Candles and Eggs

The name Easter comes from the Anglo-Saxon's Goddess of Spring, Eastre: the Rites of Spring, renewal and fertility, were celebrated by pagan peoples such as Norsemen to whom this meant the season of the growing sun. For all, bonfires and the candle – light - were important parts of the custom.

Throughout Europe Easter fires were lit on top of mountains, and new fire kindled – by rubbing sticks together – representing the pagan practice of honouring the strength of the Sun, longer days, shorter nights, rebirth and fertility.

For early Christians the Paschal Moon (from the Greek Pascha, Passover), the full moon of the Passover, seems to have set when Mary Magdalene entered the Garden in darkness but the Resurrection was revealed to her at sunrise. So these devout men spent the night before Easter day deep in prayer, illuminated only by the moon. Other men, believing the light would come, walked through the fields or climbed hills to see the Sun Dance.

For some reason many of us associate candles with Christmas time and the end of it, Candlemas, but in fact the candle is a more important symbol at Easter. In centuries past, on Easter Eve, the church was unlit until the candle was kindled by flint and steel. Then all other candles were lit from it to light the building.

The Paschal candle – which is always of beeswax, the purest wax – came to represent Christ, the Light of the World. In the Middle Ages in England this candle, obelisk in shape, was to lifted to "within a man's length of the roof", where it was lit by "a fine convenience" – an early match?

In some churches today the church is still left in darkness whilst a bonfire is lit outside to symbolise the coming light; the priest blesses the new fire, the symbol of Christ's Resurrection, and lights a candle from the new fire. This Paschal candle is then taken into the church from which the congregation light their candles. This Easter vigil includes a blessing of water as a sign of purification and water from the font is sprinkled over worshippers gathered there.

But way before this, in medieval England, on Easter morning households would strike new fire in the darkness –'need fire' as they called it – believing that the straw would not catch unless all fires and lights were put out first.

The yew in the churchyard was a symbol of life and it is the English or Irish yew that is the one true evergreen of Easter: the symbolic green of eternal life. And, apart from green, only the white of Resurrection is seen on the altar: narcissi, arum lilies, blackthorn or hellebore perhaps.

The swift and mysterious hare was thought to be sacred to Eastre – it would seem I have a thing about hares – and the hare was thought to lay eggs which it left in the grass for children to find. Today the hare's place has been taken by the Easter Bunny – a plebby upstart – but children still love searching for the eggs hidden in the garden and enjoy eating them just as much!

The egg was an object of wonder and the source of new life to primitive people and eaten whether it be that of the thrush, the pigeon, duck, chicken or goose. And from before Edward I's time, these Easter eggs - life's emblem - would be boiled in dye, which left them a beautiful blue, rose red or marbled green, and eaten for breakfast on Easter morning. If time could be afforded, a design could be scratched on the eggs with a steel pin.

When religious fasting was the norm – and the eating of eggs not allowed - the end of it, Easter, was a time to celebrate and eat all those other good things that had been denied. Throughout villages and in the manor houses of medieval England lamb and veal, capons, ducks, beer and bread, spiced cakes, custards and pies were prepared with care and eaten with joy and relish: Easter, then as now, was a time to eat eggs and rejoice in the light.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk

Hey, what's this, it's snowing here! That's not part of the deal, this is Easter not Christmas, I was looking forward to the sun.

Poetry is for life

Several years ago, when my elderly father had to undergo an operation, I looked up some poetry and prose that I thought would be nice to remember him by in the awful event he might not survive the op. I knew that if that happened I'd be a wet and sniveling wreck, incapable of doing the necessary research.

And, strangely enough, very satisfying research it was too. I left out any flowery or sickeningly sentimental pieces and discounted any that were overly religious, morbid or dirge-like too. Instead I found some that either touched on my feelings or were in some way relevant to his life.

The most obvious poem was Dylan Thomas', Do not go gently into that good night, because my father hung on to life tenaciously and "Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light" most definitely applied to him.

And the poem, All That I Have by Leo Marks, beautifully expresses love and loss as does Anne Bronte's poem, Farewell,

Farewell to Thee! But not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of Thee;
Within my heart they still shall dwell
And they shall cheer and comfort me.

Life seems more sweet that Thou didst live
And men more true that Thou wert one;
Nothing is lost that Thou didst give,
Nothing destroyed that Thou hast done.

