The Alexa Battles

I admit it... I'm an unabashed gizmologist. A strange new object has appeared on our sideboard. Almost inconspicuous in grey and matt white, it sits – not always quietly – and awaits my command.

The blame for this lies squarely with my grandchildren, who really should know better how to care for their susceptible elders. There we all were, enjoying a tasty breakfast meal, when one says, "Alexa, play me some music... whereupon the Amazon Echo thingy on the windowsill burst into life.  Impressed, though not wholly by the choice of music, I called out "Alexa, play 'You never can tell'" (a Ukes 'uv Azzard favourite) and in an instant Chuck Berry was rockin' away for me. Great!

"Alexa," pipes up grandchild #2, "play something else" after Chuck had scarcely sung the first verse — and so commenced the Alexa Battles.  "No Alexa, play 'You never can tell'"... "Alexa, play 'White Christmas'"... "Alexa, what's the weather forecast?"... "Alexa, shut up!" There really was only one possible solution, and before the night was out my modest bank balance had been depleted by £89 and a Smart Speaker was on its way.

Mine is unashamedly a Google house. Google Calendar is my diary, Google Search directs me around the Internet and Google Play looks after all my favourite music, so it made sense to go for Google's own Smart Speaker offering — Google Home.

The initial Set Up went smoothly and within minutes glorious carols from King's College were filling the room. A glutton for 'free' offers, I promptly upgraded my Google Play to a subscription service (3 months free, then £10/month), so now I can also tell Google Home to play my treasured collection of Cornish folk songs.

To get full control of this cybernetic wizz-kid I've taught it my voice. Now, not only do I get personalised greetings but only I can access my own calendar and shopping list. It can be quite good fun; "Hey Google, good morning!" I chirp as I draw the lounge curtains. "Good morning, Angela," it replies. "The weather today in Lydney will be cool and dry with a maximum of 9 degrees...."  Voice control does, though, have its limitations, as you'll know if you've ever tried Google's voice feature on a smartphone. For instance, I just called out "OK Google, tell me about The Ukes 'uv Azzard" and it responded:

The Dukes of Hazzard are just some good old boys, never meaning no harm.

Grrr! Good we are, and old(ish) some of us may be, but we ain't the Dukes and Azzard doesn't start with an 'H'.  All attempts to make Google Home elicit the right answer have so far failed. Perhaps that's good news; screens and keyboards aren't dead yet.

There have been the inevitable security scares about these devices – as reported in the Daily Mail, so they must be true (cough!). But so much of modern life is susceptible to scams and security lapses that I'm resolved to take sensible precautions and not worry too much. I haven't been caught out yet.

Some may say that I should turn it off when not in use, but I'm not keen. After all, it would rather spoil the fun.  So instead, the last thing I do is to quietly say "Hey Google, good night."

Good night, Angela. 

Enjoy your time in Club Duvet

Snow is falling

Snow is falling all around me,

children playing, having fun.

It's the season of love and understanding,

Merry Christmas everyone!

I've sung that one with The Ukes uv Azzard a time or eight over the past few weeks, never imagining that it really might snow. But early yesterday morning it began, and it didn't stop for several hours.

Most 'sensible' grown-ups that I know cancelled their plans to attend church or feast at a pub and stayed indoors, telling themselves how awful it was outside. But this big kid was having none of it. As soon as the Sunday Roast had been devoured I joined the children playing, having fun then drove into the Forest of Dean for some fun of my own. 

It was lovely, but the sky was still grey and a premature darkness was falling. One guy, clearly concerned about this mad woman, warned me that the heavily rutted roads would soon be freezing, so gingerly I made my way down to Parkend and its deserted station, then headed for home...

... but then along came the Santa Special at Whitecroft. Happily, I waved to the passengers.  Merry Christmas everyone!

