Ian Conway's Blog - Posts Tagged "farming"
An English Village
Blogging is a new experience for me, so forgive me if I don't yet understand the protocols, or what is usual for a blog subject. To set out to amuse and entertain must, however, be right. So I wondered if anyone might be interested in a weekly blog diary of my village and it's doings through the seasons. There are so many things to write about - the people, cricket team, pubs, church, the season's rhythms in a farming community, the castles, village day, the ecology of the hills…
I decided to try this post, and if I detect any interest I shall try to continue it weekly.
Our small English village was old even before William the Conqueror sent out his inspectors to compile the Domesday Book. We have half-timbered thatched cottages, an embarrassment of pubs for such a small community, five castles along the ridge of the nearby hills and a church dating back to the 1100's complete with tombs of ancient knights and an admiral who served under Drake in seeing off the Spanish Armada. There are three nearby towns, each with narrow streets and half-timbered buildings, each town growing larger the further it is from the village. It is a pretty place with lots of children and a very active community - many off-comers as well as original village families. We are in the off-comer category. Although made very welcome, off-comers have to accept that it takes at least three generations to become recognised as a village family.
In this first post I want to share my joy at the return of the House Martins. We live in a new house, a pastiche design to mimic the local vernacular - which means that it has rafter ends poking out rather than boarded fasciae. House Martins like rafter ends for their nests and a family of martins built a nest in ours a couple of years ago. Unfortunately, the nest dried out in the warm weather and fell down. I wove a support of small twigs and plastered it with reconstituted mud and moss from their fallen nest and it worked! They took up residence again and after much disgusted tweeting about my nest- building skills, they finished the nest off. Now the family returns each year and makes babies outside my open study window. Last year the twittering of the chicks sustained me as I wrote The Hitler Canvas. I am not a nature nut, but there are few things I find more attractive than the sight of these wonderful creatures diving and swooping in the warm sunset of a English summer evening as I sip my wine in the garden.
More next week, possibly.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
I decided to try this post, and if I detect any interest I shall try to continue it weekly.
Our small English village was old even before William the Conqueror sent out his inspectors to compile the Domesday Book. We have half-timbered thatched cottages, an embarrassment of pubs for such a small community, five castles along the ridge of the nearby hills and a church dating back to the 1100's complete with tombs of ancient knights and an admiral who served under Drake in seeing off the Spanish Armada. There are three nearby towns, each with narrow streets and half-timbered buildings, each town growing larger the further it is from the village. It is a pretty place with lots of children and a very active community - many off-comers as well as original village families. We are in the off-comer category. Although made very welcome, off-comers have to accept that it takes at least three generations to become recognised as a village family.
In this first post I want to share my joy at the return of the House Martins. We live in a new house, a pastiche design to mimic the local vernacular - which means that it has rafter ends poking out rather than boarded fasciae. House Martins like rafter ends for their nests and a family of martins built a nest in ours a couple of years ago. Unfortunately, the nest dried out in the warm weather and fell down. I wove a support of small twigs and plastered it with reconstituted mud and moss from their fallen nest and it worked! They took up residence again and after much disgusted tweeting about my nest- building skills, they finished the nest off. Now the family returns each year and makes babies outside my open study window. Last year the twittering of the chicks sustained me as I wrote The Hitler Canvas. I am not a nature nut, but there are few things I find more attractive than the sight of these wonderful creatures diving and swooping in the warm sunset of a English summer evening as I sip my wine in the garden.
More next week, possibly.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
Letter from an English Village: Easter
The bells rang out over the village as I started my walk along the sunny lanes to Church on Easter Sunday. The morning service was packed out. I suppose that is probably inconsistent with the national trend in the Church of England, but tradition dies hard in the countryside. Perhaps it is that people also feel closer to nature here and hence to the great mystery of life? I don't know, but we ran out of service sheets.
I sing in the choir, but I don't feel happy wearing the vestments because of my non-conformist conditioning. So I always scuttle up the side aisle to the choir stalls before the service begins. (I believe my leather jacket would spoil the dignity and grace of the choir procession.) As I wait, a quiet time to sort out thoughts, focus and feel the personal meaning of the place and the event and what it signifies to me. Then the swell of the opening hymn, all rose and the choir began its procession up the church.
The sun shone in through the stained glass, the vicar was on form with a typically sincere and engaging sermon, the congregation clasped hands and exchanged warm greetings in the Peace and the sacraments were served, as they have been in this building for over 1000 years. Parish announcements at the end of prayers and a young couple smiled self-consciously as their marriage banns were read. Embarrassed adults and children all with birthdays that week stood at the front and received sweets and Easter eggs as the congregation sang 'Happy Birthday'. After the service children rushed excitedly around the church finding more, poorly concealed, Easter eggs - enough for everyone. The grown-ups watched on, sipping the coffee served at the back of the church. Quiet laughter, buzz of easy conversation.
A good service, and the old pub opposite the church opens at noon. But first it was a short walk through the lanes and across Manor Fields to the village shop. Here I bought the newspaper and a couple of freshly baked croissants and took them home. When all were digested, being Easter Sunday we had a joint of roast beef - what else.