Choosing a poem by my father's favourite poet - and I think the only one he knew - John Keats, was more of a challenge because the sonnets and poems are either too long, too melancholy or just downright miserable. He had been introduced to Keats' poetry by some girls when up at Oxford and I think that coloured his regard for the poet! Finally I did find one (strangely) entitled Sonnet: On Leigh Hunt's poem "The Story Of Rimini" which does express quite subtly a love of nature and a place of peace.

Of course the poem, Remember by Christina Rosetti - of pre-Raphaelite fame circa 1870 - is very well known and, I think, beautiful, although others tell me that they find it maudlin. But what it expresses so well is the selfless encouragement that the living should live:
"Better by far you should forget and smile
Than you should remember and be sad."

And another equally famous example that does just that is Death is Nothing At All by Henry Scott-Holland, 1847-1918, Canon of St Paul's Cathedral, and one that suited my father in particular because he definitely wanted to be remembered and he liked to laugh. Here is an extract:

Whatever we were to each other
That we are still
Call me by my old familiar name
Speak to me in the easy way you always used
Put no difference into your tone
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed
At the little jokes we always enjoyed together
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me
Let my name be ever the household word it always was
Let it be spoken without effort
Without the ghost of a shadow in it
Life means all that it ever meant
It is the same as it ever was

Having done all the above I understood how terminally ill people – people who have no influence or power over the ravages of their disease or condition – must achieve a precious feeling of control by choosing the content of their final ceremony: by picking out readings, poems and music that they love they're able to personalize the service and imbue it with a particular atmosphere, whether that be one of beauty or one with an upbeat and positive tone.

And this exercise was a salutary lesson for me: I should read poetry more. The resulting introspection can be intense if the poems are moving and occasionally they're difficult but equally many are beautiful and some great fun. Certainly, poetry should not just be for special occasions, it should be for life.

Mad March On

March, the first month of spring, when everything is budding and promising more. Even the Middle English name of the month, March, sounds positive: a determined and regular moving forward.

In past years we've seen hares in the fields around here: the brown hare breeds in spring and - if you are very lucky - you may see them 'boxing' and chasing around which is why they are referred to as mad March hares.

The hare is a magical and mythical animal (see blog archive Hare Today, 3 June 2007) and the sight of one never fails to thrill me: not long ago they were seriously endangered because of new farming methods but fortunately they are now on the increase thanks to changes in agriculture and protected habitats.

But apparently these mad hares are actually the females fending off unwanted advances from males, and who can blame them, nothing mad about them at all. From as early as the 1500's hares were considered to be mad for this behaviour – the term 'hare brained' is associated with it – and Lewis Carroll, in Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, didn't help with his chapter A Mad Tea Party which included March Hare and The Hatter acting very oddly and excitedly.

Of course, little, sensible, sleepy Dormouse was there too, which reminds me, last week as I walked Freddie up the road the dormouse boxes that were left in the hedges as part of an ecological survey were being collected: sadly, most of them were only inhabited by wood mice. Here again the reintroduction and conservation of hedges is so important: they shelter and create safe wildlife corridors for small creatures like the dormouse.

On our walks I look out for all the small spring flowers in the verges too: palest lemon primroses – there is something quite innocent about them isn't there – look charming as do the tiny violets, both white ones and purple. These hint at a time long past when they were collected and made into bunches, sent to the city and sold as mini corsage for ladies to wear on their lapel.

And in all the front gardens I pass – peering over the fences is one of the pleasures of walking – are beautiful spring bulbs and early flowering trees. The snowdrops are over but daffodils are out in their hundreds and are the most cheering and marvellous of sights: it always reminds me of Wordsworth's poem 'When all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils' because en masse the unexpected sight of them is stunning.

The crowds look spectacular when they fill a bed or an orchard but for smaller spaces and in windy sites I particularly like the miniature daffs like Tete a Tete or February Gold. Narcissi too are a favourite of mine, firstly because they are more delicate than the large trumpets but also because of their wonderful scents. I can't bear to pick any of them from my own garden but buy them for the house – I like a whole jug full, they're so cheap – because I don't want to dilute the sight of them out of my windows.

I have some miniature ones in my front garden – a spring garden, because I think it cheers people in chilly weather as they walk by and because I see them whenever I go in or out. And flowering with them are some of the later Lenten hellebores - the claret coloured ones such a good contrast. Their sophisticated and stylish flowers also contrast with the bold simplicity of the daffodil trumpets.

