been murdered?" Well, how the hell do you think they felt?!?!?

No, far better to know that it will be read, and even commented upon, by real people - close friends and strangers alike - and that if a thought is too uncharitable to risk its being read by the subject, it is too uncharitable to write or even think. And if a thought is twee enough to be embarrassing then it should never be committed to paper (or screen). So I still don't know why I'm doing this, only that the compulsion to write things down has been strong all my life.

I found this on another blog, and I thought it worth repeating . . .

You know you are in 2007 when....

1. You accidentally enter your password on the microwave.

2. You haven’t played solitaire with real cards in years.

3. You have a list of 15 phone numbers to reach your family of 3.

4. You e-mail the person who works at the desk next to you.

5. Your reason for not staying in touch with friends and family is that they don’t have e-mail addresses.

6. You pull up in your own driveway and use your cell phone to see if anyone is home to help you carry in the groceries.

7 Every commercial on television has a web site at the bottom of the screen.

8. Leaving the house without your cell phone, which you didn’t have the first 20 or 30 (or 60) years of your life, is now a cause for panic and you turn around to go and get it.

10. You get up in the morning and go on line before getting your coffee.

11. You start tilting your head sideways to smile. : )

12. You’re reading this and nodding and laughing.

13. Even worse, you know exactly to whom you are going to forward this message.

14. You are too busy to notice there was no #9 on this list.

15. You actually scrolled back up to check that there wasn’t a #9 on this list

Sorry that I can't give credit where credit's due, but I copied and pasted without noting the source.

By the way, so far as I am concerned 2 4 5 12 13 14 & 15 are true. 7 is probably true, but I make tea, go to the loo, have a quick blog or zoom the recording on during the adverts so I haven't noticed. 10 is occasionally true.

I'm not a great fan of hot weather.
BUT
there are also limits to how much coolth I want in August. Daytime temperatures in the mid 70s and night-time in the upper 60s are what I want at this time of year. I don't want to have to turn the light on to read in the middle of the day. I want to sleep under a sheet rather than a quilt. I want to eat my meals in the garden. I want the plums and blackberries to be sweet and ripe. I want the garden to be a blaze of colour rather than windswept, with just enough rain (usually in overnight showers) to keep the grass green, not torrential downpours so that I'm having to dry (or at least air) my washing indoors.

Do you see in the blog below?  - the children may be paddling, but they are wearing rainproof jackets!

Long ago in the early 1960s when little runs in the country meant going out for a drive in the car rather than being part of a fitness regime, Biscathorpe was for us a favourite destination for a picnic. Less popular and therefore less crowded that Hubbard's Hills in Louth, this is where two streams run through a meadow to join and become the river Bain - that same river which a few weeks ago and not many miles further on its journey to the sea burst its banks and flooded Horncastle. Here it is is a gentle dimpling brook which was once none-the-less the lifeblood of the village that stood here in the middle ages. In my childhood this site was reached down a farm track which has now become a metalled road but it still fords both streams, and the cattle still graze in the meadow making it an 'interesting' picnic place for the unwary. I am sure that I remember being told that there was a huge and forbidding house in this valley in my parents' childhood, but I have glanced through various books of local history as well as googling for Biscathorpe Hall, and can find no trace of it, so I may be mistaken. Now all that remains of the village is a small church which appears to belong to a period many years later than the demise of the village and a derelict cottage or small farmhouse. The present Biscathorpe House stands quite a bit away from the former village site.

Joel (not wanting to go to a rugby match with his father and brother) was spending the day with Jess, and - after a morning's riding and general horse stuff - they both came to me once Helen went to work. There wasn't enough day to take them any distance (nor enough money after the dentist on Wednesday and having my car serviced on Thursday) so we went to Biscathorpe for an hour or so and they played in the stream as children always have played in streams. It costs nothing, is healthy outdoor exercise, and is great fun.

Here they are . . .

Joe didn't deign to get his feet wet, but he did join in the fun otherwise. Joel made up for Joe's dry feet by getting his jeans soaked to well above the knees. When we walked up to look at the church he was wearing a large bath sheet sarong style over his boxers to the amusement of passing walkers, and even more so when later we passed some roadworks and it was he who jumped out of the car to move a safety barrier which (unsafely) had fallen over into the lane so that I could drive past it and on past the workmen who were in stitches at the sight of Joel in his 'skirt'. I have a little mercy, and did not take a photograph of him thus attired.