After a doze it was back up to the pub opposite the Church. It was open now and I had a chat and sank a pint of a great local brew, served in a proper glass just for me - heavy, dimpled and with a handle. Then I sat in the pub garden and read the newspapers. It is a well known pub - when I was in New Zealand a man asked me if I knew of it, when he learned of the area I came from. From the garden you can see two of the castles on the ridge of the hills, one of which was used in the Kevin Costner Robin Hood film, I understand.
Isn't it true that whilst there is much ugliness in life, there is also much beauty and it is wrong to allow the existence of the former to deny oneself the enjoyment of the latter?
More next week, I think.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
I sing in the choir, but I don't feel happy wearing the vestments because of my non-conformist conditioning. So I always scuttle up the side aisle to the choir stalls before the service begins. (I believe my leather jacket would spoil the dignity and grace of the choir procession.) As I wait, a quiet time to sort out thoughts, focus and feel the personal meaning of the place and the event and what it signifies to me. Then the swell of the opening hymn, all rose and the choir began its procession up the church.
The sun shone in through the stained glass, the vicar was on form with a typically sincere and engaging sermon, the congregation clasped hands and exchanged warm greetings in the Peace and the sacraments were served, as they have been in this building for over 1000 years. Parish announcements at the end of prayers and a young couple smiled self-consciously as their marriage banns were read. Embarrassed adults and children all with birthdays that week stood at the front and received sweets and Easter eggs as the congregation sang 'Happy Birthday'. After the service children rushed excitedly around the church finding more, poorly concealed, Easter eggs - enough for everyone. The grown-ups watched on, sipping the coffee served at the back of the church. Quiet laughter, buzz of easy conversation.
A good service, and the old pub opposite the church opens at noon. But first it was a short walk through the lanes and across Manor Fields to the village shop. Here I bought the newspaper and a couple of freshly baked croissants and took them home. When all were digested, being Easter Sunday we had a joint of roast beef - what else.
After a doze it was back up to the pub opposite the Church. It was open now and I had a chat and sank a pint of a great local brew, served in a proper glass just for me - heavy, dimpled and with a handle. Then I sat in the pub garden and read the newspapers. It is a well known pub - when I was in New Zealand a man asked me if I knew of it, when he learned of the area I came from. From the garden you can see two of the castles on the ridge of the hills, one of which was used in the Kevin Costner Robin Hood film, I understand.
Isn't it true that whilst there is much ugliness in life, there is also much beauty and it is wrong to allow the existence of the former to deny oneself the enjoyment of the latter?
More next week, I think.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
Letter from an English Village: Animals and Fields
As I write my blog post this evening, my study window is open because the day has been quite warm for May, although it rained heavily in the afternoon. Good thing, because the gardens needed it. The House Martin family in the rafter nest outside my window has gone to bed and apart for the odd manic burst of cheeping from the chicks, the little family is quiet.
The birdsong from the nearby woods in the grounds of the country house opposite has also quietened down and the traffic noise in the village lane is typically minimal - say one vehicle every 30 minutes. An enormous farm tractor making a detour to visit the village shop, some village boys coming to terms with the heady magic of testosterone - crouching low over handlebars trying to coax impossible speed out of miniscule motorbikes. I remember it well. I hear a powerful engine note - perhaps a tired dad barrelling back home late in his BMW after a tough day in the office, hopefully to receive smiles, cuddles and a glass of wine with his meal.
But the normal rhythm of the village evening is being periodically broken by the sound of an animal in distress. It is coming from the meadows by the little river which runs through the village and it sounds like a cow trying to find her calves - more of a fearful sound than pain. If it doesn't stop soon I will go and have a look, but I am quite cautious because, although I grew up in the country margin to a large town, I cannot claim to be a countryman. I know that what seems dreadful and harsh to me in the rural environment seems normal and natural to the gamekeepers, farmers and hunt workers I have met here.
A couple of years ago I was on my way to sing at a gig at a nearby town and left in plenty of time, intending to do a sound test with the band before the performance. As I left the village I drove past a field where I heard a cow bellowing. I stopped to investigate. She was calving and to my layman's eyes seemed to be having a tough time. Blood everywhere, a hell of a mess. I drove up the farm track and found a couple of farm hands in the yard. They were bemused by me and my questions, possibly also by my white crooner's tuxedo. Quite understandable, I suppose it must have seemed quite surreal to them. In any event they promised to have a look, explained that the situation was quite normal and that the particular cow always made a fuss when she calved. I left, feeling rather foolish. We had no time to do a sound test when I arrived at the venue and the performance suffered accordingly.
My wife came across a cow in distress the other day when she was out riding her bike. The farmer's wife drove up and asked if she had seen some heifers - the gate had been left open and the cow's little daughters had strayed. I think they found them. Coincidentally a couple of years ago I happened to do a painting of the same field gate - it should show below.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
For sheer heart-string tugging effect, you can't beat lambs. One evening last summer I found one marooned on the other side of a fence from her mother - both crying piteously and frantically running along the fence line on opposite sides. I couldn't catch the lamb and they were both getting very distressed, so I called out the farmer from his tea to sort it out. If looks could kill.. Another time I found a yearling stuck in a fence when I was out jogging. I was amazed how she quietened as I worked to pull her head out from the mesh. Although with the typical sheep IQ of 1-3 , she somehow knew I meant only to help. The speed with which she took off when I freed her! The incident made me think about the concept of the Good Shepherd and what that was meant to convey when the parable was first told.