And now some blue hyacinths (old potted ones I stuck in the ground) are beginning to open, later to be followed by their baby cousins, grape hyacinths (muscari), whilst ground covering pulmonaria flowers are already out: all these blues will look lovely next to the daffodils, opposite sides of the colour spectrum. Something to look forward to late in March.

Cape Town Character

I've just returned from Cape Town which, inevitably, means eating and drinking too much (some of the best food and wine in the world, well, what can you do?) and visiting all my favourite places. Not the touristy sites but those that have drop-dead gorgeous landscapes and architecture or areas that have character - not tourist pastiche but real character, warts and all.


I've drawn comparisons with the latter before: Long Street with its Melbourne buildings and St Kilda style has a cosmopolitan atmosphere, ethnic shops and surviving culture. Kalk Bay, all Brighton boho with it's junk and arty shops and café's. OK, so they're just a wee bit faded, but they're not jaded, not at all. In fact they're more buzzy than ever: that extra confidence gained from the influx of visitors' cash means some new shops have opened and a café or two. Nothing as bold as a lick of paint, of course: don't want to try too hard and lose the "I'm too smart to dress up" charm.

And there's Muizenberg - seaside resort of yesteryear - with its Herbert Baker buildings and a beach to die for. The stretch of coast from there to Kalk Bay on the western coast of the peninsular was the place for Capetonians to holiday a hundred years ago: the arrival of the railway meant that everyone could afford a day trip at least. And for those who had the luxury of a week long holiday there were plenty of hotels and guest houses to suit every pocket along the coast of False Bay.

When the billionaire, Cecil Rhodes, bought a seaside cottage at St James – between Muizenberg and Kalk Bay - it was as good a nod as a wink to the wealthy: here was a healthy fashionable place to escape the hot and dusty summer heat of the interior. And they brought their money with them to build their seaside houses, to pay the fees for the bowling greens and the tennis club and to patronize the hotel restaurants.

On Muizenberg beach the white sand stretches as far as the eye can see: the water is warm enough to swim in and the waves gentle enough for novice surfers. Surprisingly perhaps, nearly a hundred years ago bathers in their long legged bathing suits strode out to sea to surf on short wooden boards: today the surfers are there in droves, all body-hugging rubber, high-tech fibreglass and four wheel drives.

Old postcards show children taking donkey rides or building sandcastles on Muizenberg beach, whilst mothers looked on with concern or pride: just like any modern seaside. The smart new wooden Pavilion that was built in 1911 had "every comfort and convenience": wash-room and changing facilities and a large tea room. And along the beach stilted wooden bathing huts – painted in a variety of colours – were built. Then a smart stone railway station was commissioned to announce that Muizenberg was on the map.

But the 1930's was probably its apogee: a larger pavilion replaced the wooden one - with more dressing cubicles, a larger tea room, theatre and dance hall – but it was not a success for a variety of reasons. Many of the hotels and buildings were taken over by the Government or troops during the Second World War and afterwards it suffered the steady decline that happened to English seaside towns.

But there's another beach Pavilion now, and owners of the new apartments and houses that have been built in the last couple of years want all the fun trappings of a seaside resort. So it's only a matter of time until Muizenberg is on the map again. In the meantime I'll continue to marvel at the beach from high above on Boyes Drive. I'll still visit the flea markets of Long Street and eat fish cooked to perfection straight from the harbour in Kalk Bay. And I'll hope that none of my favourite places become too popular too fast.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com
lucy.ann.white@hotmail.co.uk

The Swallows of Kabul

Yasmina Khadra is the pen name of Mohamed Moulessehoul, an ex Algerian army officer who took his wife's name when he tried to avoid censorship. French is his mother tongue and he now lives in France. His novel, Swallows of Kabul, opens with the execution of a woman and ends with one; Khadra focuses on the humiliation of women and certainly makes the reader feel that the life he describes would be intolerable.

Kabul is a hot, dusty, poor and joyless city, governed since the war by the brutal dictatorship of the Taliban. Laughter, music and shows of affection are not allowed whilst women are considered objects to be treated as their men see fit or cast off if their husbands choose. In the streets the women must be covered from head to toe in a burqa whilst their fearful husbands and sons are constantly whipped by the fundamentalists or forced into the mosque to pray.