Today the skies turned blue, the sun shone and the whole forest took on a stunning beauty, the like of which I have truly never seen before. Back into the forest I drove, parked Bluebird just off-road in a moderate-sized snowdrift (what fun!) and set out on foot to record the scene. 

You can just glimpse Bluebird in the distance on the right. Happily, extracting her from her snowdrift posed no serious problems. I simply remembered what I'd learned after (frequently) running aground with a narrowboat – reverse out the way you came in.  Easy.

Tom Bawcock's Eve

Mousehole at it looks on Tom Bawcott's Eve - and on every evening
over Christmas

"Do you miss Cornwall?" is usually the second question folk ask me, after "Why ever did you leave?" It's understandable, of course. Cornwall is a land of golden, sandy beaches, quaint fishing villages, pasties, clotted cream and (if you're lucky) long, warm summer days. It's also a rather nice place to live. Having resided there for the best part of 61 years, I ought to know.

So do I miss it? Yes, of course. But I would miss the Forest of Dean and the Wye Valley every bit as much if ever I had to leave... which I sincerely hope never to do.

In truth, it's not those balmy summer Cornish days that I miss most; it's Christmas.  For 17 of my 61 years I was privileged to live in West Cornwall and there – if you take the trouble to divorce yourself from the nauseating excesses of a world bent on spending as much money as possible between Black Friday and the last New Year Sale – Christmas is very different.

To start with, the carols are different, but I've blogged about them before – Helston 2, maybe 3.

The days of Advent pass in song and merriment. But just before the great day there comes a unique West Cornwall celebration - Tom Bawcock's Eve. Down on the quayside in Mousehole (always pronounced 'Mouzel'), outside the Ship Inn, the crowds gather to sing:

The Ship Inn

A merry place you may believe, 

was Mouzel ‘pon Tom Bawcock’s eve.

To be there then who wud'n wish

to sup on seb'n sorts o’ fish.

When morgy broth had cleared the path,

comed lances for a fry.
And then us had a bit o'scad
and Starry Gazy Pie.

Believe me, what the song may lack in artistic merit is more than compensated for by the enthusiasm of the crowds – and all the more so if you've already warmed yourself with a glass of something alcoholic in the Ship!

Tom Bawcock (not Ballcock, as my friend Steve used to call him!) is a legendary figure who is said to have saved Mousehole from starvation by setting to sea one stormy December night. Brave Tom managed to catch enough fish to feed the entire village. Somewhat improbably he put the whole catch - comprising seven sorts of fish - into an enormous pie, which he baked with the fish heads poking though the pastry. Thus Stargazy Pie was born.  To my shame, I've yet to taste any.

Since moving to England (the Cornish rarely consider their land part of England) I've tried hard to preserve the excitement, warmth and humour of my West Cornwall Christmases, but I sense the magic fading, despite putting up my tree and decs a little earlier each year. The number of cards arriving is gradually diminishing as friends become infirmed or die, and others forget us or choose to save on postage. And when two of my grandchildren asked for shopping vouchers last Christmas I knew that the magic was truly departing. How can you get excited about unwrapping an Amazon voucher?!

Magic... that's it. Christmas needs magic to keep it alive, lest it descend into a meaningless festival to Amazon, Tesco and PC World. For me it needs family and good friends, traditions to revel in, rousing songs to sing and the renewed gift of the Christ Child.

Mamcala

Last May I blogged about climbing Skirrid in the Black Mountains. Dru Marland, who regularly enthrals me with stories of her life on the Kennet & Avon Canal, left a comment about Raymond Williams' books "The People of the Black Mountains". Six months later I'm only half way through the second book in the series but fine fare should, I contend, be consumed slowly and thoughtfully.

Fifteen times in book one, Raymond Williams mentions a great cave. Here's the first, from the time when the last Ice Age was still receding:
There is also the story of the great cave, of Mamcala, where the sacred fire always burns. For the fire to burn men must kill and eat.