I went to the dentist this morning to have a crown done on a back tooth. Today it took ten minutes, although the preparation a couple of weeks back took considerably longer. The only painful part was the £194 which seems to me an awful lot of money for a bit of all but invisible porcelain. I am however informed by various friends that I am terribly lucky to have an NHS dentist and that privately it would have cost me anything from £250 to £700 to have it done. I suppose that at 52 I am also lucky to have 32 teeth and no gaps, but that's down to good hereditary and assiduous brushing at least twice every day and never missing. That's the equivalent of nearly twenty weeks of my life spent cleaning my teeth 24/7 - it's a wonder they aren't worn away to stumps after all that!

After that I rushed down the A180/M180 from Cleethorpes to Scunthorpe for a morning at work doing whiteboard training. It'll be nice to be able to show big pictures rather than holding up bits of laminated paper showing the artefacts of which the children see only fragments in the Roman and Saxon workshops, and maybe show them a few maps, but I think we all agreed that schools bring children to the museum for hands on experience and that they can see computer presentations either individually or on the whiteboard at school so we must be very careful not to get over enthusiastic about its use.

While at work I collected sponsorship money from my colleagues, and a box of thank you toffees from Hilary. I hope that father and Joe will leave me a few, but they are welcome to all the liquorice ones.

We did our Sponsored Hymn Sing on Saturday: not as many people as I would have wished (I did suggest to Joe and Carolyn that August wasn't the brightest month to arrange it in), but the quality was good. Indeed, one late-comer listening at the back of the church thought that I had managed to get together a proper choir, and indeed most of us have been choir members in our time and several still are.

However, there weren't any people from Thoresway except for Carolyn, and it's their church organ which benefits from our efforts. There were several ladies from Nettleton church, a couple from Rothwell, and one who lives in Swallow but who attends an RC church in Grimsby rather than the parish church (so that was good of her). The rest were my friends - some of whom travelled a considerable distance to come and sing.

We started with morning hymns, then evening, then the Christian year (with descants on some of the carols) before working our way through A&M general hymns until we reached a total (slightly croaky after 3 hours singing) of 99. At which point Leo (the second organist, who had stayed to sing along with his wife Margaret - he is Jewish, she's RC) suggested we finish with the national anthem. Jean (the fourth and final organist struck up), none of us looked for the words and all of us sung both verses, and I'm willing to bet most of us could have gone on to the now unfashionable and disused scattering of enemies if required: I suspect every woman there had been a Girl Guide in her time.

Here are those left at the end - a few had to leave earlier. At this stage, it's Nettleton and Rothwell on the cantoris side, and my friends on the decani.

Afterwards we went across the road for supper at Carolyn's house which was a lovely social end to the day, and Becky came back to stay the night before returning to Preston today.

Obviously I don't know how much we have raised over all, but (assuming everyone pays up) Joe and I between us have raised (once gift aid is factored in) pushing on towards £350. I just hope some of the others have been as enthusiastic in getting sponsors.

I love singing hymns. I love singing. I don't pretend to be any good although - and this is my no.1 name drop - I did once come third to Lesley Garratt in a festival when we were both in our late teens/early twenties. There were ten in the class and the adjudicator picked out three: one who could sing, one who could put a song across and one who could do both. Guess which I was?

It always comes as a great surprise to me that other people don't sing as they work - cooking, driving and washing up are to me musical(ish) activities. My grandmother had a great way with song: a good mood brought a range of songs in all sorts of genres especially ragtime, but hymns could be used to great and dramatic effect: she had a martial way of singing "Nearer my God to Thee" accompanied by a clashing of pans which boded no good to anyone! There is a very good voice which wanders through the family, and Nan was one of the beneficiaries in her generation - her maiden name was Jones if we are going for racial stereotypes, and I think most of her siblings sang. I don't know whether any of the cousinship of my mother's generation inherited, but Shelagh in my generation and Emma (pictured - in black) in the next both struck lucky.