The character Atiq became a mujahideen when the Russians invaded the Pashtuns in Afghanistan but he is now a jailer in Kabul. His wife, Musarrat, saved his life when he was injured during the war but is now dying from an incurable illness. The childless Musarrat loves Atiq but he married her because he felt beholden and now feels trapped and guilty, unhappy and angry.

Mohsen is a mild mannered pacifist from a wealthy family: during the war years his parents lost their wealth as well as their lives and, he, no longer able to realise his dream of becoming a diplomat, leads an aimless and ineffectual life. All that sustains him is his beautiful wife, Zunaira, whom he fell in love with whilst they were at university. As an educated lawyer she had a certain amount of freedom and liberal ideas: now she rails against the humiliation of being a faceless object without respect, unable to work or even hold her own ideas by the fanatics in power.

Unfortunately, John Cullen's translation is - especially at first - so florid it's like reading a bad romantic novel. Three of our book group read the book in its original French and enjoyed it because of the wonderful use of language: it was poetic, the French use of alliteration was more pronounced and, strangely, the more limited French vocabulary gave the words more weight.

We all agreed that a good translator actually has to be a poet or a writer too; a pedestrian translator is too literal, a good one goes with the meaning. Fortunately, the translation settles down as the novel progresses and becomes less flowery: it’s the story that the reader finally concentrates on and descriptions of place and atmosphere suit the tone much better.

The lives of the two couples central to the story finally fall apart. Mohsen is losing his conscience when he throws a stone at a woman: he is disgusted with himself and mistakenly tells his wife who is appalled. Finally, Mohsen convinces his wife to walk out with him in the town against her better instincts: she is humiliated when she is forced to sit in the sun for hours when her husband is made to pray in the mosque and she is sickened by his lack of backbone. She tries to spur him into standing up for himself: it's a terrible miscalculation.

Atiq begins to question his faith and now has no hope, no pity and no love. Then quite unexpectedly he sees a beautiful woman: she is condemned to death. He has seen so few women, and is so starved of beauty and anything that gives him joy, that he cannot bear the thought of her dying. Musarrat sees love and joy in Atiq when he falls under the woman's spell: awed to find he can feel such a way and delighted to see her husband so happy, she thinks of a scheme to save the woman.

We agreed that the characters were caricatures, that the female ones were a male fantasy and most thought them not at all well rounded. The total lack of respect for women was difficult for some of the group to believe possible: the bleakness and tragedy of the situation and setting affected everyone and, in half the group, depressed them. None would read it again and hardly any would recommend it.

But there were some wonderful observations: for example Zunaira described how she had in her relationship with her husband a small flame that she tried to blow into fire and in the process blew out. I was struck by Mohsens words "We've known the joys of life has to offer, and we thought them as good as the joys of eternity". So it is that in some parts of the world, in some regimens, the repressed, the poor and the uneducated look forward to the ease and joy that is promised in eternity.

Underneath the clunky translation, the caricature characters and the fantastical elements there is a strong moral – true, some times rather blatant: a society that does not respect women, that denies the pacifying and caring attributes of them, can become a cruel and dictatorial one.

And loss of intimacy and repression has a dehumanizing effect. The women are the swallows of the title: beauty and freedom have flown. Khandra's belief that 'Fundamentalism is the cancer of Islam' is certainly apparent in The Swallows of Kabul. This book describes a chilling situation, an awful message but one we need to understand.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

St Valentine's

St Valentine's Day had a bit of a naughty beginning, quite dissimilar to our romantic view of it. It's roots were in pagan Rome: during the month long Lupercalia festival the names of willing young women were written down and picked out at random by virile young men to be their companion throughout the time of orgy.

The Church disapproved of course and nominated a day and the acceptable face of a saint – Valentine – in the hope that he and not courtesans became the centre of attention. This was not an immediate success because then, as now, good times are not surrendered lightly: the young men and women continued to choose a real life Valentine with whom there was still fun and frolics.

Over time the Church did manage to steer the debauched festival into more fitting game of mystery and romance. Around the 15th century this took the form of a simple letters written to the partner of ones choice, with whom one hoped to perhaps eventually marry.