And later in the book:
'We heard the drum,' Tarc said. 
'It is the hunters of Mamcala. They are in the forest above us.' He pointed up to the hill on the other side of the river. 

Caves... forest... hills... Like so many places in the book – such as Broken Mountain (Skirrid) and Curve River (River Wye) – I felt that I ought to know this one, and at the end of the book my suspicions were confirmed. It was King Arthur's Cave, high above the River Wye near Symonds Yat, on one of my favourite walks.

I'm rather pleased with this photo, taken today in Autumn sunshine that just appeared from behind the clouds at the right time. It really is a beautiful spot.

I apologise for looking as if I'm on sentry duty, guarding the cave from the hunters of Mamcala. Obviously it's a role that I feel necessary to fulfil for here I am, back in 2013... Relax, Angie dear, relax!

This is my good friend Lucy, exploring the cave depths during a recent visit. Sooner or later, all my friends get dragged off to this spot!

Though "The People of the Black Mountains" is a work of fiction, it is solidly based on facts that have been gleaned through decades of archaeological research. Probably the first person to seriously investigate these caves was the Revd William S Symonds. In his 1872 book "Records of the Rocks"  he tells of  the well-known cave dweller of modern days, "Jem the Slipper", under whose guidance I first visited the hyæna's den and the other caves. Were Jem around these days he would be welcoming a steady stream of visitors, including me on at least 6 occasions.

I used to think of Victorian amateur archaeologists as being little more than blundering treasure hunters. Certainly, they lacked the rigours demanded of modern-day archaeology, but Revd Symonds clearly took his work very seriously. Here's an extract from his book:

This Earth was about two feet in thickness. In it were discovered flint flakes and chips, with three pebbles unmistakably chipped by human workmanship. Two of these are of black chert, evidently formed from rolled pebbles, while the third has been chipped, and is a pebble of some Lower Silurian rock. I excavated with my own hands one of the cores of chert from which flakes had been struck, and the second was found by my companion at the time, Mr. Scobell. Associated with these were the teeth and jaw of a Bear, with those of the horse, and in Mrs. Bannerman's cave those of the
Beaver.

One lasting reminder of Revd Symonds' work is the heap of soil that he shifted to gain access to the caves. And somewhere here, near the large cave entrance, remnants were found of a hearth on which fires burned 12,000 years ago.

There is also the story of the great cave, of Mamcala, 

where the sacred fire always burns. 

The Gravy Boat

Vegetarians need not trouble themselves with this post, other than perhaps to say "I told you so." I write to my fellow omnivores.

Before July 2016 there was but one way in our household to make gravy for a roast dinner. No 'convenience' gravy granules here, dear me no. Instead we recovered the succulent meat juices from the roasting tin, poured them into a bowl, added a little flour to thicken and voila! Perfect gravy containing all the goodness of the meat. What could be better than that?

Well rather a lot, actually, and I have Slimming World to thank for enlightening me. Two tablespoons of that steaming liquid scored 15 syns – my allocation for a whole day. And who stops at two tablespoons of gravy? Not me! Reluctantly, we switched to the dreaded gravy granules. "All natural flavours," declared the tin, but in comparison to 'real' gravy the result was bland and uninteresting. So on the next Sunday I spiced it up a generous sprinkling of mixed herbs.  Not bad, not bad at all. Indeed, it was very tasty.

Slimming World has so changed my eating habits that I've never been tempted to revert to my old ways. Given the choice between 15 syns of gravy and 15 of fine wine, there really is no contest. However, last week S-- poured the juices from a gammon joint into a mug, set it aside with the intention of separating out the jelly from the fat....  and forgot about it.

This Saturday we found it again, languishing at the back of the fridge... and there at the bottom lay two and a half ounces (71g) of solid fat.  Half of that would have been mine. An ounce and a quarter of fat every week, and sometimes twice a week, week in, week out, raising my cholesterol level and furring up my arteries. Yuk!