The cow has stopped crying. She has probably been reunited with her calf. Back to the painting. I came across this scene in Autumn when we showed some friends around the village. It just seemed right and made a hell of an impact on my senses, so I returned later to sketch it for painting in my studio. The painting is meant to be allegorical and uses the device of the gate to suggest the passage from one stage of life to another. The gate is in the shade of a great tree, whose leaves are gently turning with the end of the Summer. All the memories of the year are embedded in the leaves - and when they fall and become one with the soil they will join all the past memories of this place beneath the tree. There is sunlight on the field beyond, promising optimistic times ahead, but to experience them we have to leave the shade of the tree and pass through the gate. What I am trying to suggest in the painting, admittedly rather clumsily, is that we must have the optimism and confidence to pass through the gates we encounter in life and avoid sheltering fearfully in the shades of the past.
More next week, in all likelihood.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
The birdsong from the nearby woods in the grounds of the country house opposite has also quietened down and the traffic noise in the village lane is typically minimal - say one vehicle every 30 minutes. An enormous farm tractor making a detour to visit the village shop, some village boys coming to terms with the heady magic of testosterone - crouching low over handlebars trying to coax impossible speed out of miniscule motorbikes. I remember it well. I hear a powerful engine note - perhaps a tired dad barrelling back home late in his BMW after a tough day in the office, hopefully to receive smiles, cuddles and a glass of wine with his meal.
But the normal rhythm of the village evening is being periodically broken by the sound of an animal in distress. It is coming from the meadows by the little river which runs through the village and it sounds like a cow trying to find her calves - more of a fearful sound than pain. If it doesn't stop soon I will go and have a look, but I am quite cautious because, although I grew up in the country margin to a large town, I cannot claim to be a countryman. I know that what seems dreadful and harsh to me in the rural environment seems normal and natural to the gamekeepers, farmers and hunt workers I have met here.
A couple of years ago I was on my way to sing at a gig at a nearby town and left in plenty of time, intending to do a sound test with the band before the performance. As I left the village I drove past a field where I heard a cow bellowing. I stopped to investigate. She was calving and to my layman's eyes seemed to be having a tough time. Blood everywhere, a hell of a mess. I drove up the farm track and found a couple of farm hands in the yard. They were bemused by me and my questions, possibly also by my white crooner's tuxedo. Quite understandable, I suppose it must have seemed quite surreal to them. In any event they promised to have a look, explained that the situation was quite normal and that the particular cow always made a fuss when she calved. I left, feeling rather foolish. We had no time to do a sound test when I arrived at the venue and the performance suffered accordingly.
My wife came across a cow in distress the other day when she was out riding her bike. The farmer's wife drove up and asked if she had seen some heifers - the gate had been left open and the cow's little daughters had strayed. I think they found them. Coincidentally a couple of years ago I happened to do a painting of the same field gate - it should show below.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
For sheer heart-string tugging effect, you can't beat lambs. One evening last summer I found one marooned on the other side of a fence from her mother - both crying piteously and frantically running along the fence line on opposite sides. I couldn't catch the lamb and they were both getting very distressed, so I called out the farmer from his tea to sort it out. If looks could kill.. Another time I found a yearling stuck in a fence when I was out jogging. I was amazed how she quietened as I worked to pull her head out from the mesh. Although with the typical sheep IQ of 1-3 , she somehow knew I meant only to help. The speed with which she took off when I freed her! The incident made me think about the concept of the Good Shepherd and what that was meant to convey when the parable was first told.
The cow has stopped crying. She has probably been reunited with her calf. Back to the painting. I came across this scene in Autumn when we showed some friends around the village. It just seemed right and made a hell of an impact on my senses, so I returned later to sketch it for painting in my studio. The painting is meant to be allegorical and uses the device of the gate to suggest the passage from one stage of life to another. The gate is in the shade of a great tree, whose leaves are gently turning with the end of the Summer. All the memories of the year are embedded in the leaves - and when they fall and become one with the soil they will join all the past memories of this place beneath the tree. There is sunlight on the field beyond, promising optimistic times ahead, but to experience them we have to leave the shade of the tree and pass through the gate. What I am trying to suggest in the painting, admittedly rather clumsily, is that we must have the optimism and confidence to pass through the gates we encounter in life and avoid sheltering fearfully in the shades of the past.
More next week, in all likelihood.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
Letter from an English Village: Messing about in Boats.
Now that Easter has passed, it is time for me to take my boat out of storage and smarten her up for a summer on the river. Through winter I keep her in storage at a local farm, secure under layers of canvas and with all her cordage and soft furnishings removed and stored in my garage loft. Past experience has taught me that hungry field-mice will make short shrift of anything gnawable which I may be tempted to leave in the boat.
I have had a love affair with boats as long as I can remember. Through the years I have had about 18 boats, mainly high-performance sailing dinghies, but ranging from a small sailing cruiser, an inshore fishing drifter and converted ships boats down to canoes. Whilst my childhood friends read football papers, I bought boating magazines and sent off to manufacturers for brochures. I overdosed on the Ransome books. My father built my first boat for me when I was about 12. He came home one day to find me and my friends building a boat out of tree boughs and canvas, which we intended to try out on the river - a wide and fast river. I remember that he shuddered, then set about plans to build a proper boat for me which I could safely use on the canal. I was very spoiled and she was beautiful. She was powered by oars and a Seagull outboard motor (which is still in working order) and in time I added a miniscule sail. As I grew older and bigger my father lengthened her accordingly by cutting her amidships and adding a section. He was a builder and very handy.