However, intrigue or the practical Valentine joke was often indulged as happened in Gaskell's novel, Cranford, with such sorry conequences. There were all sorts of ways to find a Valentine: in Samuel Pepys time – mid 1600's – the first man seen by a woman that morning became her Valentine, and she his, so a wise woman timed her outings so that she didn't bump into the dolt next door.

A wealthy Valentine was a very good catch because he would bring presents of gloves or stockings or, if he were very rich, jewellery. But letters, and names written on pieces of paper, were still common nevertheless. In the 17th century Valentines were often chosen by the recipient based on the skill of letter they wrote: it might be a sentimental poem, a few lines of flowery description or a painted heart.

These home-made 'letters' became more complex by the Victorian period: glue and scissors were employed to produce nifty decoupage or watercoloured pictures painted. Unfortunately those not blessed with any artistic ability were at a clear disadvantage.

The ever enterprising and commercially minded Victorians hit upon the bought Valentine card: embossing, patterns and perforations were used, with gold and silver gilding and love knots. As time went on these became works of sentimental and romantic art, birds, flowers, baskets, ribbons, lace, painted satin panels and cupids were favourite decorations with mottoes, couplets and rhymes added.

The cards became a roaring success; according to the General Post Office archives over 200,000 Valentine letters and cards were sent by post in 1825, which by 1850 had grown to 800,000. But mass production and OT decoration – three dimensional cards steeped in perfume, or boxed ones decorated with moss and feathers – caused these cards to lose their charm and the popularity of the Valentine card waned.

A revival (if for no other reason but to boost Post Office coffers) was needed: step in our hero, Rex Whistler. This talented artist designed the first St Valentine's telegram in glorious glittering colour and a new wave of sending St Valentine verses was begun.

I can remember the teenage angst that was palpable leading up to 14th February: if you received one it would accompany you to school and either be gloated over or discreetly dropped by 'accident' out of the satchel. Of course if you didn't get one you pretended the post hadn't been delivered before you left for school and hoped that by the next day the subject would be relegated to yesterday's news.

I have to say that I do think commercialism has rather overtaken the fun and charm of St Valentine's now: mark you, I have no objection to a bunch of flowers or (preferably and) a nice meal out from Best Beloved who, admittedly, does often need a little jog in the romance stakes.

But the sweetest of cards I ever received were those hand made ones that my children proudly presented to me after school. Alright, they weren’t anonymous and they were oddly shaped and strangely coloured, but I think making the cards taught them that not everything needs to be bought and that we all need little tokens of love now and then: so long live St Valentine's Day.

Lucy
www.lucyannwrites.blogspot.com

And a new beginning

January: always a bit of an anticlimax after Christmas and a miserable month for weather to boot. But when those fresh green leaves of the snowdrops push their way through the crumpled leaves under the trees there is suddenly the hope of something better. When the delicate snow white heads appear, nodding so prettily, you know spring is only weeks away: OK, many weeks away, but let's be positive.

Down the side of the back path are some bright little beacons, winter aconites, golden yellow, their ruff of leaves so shiny, that they would cheer anyone up - which is why I look forward to daffodils in March – and several primroses with frilly leaves are flowering early in the borders.


And I love the hellebores which are all in flower, adding a sophisticated touch to otherwise bleak corners with their dramatic leaves and wonderful colours: lime green and pure white, freckled or streaked. February now: everything else is getting the message. Delicate early iris – Iris ungularis - are fleetingly in flower nestled among their sword like leaves, tiny purple violets peep shyly out from underneath bushes.

An unusually warm and sunny day and suddenly there are several crocus open under the beech tree. Mostly mauve, a few white, but not one yellow one – the birds love their saffron and if a yellow one slips through the net the birds will make sure it doesn't last long.

And the narcissi I planted in the old half barrel have suddenly shot up – several degrees warmer raised as they are – I just hope they're not over too quickly. I love the smell of them as I come out of my back door, they will be followed by later varieties and, if I'm lucky, there will be flowers until Easter.

It's been such a mild winter that the birds are beginning to nest: we've had a pair of greater spotted woodpeckers and a lovely nuthatch making a meal of the nuts. And yesterday a pair of tiny perfectly formed long-tailed tits: they're so pretty with their soft pink feathers, long tail and neat heads. I think they're nesting in the rose above the kitchen window; I do hope so.

February may still have some blasts of wintery weather in store for us but now nothing can stop the inexorable march towards spring: it's begun.