Old Maps (2): Lumps, bumps and slag heaps

Looking at old maps can be endlessly fascinating, but for me they become even more interesting when I can relate them to actual features on the ground.  Thankfully, there is now a website of old maps covering the whole country – courtesy, strangely enough, of the National Library of Scotland. They're happy for me to reproduce their maps, so long as I give them the credit so... "Hooray for the National Library of Scotland!"  On this example from an Ordinance Survey 1 inch map of 1896, I've zoomed in on a fairly nondescript area of the Forest of Dean. Let's see if I can bring it to life.

Here's a closer look at the area on a 25 inch map from about 1885. There, at the top, is the Rising Sun Beer House (BH) where I join the Ukes uv Azzard on Thursdays to play my ukulele. Incidentally, the pond, clearly shown on this map, is still there. Perhaps it marks the site of even older mine workings.

Here's how it looked in about 1905 – unfortunately not as clear as the earlier map. Bethlehem Chapel has gone – perhaps it was a little too close to the beer house – but Crown Colliery has appeared, together with some new railway tracks.  It's time to put on my walking boots and go exploring!

Firstly, an even closer look at the 1905 map, with my photo locations marked

1

2

3

4. The air shaft on the right (marked on map)
ventilates Moseley Green Tunnel

5

To add a finishing touch, I found this snippet of an aerial photo, taken in 1946. There still seems to be some activity around New Engine Colliery (centre left, known by this time as Brick Pit) but Crowns looks abandoned.

There are, of course, far more interesting places to explore on maps and on foot, such as nearby Parkend (shown below on a circa 1885 map), and doubtless your favourite corner of the Kingdom too. A nice feature of the National Library of Scotland site is that maps can be overlaid with modern Bing aerial photos, though this proved well nigh impossible to show here.

I wish you many hours of happy exploration.

The Isle of Man: a last look?

Glen Maye

I'd intended my post on October 7th to be the last about my holiday on the Isle of Man. But as I wrote, I realized that there was one more story to tell.

That, in a way, reflects the whole holiday, which was conceived as a once-in-a-lifetime visit. A friend declared that she had seen all there was to see on the island in four days. I can almost hear shouts of horror from islanders reading that last sentence but it did seem to suggest that a week would be more than adequate. Moreover, in 2019 I shall clock up my three score years and ten on this planet and with so many other places to visit, a return seemed unlikely.

On the last day of our holiday we decided to take the A27 road south of Peel and explore a little of the sparsely populated west coast. First stop was Glen Maye, where there is a pretty waterfall. As we admired the view we were joined by a guy who was walking his dog. I explained that we were on a 'last lap' of the island before boarding the ferry home. "Then don't miss Niarbyl," he advised. "It's just down the road from here."

Niarbyl mean 'The Tail'. I stood on the foreshore, gazed out across the bay toward that hilly tail, with the Calf of Man faintly visible in the distance, and knew that I didn't want to leave. The crowds in Douglas, the steam trains and the trams, were 14 miles away but it felt like 140, so peaceful was that spot.

A glance at the map showed that there was a rich, mountainous coastline to explore; much of it only accessible on foot... but no time in which to do it.  Indeed, the whole west coast had hardly been explored, save for the lovely town of Peel - our favourite on the island.

Peel, from Corrins Hill

Peel Castle

"One day," I told myself, "I would love to return."

Old Maps (1)

Back in the 1970's, on the opposite side of the road to Plymouth Polytechnic, was an Ordinance Survey shop. During lunchtime breaks from my studies I would occasionally wander over and look through their collection of circa 1905 25 inch to the mile maps.

The first one I bought was of the Luxulyan Valley, near St Austell. I knew the area well and in my younger days had cycled over there  a couple of times, exploring the beautiful woodlands and trying to make sense of how a majestic aqueduct, a couple of leats and a ruined waterwheel once fitted together. What purpose did they serve?

