Wednesday, 25 March 2009

Weasels are weasily identified...

...because stoats are stotally different!

This morning, on my way to work, a weasel shot across the road in front of my car.

I say a weasel, but it might have been a stoat - I'm never completely sure about the identification. Oh, I know about the brown/chestnut, the white tail end, the turning white in the Winter (mostly up North) but as they flash by in front of you, it's almost impossible to tell.

This is not my picture. I wasn't equipped at the time, so I've borrowed one from Bedfordshire's flora and fauna (pic, Steve Blain)
I hope they don't mind too much. Go and have a look at their great blog.

Likewise this pic of a stoat is borrowed from It's Nature

Still, whichever it was, it was my first of the season.

Photograph © Steven Cheshire 2009 -

Over the lovely warm weekend, there were Brimstones in the garden - always the first butterflies to make themselves obvious in our area.

Me (above) and other mad people collecting. I draw the line at the silly hat.
Meanwhile, we were busy collecting for Marie Curie Cancer Care at a local garden centre - the Mothering Sunday Weekend is always the best time to collect at a garden centre. The Great Daffodil Collection is coming to an end; Marea has organised all her collections and, hopefully, we will have raised a decent sum. Her target the year is £540,000. By the way, if you're buying off ebay and using PayPal, you can donate as you complete your purchase - £1 each time. Go on; you know it makes sense

Thursday, 12 March 2009

Rats and flowers and clematis wilt

What's that? I'd changed the camera settings and turned off the thing that stops camera shake, but it's obvious to me it's a rat! we thought we'd got rid of it, but there are rats in the field opposite - no surprise there, so i suppose there's a colony on this side of the road somewhere. I don't find rats (outside the house) as offensive as some, but they keep eating the food we put out for the birds. Occupational hazard, I suppose.

It doesn't seem to be deterring the birds; the Blue Tits are back in numbers. We had out first Greenfinch, but I didn't capture it on camera. Must remember to fill up the feeders at the weekend.

Generally, the house looks good. I like this view from the field opposite with the hill behind.

The Lenten Lily, Helleborus Niger (though it's more commonly called the Christmas Rose) always benefits from having its heads lifted a little.

The crocuses in our pots are looking good - bright and cheerful. Though, for cheerfulness, you can't beat daffs.

These are Hordeum Jubatum that we planted last back end and over-wintered in the cold frame. I've taken them out, potted them on and given them some water and they're galloping away. Hordeum is one of my favourite grasses. i love the way the ends turn a delicate shade of purple. I don't have my own picture yet (later) but this one I borrowed from Chiltern Seeds really shows what I mean.

Tree Peonies, newly planted

We've also got cowslips, and tree peonies - can't wait to see how they get on. the flowers are supposed to be spectacular!

Finally, this is clematis wilt and I don't know what to do about it apart fromgrubbing up the whole plant and burning it. it has such a beautiful delicate flower as well. I'll have to see if I've got a Summer shot of it.

Saturday, 7 March 2009

A bit of sad news..

NB Ophelia

We had a bit of sad news this week; one of our co-owners in Ophelia, the narrowboat, has suffered a stroke and died suddenly. He was one of the friendliest, most cheerful people I knew and it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone. The co-owners are a group of people who all bought a share of the same boat without knowing each other and, though it might have turned out differently, have become a group of friends.

Ophelia's owners at her anointing
Stroke is a major fear of mine, ever since my father had his first stroke, a fairly minor one, and was taken into hospital where the stroke specialist nurse had just left. After some treatment, he was eventually sent home, but began hallucinating. At that time, he knew that the visions weren’t real; he used to say “Just tell me the people in that photograph aren’t moving…” (What do the people in the Harry Potter books do?). Later, he had more major strokes and was admitted, wired up, catheterized and sedated.

Later on, as he seemed to be making a partial recovery we had difficulties with one locum doctor when we visited and found him unconscious and dehydrated. When we demanded help, the on duty nurse could not get a line in to help him rehydrate because his veins were impossible to find. Eventually, we got a line in and then we checked his notes and found that he had been heavily sedated to prevent him wandering around the ward. We threatened all sorts of actions, but when the consultant came back from vacation, he managed to reassure us that ‘chemical coshing’ was not his policy (his words).

My dad and me (about 1956/7)

During this time, I could not speak to my father; could not understand anything he said and felt overwhelmed with guilt because I knew there were things he wanted to say. On one occasion, the nurse said; “Your father has been rather distressed today. He cried a lot this morning.” I replied; “Wouldn’t you be distressed in his condition, unable to make yourself understood?” This, of all things, is my greatest fear, not being able to communicate. I’ve made Marea promised the best speech therapy if it happens to me.

Eventually, dad’s health stabilized and he was admitted to a psychogeriatric ward. I still couldn’t understand anything he said, but one old man I spoke to said; “Your dad’s been telling me all bout how he ran the staff football club at Metal Box (the factory where my father was a master machine tool fitter) and how he competed in the archery contests.” I didn’t know whether to be angry that this man could do what I couldn’t (understand my father) or pleased that my dad had finally found someone he could communicate with.

Later, as we were looking for a nursing home for dad to move into, and finding nothing suitable, or even bearable, dad had a massive stroke and was moved to an acute ward. When we assembled around his bed, the nurse said they were going to move him to a side ward; a sure sign that things were coming to an end. As we sat with him, over a period of about an hour or more he regularly stopped breathing for minutes at a time, until his body rebelled and he drew a deep, desperate breath before lapsing into unconsciousness again. He kept trying to get rid of his oxygen mask, I thought because it was uncomfortable, but now I realize it was because he wanted to bring things to an end.

After a lengthy period of this torture, the nurse said “We CAN make him more comfortable, you know…” (a euphemism for we can give him a large dose of sedative which will probably bring about the end, but he won’t continue to suffer like this for hours, possible days). We all agreed and the drug was administered. After a short while, dad’s breathing eased and he was comfortable. Before very long, the end came. Would we do the same again? Of course. Would I want someone to do the same for me in the same circumstances? You bet!

I was led into all this by our friend’s death. Strange how your fears jump out at you when you least expect.