I'm rambling. It's late. Night-night.

Albert, bless his little cotton socks, killed a stoat this evening. He appears to have come out of the encounter unscathed except for the stink! I had a vague idea that mustelidae used scent as a weapon (aren't American skunks of that same family?) but I had no idea quite how vile or how clinging it could be.

I have had to bath him twice, and the little darling just sat in the handbasin in three inches of warm water and let me pour more water all over him and lathered him in shampoo. He made no attempt to bite or scratch, and didn't even mew or spit, but purred as I dried him, soaking through two aged bath sheets getting him to just this stage of dryness. He really is the sweetest natured of cats.

We planned to go to Burghley on Friday. For years Burghley has been open daily throughout the summer. I decided to have a look at the website, and discovered that it is now closed on a Friday. This was Thursday evening: the children and the picnic were prepared, so a hasty change of destination was in order. Belvoir, Grimsthorpe, Sledmere, Burton Constable and several others within reasonable distance are also closed on Fridays - choice between Burton Agnes and Brodsworth, or something other than an historic house. Burton Constable was chosen.

This is one of my favourites: a lived in family home with a beautiful garden. It also has the largest privately owned collection of post-impressionist paintings in the north of England, although I have to say that the post impressionist genre is not actually a favourite of mine. I know that both Jess and Joel have been here before, but what seems quite recent to me is a lifetime away when you are only 12 and 13, and I did spot dawning memories as we went round the garden (possibly last time they came they were so small that we went round the house in batches leaving the babies with whoever was staying outside). This time they played in the games garden after going round the house. Giant Snakes and Ladders was the favourite . . .

Here they are at the entrance

and looking at the old manor house, and Joel (practising for his role as the Artful Dodger in November) explaining the treadmill.

These are my two favourite sculptures (one indoors and one out).

The boy with the dog used to sit outside the main entrance, but some philistine stubbed out his cigarette on the dog's head, so he was brought in for safety (he is resin, not bronze). Joel especially likes him as he reminds him of Big Dog, their Rhodesian Ridgeback who died earlier this year, and his younger brother Callum. The girl in the fountain in profile is the spitting image of Joe as a little boy of 4 or 5.
Lastly, a perfect end to a lovely afternoon - children doing what children do best . . .

They waited until the area was free of genuinely little kids before playing on the fire-engine only slightly tongue in cheek.

Yesterday Joshua (16) passed his tractor test. He also learned from the news that he is likely to have to wait until he is 18 before he can drive a car on the road.

Josh (like his father) is one of those natural drivers, and he has been able to drive since he could reach the pedals and see over the steering wheel simultaneously - in other words for half his young life. Even at 8 he never made 'kangaroo' starts, or stalled, or crunched the gears. Josh is a very lucky boy: he has a small, off road motorbike and a one third share of a quad-bike. He also has the choice of my old car and a beautifully restored landrover waiting for him as soon as on-road driving is legal for him.

Josh won't be driving illegally, but how many boys (and girls?) will when they find themselves deprived of the right to learn to drive a year beyond what they expected?

He won't become an on-road motorcyclist - or only over his mother's dead body - but how many young people will become motorcyclists? And how many, who would have lived to a ripe old age as car drivers, will die riding those motorbikes?

Josh may well cause other drivers a good deal of frustration driving his slow tractor on the road, and these drivers may make foolish overtaking manoeuvres and have accidents as a result.

Surely there is a better way of improving driving other than postponing driving age for a year?

If it were up to me, I would have road safety as a school subject culminating in all sixteen year olds taking their theory tests (including hazard perception) as a standard part of their year 11. (Doing this through school would eliminate 'ringers' taking tests for a fee.)

I would allow them to start driving lessons with a qualified instructor in a dual control car as soon as the theory test is passed.

I would let them take their tests at seventeen.

I would make it law that all new drivers display green Provisional plates for at least a year, and that certain limits were placed on social driving and engine size, together with zero tolerance of alcohol during that provisional period.

I would create a new grade of driving instructor/examiner, and make it compulsory for all drivers to complete a minimum number of hours motorway driving, night driving and driving in adverse weather conditions, plus at least one session in a skid pan, with and to the satisfaction of one of these senior instructors. All these would have to be completed within two years of passing the test, and P plates displayed until that time.

