Better here than

anywhere else, really.

Took these today, across the road from my cottage.







If the door to Narnia is going to be anywhere, it's going to be in a place where the daffs bloom in January.

More pics to come. Forsythia and more.


And,

new shelves. Uncle Mike made them and put them up today, and just in time; there's a booksale at the Village Institute next weekend.






Believe it or not, this is almost all my books now. But at least it now feels as if I really live here. Not just camping.

Canal Day

Shortly after my arrival here, my uncle and aunt took me on a trip to see the canals and canal boats at the Pontcysyllte aqueduct, and Llangollen, a gorgeous little village in Wales. (Neither of those names are pronounced the way you think. It's Welsh, so don't even try. The fact that Uncle Mike can do it proves its not a genetic Welsh thing, but it takes a lot of practice.) The aqueduct brings the Llangollen Canal over an enormous gorge,



at the bottom of which you can see some of the most charming and lovely Welsh rural scenery anywhere (as long as you're not afraid of heights.)

I'm terribly impressed with grand engineering projects, particularly those completed before the steam age. The canals in England were largely dug by hand by Irish labourers, and formed one of the most important technological breakthroughs of the early industrial revolution. They've been replaced of course, first by rail and now by roads, but consider that before they were built, the only way to ship goods around the country was by horse cart over almost completely unpaved roads. Roads, moreover, that by our standards, were little more than muddy farm tracks.



Thomas Telford is a hero of the industrial age (something as we know, I'm rather ambivalent about) and no matter what we think of the long-term results of the entire movement, there is no doubt that the creation of these canals, canal bridges and aqueducts, was a work of engineering genius unequaled in his time.

The boats are not barges, as is commonly thought. I saw a real barge a few weeks ago and it is enormous. They are too big to get through most of the locks and certainly can't get over most of the bridges. They only take barges on the bigger canals.

These are the more common kind and are called narrow boats, and are now used exclusively as pleasure craft. There is a whole little narrow boat subculture in Britain where people, mostly retired, tool about the countryside from Liverpool to London and as far as Norfolk on the other side.

My uncle has a particular thing about them. Doesn't talk about it much, but misses his boat very much.





Lots of ducks. Canals are really great places to watch waterfowl.


Here reason for the name "narrow" boat becomes clear.





The locks are fascinating. Most of the locks in use today are the same that were built at the time the canals were constructed. As you can see here, they are operated by a hand windlass that all the boaters keep on board.

It can be quite a lot of work to get through a long system of locks.


The lower half of the lock filling.


Just above this spot, there is a very long string of sixteen locks. After you've worked your way down this, which on a busy day can take all day while you wait your turn, you moor the boat next to the pub and have something to eat and a pint before tackling the next set of locks.

This is the Shroppie Fly, a kind of Narrow Boat enthusiasts' hangout.

You use the windlass (which looks like a bent crowbar) to raise and lower road bridges too. When we came to this one, the boaters (probably on a hireboat) had left the bridge up and a car was left sitting there until the next boat came along to take care of it.


Stay tuned for Llangollen.

Nothing to see here; move along.

Well, I'm getting bored with this. L'eg, despite its very appealing acronym is really not necessary any more. I set it up as an adolescent act of rebellion when I was asked to stop blogging at The Devout Life. Since then I'm no longer under that restriction and have resumed full-speed public blogging at the same address as TDL. I don't have a site meter or any way to check blog stats so I don't know if anyone still even comes here.

I had thought I would keep Orwell's Picnic as strictly political and news oriented, but of course, all the grammar, recipes, poetry, jokes and other stuff have crept in there anyway (although nothing yet on the growing threat from our radially symmetrical evolutionary rivals). I do want to keep the strictly personal stuff carefully out of O'sP so I've told one very persistent fan that I will continue putting stuff up here, but this will be mostly for those few personal friends who want to keep up with my private adventures. I'll put up what I think are rather dull pics of family and architecture, canal walks, and various items of local interest. But actual blogging will carry on at

The-Blog-Formerly-Known-As-TDL.

Now the holy bits

Colwich Abbey


The nun's choir and the sanctuary (spot anything missing?). The choir was built originally to be the ball room/banqueting room for the hunting lodge. I took the picture from what was then the minstrels' gallery and is now a place where you can sit and hear and follow the services if you are sick in the infirmary.


The long cloister.


St. Benedict


Among the many treats in the house is the clock room. You go into a bathroom and a little door, about three and half feet high, opens into a little anteroom containing the clockworks. When you are standing over it watching the works, the chime will make you jump out of your skin!



Having a bath in the bathroom right next to the clock is quite an experience. The picture is a bit dark, but if you look closely, you can see the pendulum as it swings.


The Christmas holiday between Christmas day and Epiphany, was described to me as "the silly season" in which the sisters have lots of tea parties and little dos, fancy dress and plays. I was assured over and over that the rest of the year is much more nunny.


from the left, Mother Prioress and Mother Abbess.


The house from the south end of the garden. The mysterious little doors you see in the foreground are the entrance to the "grots" the underground vaults that once were to serve as stables and wine cellars and food storage for the aristocrat who built the big house.


Taking the dog for a walk after Morning Office


the back door.


The grounds with a bit of house

The community was founded in Paris in the 1650's to pray for the conversion of England. The nuns were arrested during the Terror and fled back to England where they pioneered Eucharistic Adoration for this country.


Our Lady of Walsingham still reigns. The shrine to her in the garden had a candle lit all night. This is also the favoured spot in the summer for the sisters to take recreation.


More grounds.


And more grounds.


And more grounds. The view from the community room window.


The community room (which they call the "work room") decked out for a Christmas buffet.


Reverend Mother Abbess Gertrude Baker, saying good bye in the refectory on my last day.At 4'7" and after nearly 60 years of religious life, one of the tiniest and most delightful people I have ever met.

Not a child's Christmas in Wales

but pretty good.

Pics.


Toasting toes at home


Auntie Gill teaching Millie to knit in the pub, Christmas afternoon


The hordes descend. It really was a feast. Turkey, ham, and r. beef, onion sauce, horseradish sauce, wine gravy, sprouts, parsnips, roasties and mash, Christmas pud and bread n. butter pud.


Ben has got into the habit of eating breakfast on Uncle Mike's lap in the mornings before anyone else gets up. Ben eats all the mushrooms and Mike gets to read the paper in relative peace.


Feeling somewhat guilty at having had all three kinds of meat and doubles of B n' B pud. Ready for the Queen's speech and a long snooze.