Forties Nostalgia

Once a year, the Pennine town of Haworth sets aside its usual preoccupation with the Bronte family and moves the clock forward a hundred years or so. And stages a 1940s weekend.

It’s fabulous! There’s no requirement to turn up in costume, but many people do. And the whole cast of wartime characters is in evidence: soldiers, sailors, airmen; the ARP warden and the Home Guard; nurses and the WVS; evacuee children clutching suitcases; even babies in 1940s prams.

There’s an abundance of goodwill. People seem genuinely happy and no-one objects to having their picture taken.

The local cafes serve Bovril and supposedly austere fare; while outside a black marketeer tries to flog watches and silk knickers. At intervals, a procession of Land Girls or a marching band parades down the cobbled Main Street. And Winston Churchill even turns up, complete with cigar, to deliver one of his wartime speeches.

There’s constant music as girls in red lipstick and furs serenade the crowds with old time favourites; and there’s jive dancing for all on the car park in the shadow of a borrowed Spitfire.

The event is hugely popular, which means elbowing your way through the crowd if you’re determined to get somewhere. And if you want fish and chips, the queue stretches round the block.

It’s a brilliant day out, though. Tremendously evocative and poignant, too: I saw several elderly men proudly sporting medals. Take a look at the snapshots above or, if you’ve three minutes to spare, sit back and enjoy the slideshow below. And wallow in some forties nostalgia.

P.S. It was impossible to convey the essence of the event without showing shots of people - so I’ve broken my usual rule of not showing faces without permission. If anyone should recognise themselves in any of the photos and be unhappy about appearing here, please get in touch and I’ll remove the relevant picture. But if you are content to be here, then thank you very much!

P.P.S.  Today I'm taking part in Mosaic Monday hosted by Mary at Little Red House.  Why not pop on over and take a look at some of the other lovely mosaics you'll find there?

Grass

We have a problem here in Dixon Hill land. If you live elsewhere in the UK, then chances are you have it too.

It’s cold. Despite all April’s sunshine, we had only a couple of truly warm days last month. And May - so far - has brought winter-bitter winds that have had us reaching for hats and scarves and gloves again.

All of which means the grass isn’t growing. Not to any significant degree, anyway. Farmers are still having to fork out for feed at a time of year when cattle and sheep would normally be chomping happily on fresh spring grazing.

So…..if you’re in a part of the world that’s enjoying balmy days and soft breezes….blow a little of the bounty this way, will you?

The Broken-hearted Hen House

Just look at this! My hens have a new house - and it has a heart-shaped window!

I’ve been eyeing up this bijou little residence for months..…and now it’s finally here. Aren’t my birds just the luckiest fowl that ever laid eggs?

Unfortunately, their penthouse home suffered in transit; its roof has been damaged and its heart has been broken. So it’s going back to its makers for some tender loving care.

By next week, however, the cockerel and his ladies should be in their new abode and surveying the world through heart-shaped glass.

Don’t you think we would all benefit from a heart-shaped view of the world?

The Guzzler

The sheep in our croft have been lambing over the last week.

Hebrideans (so I’m told) lamb relatively easily, and it’s rare they need help or intervention of any kind.

So it’s proved. Everything’s gone swimmingly….until yesterday - when I found the little one above slumped on the ground, apparently unable to move, whilst his mother hovered protectively.

Visions of a tiny black bundle, snuggled before the Aga, danced through my mind…..yours truly tending to the small scrap with bottled milk and oodles of love (it wouldn’t be the first time).

But there was no need. Turns out he’s just a little guzzler, who’d drunk too much of mama’s milk and couldn’t stir himself. He was stuffed!

All’s well that ends well. And just one more sheep to lamb…

Election Day

It’s Election Day. And our polling station is, as usual, the village school.

I always enjoy casting my vote here. Not a pollster or hustler in sight. In fact, there’s no-one in sight…..except the presiding officer, occupied with his lunch.

‘Been busy?’ I ask. He nods vigorously. ‘Yes, there’s been a lot more than usual this time,’ he replies earnestly, setting his meal aside. Then he glances down at a sheet of paper where a list of numbers, representing voters, have been carefully entered towards the top of the page. He counts them. ‘Twenty-three!’ he announces, impressively. It’s one o’clock and polling has been underway for six hours.

A mini drama then ensues as I hand him my polling card and am told that I’m not entitled to vote in the general election. ‘Why not?’ I demand.

‘Because it says ONE VOTE ONLY on your card and there are two elections today: the general election and the local election. You can only vote in the local one.’

A confused altercation ensues; and is only resolved when a second officer, having finished his sandwiches, emerges from behind a screen to tell the first man that all this morning’s cards have said that. And, instantly, I’m no longer disenfranchised.

So I put my cross in the appropriate boxes; then am detained in idle chatter by the two men, who clearly welcome the distraction of a twenty-fourth voter crossing their threshold.

Eventually, I extricate myself from the amiable conversation and wander home; wondering - as I always do - just what presiding officers do for the other 364 days of the year, and all the years in between…..