I would also have disqualification and retesting at just six penalty points for all new drivers and all drivers under 21.

I would also encourage insurance companies to give real incentives to young drivers to pass further voluntary tests, including building up their own no-claims while driving a parent's car as a named driver.

Mind you, I would also have random retests drawn from the lists of all drivers who have current penalty points on their licence (for whatever reason and however few) for which test they would have to pay if they failed. Only a perfectly clean licence would offer imunity from retesting.

This month's choice Liars and Saints by Maile Meloy

This book was Orange Prize listed and Richard and Judy recommended.

Suffice to say it wouldn't have been if I had been on either committee. It is an over-extended tale of catholic guilt in which improbability of character drawing vies for supremacy over unlikelihood of plot.

During the war daughter of domineering French Canadian father marries American pilot. Father disapproves and never sees daughter again. Pilot is unreasonably jealous of any man who speaks to wife.

They have two daughters - one biddable, one rebellious. Biddable one has son after one night stand, sent to relatives in France to have baby, which is subsequently passed off by grandmother as her own child born while on retreat with some nuns. Both daughters marry. Biddable can have no further children, rebellious one has daughter, jetisons husband and eventually moves in with female lover.

The sisters' 'little brother' grows up, and has sex with supposed niece (actually cousin) resulting in child, but baby's teenage mother develops cancer for which she refuses treatment until after baby is born, and dies. Baby's father (as god-father) raises baby, and eventually discovers his own father (who can't even remember mother who was his pupil at school) and truth comes out about all inter-relationships.

Grandparents go on pilgrimage to Rome where, the day before audience with Pope, grandmother is murdered.

Everyone reconciled.

As I said, NOT my sort of book: there are books which are hard to take, but which say something profound about the human condition, there are books that engross you in the saga of generations, and there are books which you sit down to enjoy a pleasant suspension of disbelief as improbability follows improbability; for me Liars and Saints fails on every count, and I find it hard to imagine anyone actually enjoying this nonsense. The pity is that it is quite well written nonsense and I suspect that the writer has got a good novel in her, but this ain't it.

Let's hope that the next eleven months' choices prove more enjoyable. At least they are supplied by the library service so we don't have to pay for books which we don't like.

Black Dog Stephen Booth (Fiction).
In the heart of the Peak District, Laura Vernon, keeper of secrets, lies murdered – and police can’t agree on a way to progress.

Hawskmoor Peter Ackroyd (Fiction).
Seven churches were built 250 year ago, each concealing a dark secret. In modern times, Nicholas Hawksmoor investigates a series of murders at certain 18th century churches that are seemingly inexplicable…

House Unlocked Penelope Lively (Biography).
Lively traces the history and the inhabitants of the country house where she lives, thereby charting the cultural and social changes of the 20th century.

Light on Snow Anita Shreve (Fiction).
A father and his young daughter find an abandoned baby in the snow on a December afternoon, an event which will change the girl’s understanding of the world and the adults in it.

Margrave of the Marshes John Peel (Biography).
John Peel, one of the most influential figures in modern popular music, tells his story.

Narrow Dog to Carcassonne Terry Darlington (Travel).
The story of two intrepid pensioners who sail their canal boat 1,600 miles across France to the Mediterranean, accompanied only by their whippet.

Pompeii Robert Harris (Fiction).
Harris recreates, in spell-binding detail, one of the most famous natural disasters of all time.

Star of the Sea Joseph O’Connor (Fiction).
During the winter of 1847, the Star of the Sea sets sail from Ireland for New York, but the refugees aboard are more connected than they know – and a killer is stalking the decks.

Unnatural Murder Anne Somerset (Non-fiction).
In the autumn of 1615, the Earl and Countess of Somerset were detained on suspicion of having murdered Sir Thomas Overbury. In a vivid narrative, Anne Somerset unravels the extraordinary events which followed.

Various Haunts of Men Susan Hill (Fiction).
A lonely woman of 53 vanishes in a fog. Experienced policemen know that most missing people either turn up, or have disappeared deliberately. But one young detective refuses to drop the case.