My mother named her 'Teena' and I have given that name to almost all the boats I have owned since then. The first Teena went into storage in my father's builders yard when I went to sea and came out again to be properly converted to sail when I finished university and couldn't afford a new boat. In time I could afford a proper racing dinghy and she went back into storage in the yard. When our children arrived she came out again to become their pirate boat in the garden. My children outgrew her and she went back into storage, then to my younger brother's house for his children to play in. She finally sailed off to the great boatyard in the sky when he moved house and his children had also outgrown her.
My current 'Teena' is an Edwardian style reproduction Thames Rowing Skiff (- think 'Three Men in a Boat' or 'Wind in the Willows'.) A design based on the long keel Thames ferry skiffs of the 17th century and refined for leisure use in the 19th, she is a sleek 17 ft of sheer grace and elegance. Two beefy pulls on the oars and she will glide at least 5 boat lengths. Ok I'm biased but for me she is a poem of fine lines in Oxford Blue paint outboard with pale blue inboard. The timber is all gloss varnished caulk-jointed teak and the fittings are gleaming brass and stainless steel. White cordage and 'ladies seats' fore and aft with backrests, blue cushion upholstery and black curly ironmogery. Even the oars are picked out in gold filigree and there is a rattan hamper in the sternsheets for champagne and a picnic, together with a discrete sound system for calm pastoral music. She also has a tiny electric motor, which is very difficult to see from the river bank. When I am feeling too lazy to row I switch to the silent motor and greatly enjoy the puzzled looks from people on the river bank who can't see how she is being propelled, as the middle aged man with the straw boater hat lolls about in the aft seat sipping white wine and languidly waves to them.
I came by Teena by pure chance. Always preferring sailing dinghies I was, nonetheless, ready for a change. A man wanted to buy one of my marine paintings but was not in a position to pay the going price. Knowing that I am a boat nut, he offered the skiff as an exchange for the painting. I liked the poetry of the offer - a real boat for a painting of one, so I accepted. He delivered her to a boatyard by the canal in the village and I spent part of a summer restoring her. That is worth another blog to describe. The yard was close by an old bridge and a staircase lock. In breaks from restoration I sketched the scene and painted it in my studio - it should show below:-
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
In summer I keep Teena on a wide river about 12 miles from the village, which is kept above tidal level by a weir. The river is lined with fine houses, eating places and pubs with landing stages. It runs by the ancient walls of city which was once a Roman garrison town and is now a tourist centre. More about that in another blog. Large boats take parties of tourists for day trips upstream, where there is an ancient great house occupied by one of our richest Dukes. There are rowing eights from the three old clubs on the water, together with craft from the canoeing, sailing and motor boat clubs - as well as boats launched from the slipways, many of them Edwardian classic styles like mine. On a sunny day it is very busy.
I have just realised how long this blog has become. Sorry. I shall make them snappier anon, but I have enjoyed writing about my passion for boats.
I think a consuming passion can be a very good and stimulating thing, so long as the subject of the passion is healthy. It can be a great experience for children as they develop - even if they ditch it in time, unlike me. What is more important though is that a parent should try to help and develop a healthy passion once discovered, so that a child can experience the wonder of it. I was very lucky, my parents indulged and supported me, so I tried to do the same for my children. What will they do? …Ripples in a pool perhaps…
More next week, Deo volente.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
I have had a love affair with boats as long as I can remember. Through the years I have had about 18 boats, mainly high-performance sailing dinghies, but ranging from a small sailing cruiser, an inshore fishing drifter and converted ships boats down to canoes. Whilst my childhood friends read football papers, I bought boating magazines and sent off to manufacturers for brochures. I overdosed on the Ransome books. My father built my first boat for me when I was about 12. He came home one day to find me and my friends building a boat out of tree boughs and canvas, which we intended to try out on the river - a wide and fast river. I remember that he shuddered, then set about plans to build a proper boat for me which I could safely use on the canal. I was very spoiled and she was beautiful. She was powered by oars and a Seagull outboard motor (which is still in working order) and in time I added a miniscule sail. As I grew older and bigger my father lengthened her accordingly by cutting her amidships and adding a section. He was a builder and very handy.
My mother named her 'Teena' and I have given that name to almost all the boats I have owned since then. The first Teena went into storage in my father's builders yard when I went to sea and came out again to be properly converted to sail when I finished university and couldn't afford a new boat. In time I could afford a proper racing dinghy and she went back into storage in the yard. When our children arrived she came out again to become their pirate boat in the garden. My children outgrew her and she went back into storage, then to my younger brother's house for his children to play in. She finally sailed off to the great boatyard in the sky when he moved house and his children had also outgrown her.