My interest in local history and old Ordinance Survey maps had been kindled, and survive to this day. I unearthed some information about the valley in a book about the china clay industry's origins and now at last, with my map, it began to make sense. If you fancy a closer look, click the maps and notice especially the viaduct (actually an aqueduct, 1st map) and the Wheelpit Mill (a waterwheel, 2nd map).

How it looked in 1968: one of the leats (great for playing Pooh Sticks) and the remains of the waterwheel

Carmears Incline in 1968. The waterwheel was used to haul wagons up here from Ponts Mill.

Two shots from 2008 - the waterwheel again, now with lots of water as the feed from the
leat had been restored, and Treffry's impressive aqueduct

Another maps that I bought was this one, again a cycling destination from my younger days. It features the delightfully named Fiddler's Green and Shepherd's Station, on the former branch line from Newquay to Perranporth.

Arguably, it's not a very interesting place – just another wayside station on a forgotten branch line, but the map fascinates me. When I arrived on my bike, all those years ago, the track had been lifted but the station buildings were still intact. I recorded the scene on my Ilford Sportsman camera, then set off down the track of the long-defunct line to Rejerrah and Treamble – the one that curves away to the left. Only later did I discover that it had become a private road to Shepherds Farm!

This is what Shepherds looks like today on Google Maps. The image looked best facing south, so the line to Treamble now curves off to the right.  Shepherds farm has grown considerably and the old station is but a memory.

By the time I crossed the road to that Ordinance Survey shop in 1971 my photos had been lost, so all I have to remind me of that adventure are my map and other folks' photos. Sigh.

Jerusalem Artichoke Gratin

They're not from Jerusalem and they're not artichokes but they are very easy to grow, so surely a worthy addition to our veg garden. What I hadn't realized before planting them is that they're in the Sunflower family, so they just grow... and grow... and grow., then a pretty little yellow flower appears at the top.

One online article I read said that they were ready for harvesting when the leaves began to die. I found myself willing them to wilt but they just kept on growing – and there's only so much waiting that a girl can take.
The time had surely come to start digging.

I chose one of the taller plants and set to work with a spade. From that one tuber, planted in the Spring, I unearthed 10 new ones, and that is by no means exceptional. A Wikipedia article states: Each root can make an additional 75 to as many as 200 tubers during a year.  For this reason, it is important to resist the gardener's natural urge to move Jerusalem Artichokes to a different part of the garden every year, rotating them along with all the other vegetables. The same Wikipedia article has this warning: Because even a small piece of tuber will grow if left in the ground the plant can ruin gardens by smothering or overshadowing nearby plants and can take over huge areas. Thankfully, our artichokes are in a small area of the garden that's bounded by concrete paths, so hopefully they'll stay where they're wanted.

So having picked them, what next? There are some nice-looking recipes for soup and purée but we decided to make a gratin. For a while now I've been thinking of opening a category on this blog for Angie's Recipes... so off we go.

1. Put a heaped deserts spoon full of plain flour in a bowl and add milk to make a thick paste.

2. Stir in a whole tub (284ml) of Elmlea Double Light. Eschewing real double cream is my one concession to Slimming World though at a thumping 700kcal (350 for each of us) it's still a diet buster. Add a heaped teaspoon of grainy mustard, followed by more milk if it's looking a bit treacly. I aim for the consistency of single cream.

3. Roughly peel the artichokes and place a few in an oven dish. Pour in some of the Elmlea mixture, then another layer of artichokes and more Elmlea. Keep adding layers until everything's in the dish, then top off with grated cheese. Parmesan would probably be perfect. I use Grana Padano from Tesco and honestly can't tell the difference. And yes, I did say that this recipe was diet buster!

4. Place in the oven at about 220°C for 20 minutes or so.

5. Eat your fill, but do remember that Jerusalem Artichokes have something in common with baked beans.  That's right... they may make you fart!

Artichoke flowers are so romantic!