Year of Wonders Geraldine Brooks (Fiction).
The story of one woman’s struggle to save her family and her soul during 1666, when plague hits her Derbyshire village and the villagers, inspired by their charismatic parson, elect to quarantine themselves.

I took Jess and Joel to Thornton Abbey today as neither of them had ever seen the inside of the gatehouse which until recently was mostly closed.

We took a small picnic, but - alas - no camera (the pictures are from a previous visit on what must have been a cooler day). We ate the picnic in the ruins, then went back to look round the gatehouse. The children were dismayed to discover that their much disliked art teacher was also looking round and became remarkably silly dodging around to avoid being where he was. Since telling them anything worthwhile in the way of history was clearly impossible, I wandered around at my own pace thinking my own thoughts.

Puppies nearly seven weeks - Bracken, Bramble and Teasel - the dark one, Bracken, is the one they are keeping.

Jess, suddenly no longer a child.

Inge came round today. She is still as mad as a hornet about her holidays this year. She was still on maternity leave when everyone booked their holiday dates off work and it seems to have occurred to nobody that the mother of three young children might actually want some time in one or more of the school holidays to take them out or even go away with them. The boys' father is a teacher so they'll have their holiday, but Inge would have liked one too.

While we were chatting, Jess and Joel were taking photos in the garden.

Here are Jess, Tilly and Callum by Joel.

Joel and Tilly by Jess

. . . and Tilly on her own.

Not the prettiest picture, but I like it.

For almost as long as I can remember I have been taking phone messages for my father, and at a very early age it was thoroughly impressed upon me (by that same father) that, after courtesy, accuracy was of prime importance. He taught me to take the name and number, and to give as clear an idea as I could of when he was likely to be in to return the call. He also taught me how important it was to pass messages on accurately and at the earliest opportunity.

Joe and I were out on Thursday. Radio Humberside rang Joe to arrange an interview about the Sponsored Hymn Sing. Daddy asked today whether we had rung back?
I asked whom we were supposed to ring?
He couldn't remember the name.
Had he written it down?
No.
Had he had taken the number?
No.
I looked it up.
Not surprisingly the chap on reception at Radio Humberside knew nothing about it, but has taken a message.

What's the betting Joe doesn't get interviewed? Which may be a blessing as he'd either go on as if injected with a gramophone needle or he'd come over shy and speechless; on the other hand the publicity would be useful.

By the way, Joe doesn't actually live with us although it does sometimes seem that way, and he goes home every evening. He also tends to give our phone number to people because his brothers are such rubbish at taking and passing on messages.

Joe and I went to Eyam Hall yesterday.

The journey was absolutely horrendous! Up to Chesterfield was fine, then we came up behind a massive vehicle which was travelling very slowly with a police escort. After a while at about 3 miles an hour I saw a turn off so I zoomed off to try and get back to the main road ahead of the hold up, but now I was behind Mr. Super-Cautious who was driving at a steady 24mph and crawling onto the grass verge and stopping every time a vehicle came in the opposite direction, so by the time I rejoined the main road convoy I was further back not further forward. Then I spotted another by-road which took me by a back route to Eyam so I took that, but by then it was over an hour-and-a-half since I left Chesterfield - normally a 20 minute journey.

In a filthy temper I arrived at Eyam Hall, where (a visit to the lavatory and a pot of tea later) Joe and I went on the guided tour of this nice little manor house. As it was now the penultimate tour of the day, Joe and I were the only two people going round the house so the guide's spiel turned into an interesting conversation about the Wright family who have owned the house since it was built in the 1670s and the different ways houses have been lived in over the centuries. You don't see all that many rooms - living hall (not quite big enough for great hall, although originally serving that function), tapestry bedroom (a cold north-east room lined with second-hand Brussels tapestries when they were out of fashion and cheap in the eighteenth century), the library, another bedroom with a lovely Jacobean full-tester bed, the playroom with a magnificent model train belonging to the now adult son of the present owner, the dining room with a properly laid table in the Victorian manner, and the old kitchen with the usual display of kitchenalia.

After the guided tour we wandered round the garden, where we saw this delightful Cheshire Cat, and this White Rabbit.

Like most gardens this summer it was a bit green and beaten rather than having the glorious herbacious borders we would normally expec