My current 'Teena' is an Edwardian style reproduction Thames Rowing Skiff (- think 'Three Men in a Boat' or 'Wind in the Willows'.) A design based on the long keel Thames ferry skiffs of the 17th century and refined for leisure use in the 19th, she is a sleek 17 ft of sheer grace and elegance. Two beefy pulls on the oars and she will glide at least 5 boat lengths. Ok I'm biased but for me she is a poem of fine lines in Oxford Blue paint outboard with pale blue inboard. The timber is all gloss varnished caulk-jointed teak and the fittings are gleaming brass and stainless steel. White cordage and 'ladies seats' fore and aft with backrests, blue cushion upholstery and black curly ironmogery. Even the oars are picked out in gold filigree and there is a rattan hamper in the sternsheets for champagne and a picnic, together with a discrete sound system for calm pastoral music. She also has a tiny electric motor, which is very difficult to see from the river bank. When I am feeling too lazy to row I switch to the silent motor and greatly enjoy the puzzled looks from people on the river bank who can't see how she is being propelled, as the middle aged man with the straw boater hat lolls about in the aft seat sipping white wine and languidly waves to them.
I came by Teena by pure chance. Always preferring sailing dinghies I was, nonetheless, ready for a change. A man wanted to buy one of my marine paintings but was not in a position to pay the going price. Knowing that I am a boat nut, he offered the skiff as an exchange for the painting. I liked the poetry of the offer - a real boat for a painting of one, so I accepted. He delivered her to a boatyard by the canal in the village and I spent part of a summer restoring her. That is worth another blog to describe. The yard was close by an old bridge and a staircase lock. In breaks from restoration I sketched the scene and painted it in my studio - it should show below:-
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
In summer I keep Teena on a wide river about 12 miles from the village, which is kept above tidal level by a weir. The river is lined with fine houses, eating places and pubs with landing stages. It runs by the ancient walls of city which was once a Roman garrison town and is now a tourist centre. More about that in another blog. Large boats take parties of tourists for day trips upstream, where there is an ancient great house occupied by one of our richest Dukes. There are rowing eights from the three old clubs on the water, together with craft from the canoeing, sailing and motor boat clubs - as well as boats launched from the slipways, many of them Edwardian classic styles like mine. On a sunny day it is very busy.
I have just realised how long this blog has become. Sorry. I shall make them snappier anon, but I have enjoyed writing about my passion for boats.
I think a consuming passion can be a very good and stimulating thing, so long as the subject of the passion is healthy. It can be a great experience for children as they develop - even if they ditch it in time, unlike me. What is more important though is that a parent should try to help and develop a healthy passion once discovered, so that a child can experience the wonder of it. I was very lucky, my parents indulged and supported me, so I tried to do the same for my children. What will they do? …Ripples in a pool perhaps…
More next week, Deo volente.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
Letter from an English Village: Sounds of Summer
All the trees in the village are now in full leaf and the sounds of summer have begun. It is strange how sounds carry further on a still summer evening, or is that just fanciful nonsense? The dominant summer sound is lawnmowers, which I find very relaxing, even the demented whine of a hovermower seems to go quite well with a glass of wine taken in the garden. Mind you, most things seem to go well with a nice glass of wine.
Our garden has three terraces. The estate agent described them as the house level 'japanese' garden, then ascending through an arch and up a brick staicase to the box hedged 'clerestory' garden - finally up another staircase to the 'fruit garden'. I expected to find at least half an acre of horticultural wonder but, although they were well planted and laid out, each level is only about 15 ft. deep by the width of the house. However, it's very nice and I can sit amongst the apple trees in the top level and look over the slate roofs to see the village wake up in the morning and go to bed at night. A cup of tea in the morning and a mug of coffee in the late evening.
A short distance above our garden is the village cricket club. I played a season in the apologists team about 6 years ago in an attempt to impress my now son-in-law - an opening batsman in a very good club. My own game was rugby, in which I had some reasonable success, but I found that the robust skills of rugby do not easily transfer to cricket. The fact that I had last played the game some 40 years ago also hampered me a little - do you detect some rationalisation here?
Notwithstanding my limitations at the crease, one of the best summer sounds I hear in the garden is the whack of a cricket bat's willow on the leather ball - and the impassioned cries of 'howzat?' (For American readers 'howzat? translates to the question 'how is that?' - posed to the umpire and inviting him to give the batsman out. An inscrutable Olympian stare means he stays in, or a discreetly raised right first digit sends him off the field to Hades. All very genteel and understated.)
I painted a picture of a village match, which was bought by a man who took it off to Barbados. He wanted some paintings which would remind him of England and he also bought my painting of a thatched cottage in the village centre, which should appear below.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
The Cottage is a fantastic centre-piece to the village. A living monument to many eras. It wears its age with a mellow dignity and grace. How many generations of families has it sheltered, through wars, feast times and famines? How many lives and futures have been formed within its walls? What history breathes gently through its rooms when the world has gone to sleep? The Cottage seems to generate a wonderfully optimistic atmosphere and I really enjoyed painting this picture.
The other summer sound is children at play - running around in a demented aimless fashion, racing bikes, falling over, laughing, bickering … You either hate or love that sound. In general we appreciate hearing vital young life rushing about and we chose the house partially because of the number of families in the close. Our children are all grown up (though we have two grandchildren nearby) but I believe the presence of children helps to remind one about the wonder of life - helps to keep perspective on things. And it can bring back memories of the wonderland which most people experienced in their own childhood.
Thanks for reading my journal. More next week.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
Our garden has three terraces. The estate agent described them as the house level 'japanese' garden, then ascending through an arch and up a brick staicase to the box hedged 'clerestory' garden - finally up another staircase to the 'fruit garden'. I expected to find at least half an acre of horticultural wonder but, although they were well planted and laid out, each level is only about 15 ft. deep by the width of the house. However, it's very nice and I can sit amongst the apple trees in the top level and look over the slate roofs to see the village wake up in the morning and go to bed at night. A cup of tea in the morning and a mug of coffee in the late evening.
A short distance above our garden is the village cricket club. I played a season in the apologists team about 6 years ago in an attempt to impress my now son-in-law - an opening batsman in a very good club. My own game was rugby, in which I had some reasonable success, but I found that the robust skills of rugby do not easily transfer to cricket. The fact that I had last played the game some 40 years ago also hampered me a little - do you detect some rationalisation here?
Notwithstanding my limitations at the crease, one of the best summer sounds I hear in the garden is the whack of a cricket bat's willow on the leather ball - and the impassioned cries of 'howzat?' (For American readers 'howzat? translates to the question 'how is that?' - posed to the umpire and inviting him to give the batsman out. An inscrutable Olympian stare means he stays in, or a discreetly raised right first digit sends him off the field to Hades. All very genteel and understated.)
I painted a picture of a village match, which was bought by a man who took it off to Barbados. He wanted some paintings which would remind him of England and he also bought my painting of a thatched cottage in the village centre, which should appear below.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
The Cottage is a fantastic centre-piece to the village. A living monument to many eras. It wears its age with a mellow dignity and grace. How many generations of families has it sheltered, through wars, feast times and famines? How many lives and futures have been formed within its walls? What history breathes gently through its rooms when the world has gone to sleep? The Cottage seems to generate a wonderfully optimistic atmosphere and I really enjoyed painting this picture.
The other summer sound is children at play - running around in a demented aimless fashion, racing bikes, falling over, laughing, bickering … You either hate or love that sound. In general we appreciate hearing vital young life rushing about and we chose the house partially because of the number of families in the close. Our children are all grown up (though we have two grandchildren nearby) but I believe the presence of children helps to remind one about the wonder of life - helps to keep perspective on things. And it can bring back memories of the wonderland which most people experienced in their own childhood.
Thanks for reading my journal. More next week.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
Letter from an English Village: The Village Pub
How to describe the significance of an English village pub to people who do not live in the countryside? Townies may compare it to their local, but it is not really a valid comparison. Suburbanites have even less chance of understanding. And whilst the traditions outside the UK are just as good, they are not the same.
A lot of village business is transacted in the pub. Deals are made and liaisons formed. There is generally an unspoken rule that what happens in the pub, stays in the pub. People are conscious that this is one of the pivots around which a village spins and they must never allow a situation to develop where they may become persona non grata.
This makes for a very agreeable atmosphere - typified in my local by log fires in winter, low beams, walls full of pictures, old tables and chairs, muted lighting and quiet conversation punctuated by laughter. No baseball caps, mobiles, game machines or music. Outside there are stepped gardens with the churchyard to one side, an old half-timbered farmhouse to another and, on the third side, a range of hills with two castles visible on the ridge-line before the foliage grows in summer.
My pub is opposite the Parish Church. There is usually a pub next to the church in an English village and I have often wondered why - perhaps the eternal balance between the spiritual and temporal? In fact I learned from a recent BBC programme why it is so - apparently many of the pubs were actually built by the Church itself in the late Middle Ages.
In those days the village church was the centre of life and a great deal of village business was carried out in the church porch - such as minor courts, laying out of bodies for identification, making of contracts, taking of legal oaths etc. It was also a place for festivals to be celebrated and inevitably these spilled over into the church. In time it became clear that some secular accommodation would be a good idea for such activities and the church authorities began building 'church houses' on the edge of the consecrated ground. Here villagers could make merry and pay into church coffers for the opportunity - in effect the forerunner of the Parish Hall, or modern community centre.
It soon occurred to the church that a further revenue could be earned by taking in travellers and the houses became church owned inns. As time went by they were sold off, and most that remained went into private ownership at the time of the Reformation.
I painted the Village Pub from the churchyard in early spring, before the scene became obstructed by foliage. It should appear below here.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
I have lots more to mention about the pub - and the other two pubs in the village, each with it's own particular features. That will have to wait for future blog posts though. This one is too long already.
I believe that there is something quite magical about the atmosphere in a good village pub, particularly at 'early doors' on a Friday evening or just before roast beef on a Sunday lunchtime. Is it just the alcohol? I don't think so, but that helps. I think it is actually the deep need in all of us to periodically be in warm and sympathetic company, where people know your name and will make reasonable allowance for your foibles. Quite like the school playground really - which is the learning place for almost all our life skills I guess.
More next week.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
A lot of village business is transacted in the pub. Deals are made and liaisons formed. There is generally an unspoken rule that what happens in the pub, stays in the pub. People are conscious that this is one of the pivots around which a village spins and they must never allow a situation to develop where they may become persona non grata.
This makes for a very agreeable atmosphere - typified in my local by log fires in winter, low beams, walls full of pictures, old tables and chairs, muted lighting and quiet conversation punctuated by laughter. No baseball caps, mobiles, game machines or music. Outside there are stepped gardens with the churchyard to one side, an old half-timbered farmhouse to another and, on the third side, a range of hills with two castles visible on the ridge-line before the foliage grows in summer.
My pub is opposite the Parish Church. There is usually a pub next to the church in an English village and I have often wondered why - perhaps the eternal balance between the spiritual and temporal? In fact I learned from a recent BBC programme why it is so - apparently many of the pubs were actually built by the Church itself in the late Middle Ages.
In those days the village church was the centre of life and a great deal of village business was carried out in the church porch - such as minor courts, laying out of bodies for identification, making of contracts, taking of legal oaths etc. It was also a place for festivals to be celebrated and inevitably these spilled over into the church. In time it became clear that some secular accommodation would be a good idea for such activities and the church authorities began building 'church houses' on the edge of the consecrated ground. Here villagers could make merry and pay into church coffers for the opportunity - in effect the forerunner of the Parish Hall, or modern community centre.
It soon occurred to the church that a further revenue could be earned by taking in travellers and the houses became church owned inns. As time went by they were sold off, and most that remained went into private ownership at the time of the Reformation.
I painted the Village Pub from the churchyard in early spring, before the scene became obstructed by foliage. It should appear below here.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
I have lots more to mention about the pub - and the other two pubs in the village, each with it's own particular features. That will have to wait for future blog posts though. This one is too long already.
I believe that there is something quite magical about the atmosphere in a good village pub, particularly at 'early doors' on a Friday evening or just before roast beef on a Sunday lunchtime. Is it just the alcohol? I don't think so, but that helps. I think it is actually the deep need in all of us to periodically be in warm and sympathetic company, where people know your name and will make reasonable allowance for your foibles. Quite like the school playground really - which is the learning place for almost all our life skills I guess.
More next week.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
Letter from an English Village: Castles
My county is quite flat, with hilly land rising on the eastern edge. The land on the western side is particularly flat, with fertile soil and lush green pastures, where the farming has always mainly been dairy.
The western plain is interrupted by a ridge of small hills on the line of a geological fault, which threw up a mass of rock in some long ago time. The rock was hard and did not succumb to the eroding winds and rain. Now the tree covered slopes of the ridge seem incongruous in an otherwise flat landscape. The ridge is only a couple of miles from the village and we often walk up the woodland trails and along an overgrown coach road to a very popular pub on the western ridge. Most of the land is now owned and maintained by the National Trust and the views over the plain are fantastic.
These uninterrupted views from the top, together with the steep approaches, also made the ridge ideal for siting defensive settlements and we have a stone age fort about five miles from us along the ridge, with parts of the reinforced earthworks still identifiable. The next defended place is termed a castle, although it is really a country house built over many generations and sited over castle remains. A Lady of hereditary title lives there and it is also opened for charitable causes, such as a summer evening of orchestral music each year.
The next one on the ridge is also a great house built on old foundations, again termed a 'castle.' Here I performed for a Christmas Charity Show and acted as MC for the evening. The next castle along actually looks like a castle. It was rebuilt on original foundations as a romantic folly in the mid 19th century by the noble family who had owned the land since the Norman Conquest. It is more like a castle than the original, I should imagine. Perfect buttressing, a romantic tower and 19th century plumbing. Now a hotel, it was used for the Kevin Costner Robin Hood film. Many of the villagers acted as extras and even now they still compare their 'performances' in the village pub.
That brings us to the last castle on this stretch of the ridge. The crag on which it stands was a Bronze Age metal-working site and later an Iron Age hillfort. The stone castle was built In the 1220's and it was garrisoned for centuries. Its last use as a defended stronghold was by the Royalists during the Civil War, who surrendered it to the Parliamentary forces in 1645 after a long siege. The winners then 'slighted' the castle on government orders. The term to 'slight' has lost most of its currency from the meaning in the 17th century. In those days to 'slight a castle' was to blow up key parts so that it could not be used again by the enemy.
I painted the castle in early autumn, the painting should show below.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
In the painting I have tried to portray the stark strength of the castle and suggest the dramatic events which have taken place within its walls. Since then nature has been reclaiming the crag. Vegetation now grows over the ruined walls of the outer bailey but the imposing gatehouse and the inner bailey still stand strong.
I find it remarkable that a building or a location can somehow retain a memory of things that have happened there. No matter how sunny the day or upbeat one's disposition, there is something about the castle which makes one feel serious. Yet it is also magnificent and there is a sense of protection, a place to which the people could ultimately retreat and be in safety. Perhaps it is a reflection of the strong place we all need within ourselves when times get tough - and the need to keep that place in good repair when times are easy.
More next week.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
The western plain is interrupted by a ridge of small hills on the line of a geological fault, which threw up a mass of rock in some long ago time. The rock was hard and did not succumb to the eroding winds and rain. Now the tree covered slopes of the ridge seem incongruous in an otherwise flat landscape. The ridge is only a couple of miles from the village and we often walk up the woodland trails and along an overgrown coach road to a very popular pub on the western ridge. Most of the land is now owned and maintained by the National Trust and the views over the plain are fantastic.
These uninterrupted views from the top, together with the steep approaches, also made the ridge ideal for siting defensive settlements and we have a stone age fort about five miles from us along the ridge, with parts of the reinforced earthworks still identifiable. The next defended place is termed a castle, although it is really a country house built over many generations and sited over castle remains. A Lady of hereditary title lives there and it is also opened for charitable causes, such as a summer evening of orchestral music each year.
The next one on the ridge is also a great house built on old foundations, again termed a 'castle.' Here I performed for a Christmas Charity Show and acted as MC for the evening. The next castle along actually looks like a castle. It was rebuilt on original foundations as a romantic folly in the mid 19th century by the noble family who had owned the land since the Norman Conquest. It is more like a castle than the original, I should imagine. Perfect buttressing, a romantic tower and 19th century plumbing. Now a hotel, it was used for the Kevin Costner Robin Hood film. Many of the villagers acted as extras and even now they still compare their 'performances' in the village pub.
That brings us to the last castle on this stretch of the ridge. The crag on which it stands was a Bronze Age metal-working site and later an Iron Age hillfort. The stone castle was built In the 1220's and it was garrisoned for centuries. Its last use as a defended stronghold was by the Royalists during the Civil War, who surrendered it to the Parliamentary forces in 1645 after a long siege. The winners then 'slighted' the castle on government orders. The term to 'slight' has lost most of its currency from the meaning in the 17th century. In those days to 'slight a castle' was to blow up key parts so that it could not be used again by the enemy.
I painted the castle in early autumn, the painting should show below.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
In the painting I have tried to portray the stark strength of the castle and suggest the dramatic events which have taken place within its walls. Since then nature has been reclaiming the crag. Vegetation now grows over the ruined walls of the outer bailey but the imposing gatehouse and the inner bailey still stand strong.
I find it remarkable that a building or a location can somehow retain a memory of things that have happened there. No matter how sunny the day or upbeat one's disposition, there is something about the castle which makes one feel serious. Yet it is also magnificent and there is a sense of protection, a place to which the people could ultimately retreat and be in safety. Perhaps it is a reflection of the strong place we all need within ourselves when times get tough - and the need to keep that place in good repair when times are easy.
More next week.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
Letter from an English Village: the Coast
We English are an island race and, although my village is some distance from the coast, like most Englishmen I feel quite an affinity for the sea - probably enhanced by having served for a short time on a tramp ship as a young man.
I regularly feel a need to get out to the coast and when I do I often come back with some sketches and ideas which can be worked up into a painting. The painting below is one of them. It is not so much an actual place but a combination of impressions from a wild peninsula that juts out into the sea on the western side of the UK, about 2 hours drive from the village.
The painting is set in Spring and I tried to capture something of the crisp chill of that season in an early morning, with a low sun setting up a brittle illusion of warmth above the restless pounding of breakers over scoured rocks on a flood tide.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
As I recall the scene, it was magnificent and bracing but very chill - and I certainly was ready for the mug of tea and bacon sandwich in the beach café after finishing sketching.
The gallery told me that the man who bought the painting took it back with him to his native South Africa. Strange to think of the painting probably spending the rest of its life out there. No doubt it will be thrown away one day, or put into a loft in storage and some day brought out again. Perhaps the person who takes it out of the loft will say something like, "Those seas are rather small for the African coast?" And he would probably never guess the painting's origin, would he? - because one bit of sea is very like another.
In any case, in all my sea paintings I try to create scenes that are timeless. I show no clues to say what era a painting depicts. There is no evidence of the presence or the influence of man. This painting could be a scene from a million years ago - or just yesterday. As we stress, strain and worry our way through life, get older and finally disappear, the sea just keeps on pounding the beach, day in day out - completely oblivious to our human struggles. I find that worth bearing in mind - puts life into a sort of perspective.
More soon.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
I regularly feel a need to get out to the coast and when I do I often come back with some sketches and ideas which can be worked up into a painting. The painting below is one of them. It is not so much an actual place but a combination of impressions from a wild peninsula that juts out into the sea on the western side of the UK, about 2 hours drive from the village.
The painting is set in Spring and I tried to capture something of the crisp chill of that season in an early morning, with a low sun setting up a brittle illusion of warmth above the restless pounding of breakers over scoured rocks on a flood tide.
( from my online gallery at http://ianconway.biz )
As I recall the scene, it was magnificent and bracing but very chill - and I certainly was ready for the mug of tea and bacon sandwich in the beach café after finishing sketching.
The gallery told me that the man who bought the painting took it back with him to his native South Africa. Strange to think of the painting probably spending the rest of its life out there. No doubt it will be thrown away one day, or put into a loft in storage and some day brought out again. Perhaps the person who takes it out of the loft will say something like, "Those seas are rather small for the African coast?" And he would probably never guess the painting's origin, would he? - because one bit of sea is very like another.
In any case, in all my sea paintings I try to create scenes that are timeless. I show no clues to say what era a painting depicts. There is no evidence of the presence or the influence of man. This painting could be a scene from a million years ago - or just yesterday. As we stress, strain and worry our way through life, get older and finally disappear, the sea just keeps on pounding the beach, day in day out - completely oblivious to our human struggles. I find that worth bearing in mind - puts life into a sort of perspective.
More soon.
Ian Conway
(Goodreads Author)
