Of Kings and ghosts and long leggedy beasties, dear Lord preserve us

Tomorrow our level 4 lock down is over. Not that I will be able to do much of anything extra. Not exactly brimming with social opportunities or essential work stuff in my area. Never mind. I will continue on regardless and do what comes easiest. I will do nothing at all. I have a real talent for putting my feet up and enjoying a good book or two. Last week a friend asked what we could take that was positive from this time. Well, I did find myself mowing my lawn. Not exactly building the Taj Mahal, but a huge achievement for me. Apparently people have been having awful dreams during this pandemic time. And yes, I had a few of those myself. Vampires and stabbing and running away without getting anywhere. Classic stuff really and totally normal if the boffins can be believed. I woke up at three am in an absolute sweat. Luckily I am made of sterner stuff and did not over-react about a bit of vampire slaying. I blame it all on my daughter-in-law who posted online that she had been watching Buffy. It's been a while since I watched the show and even then it was not very believable or scary at all. I remember the doctor in our town who loved horror movies. Dr McLaren? Or Dr Van Rooyen? Anyhow, that is immaterial who it was. But he would say that watching horror movies was like comedy for him who had seen the real gory details of life up close and personal. As I sat up in bed with images of vampires trying to attack me and attempting to fight them off, I took a deep breath and said, 'Where is Buffy when you really need her?' Other dreams? Well no, I haven't a clue because with the dawn come oblivion and the dreams vanish like the mists in the valleys. Oh, okay, not really, but they don't stick around in my head for long. Just long enough for me to think 'What on earth was that about?' before carrying on with my day.

Have any of you heard of King Offa? He built a dyke between his kingdom of Mercia and Wales in about 800, which makes it about 1220 years ago. Not exactly top of the hit list of famous figures usually mentioned in Britain. He was a contemporary of Charlemagne. Does that help at all? No? Okay. So the story goes as such, King Offa minted a golden coin that had an inscription that said, 'No God but Allah.' Interesting to think that all those years ago he made the choice to print that on his currency. What if he wanted to trade with the Muslim world of Africa and the Middle East and decided that he would pander to the needs of commerce? Anyhow King Offa was not a very nice man over all, but not much different to others of his generation. His daughter was due to marry a young gentleman called Ethelbert, King of East Anglia. Offa's wife got jealous of her daughter's happiness and her and Offa planned to kill young Ethelbert. Ethelbert had a dream that his marriage bed was destroyed and his mother wept tears of blood. The sun darkened and the earth shook as Ethelbert started his journey towards Mercia. So all the omens were against him, and yet, he continued on. He must have really loved Offa's daughter. Even after he had been killed, the story continues. Wherever his body was buried, magical lights would appear above his grave. And when they moved the body a clear spring sprung up through the ground to mark the spot. Ethelbert became the patron saint of Hereford Castle and King Offa must have felt a twinge of remorse, because he erected a monument to his almost son-in-law at the Castle. What happened to Offa? Well he in turn got beheaded. How is that for poetic justice? He was buried in a Chapel in Bedford, but the chapel was swallowed by the river Ouse and his grave forever hidden from view. Although, even today, bathers in the summer, say that the chapel is visible through the depths of the river but, strangely, when archaeologists seek it out, it is no where to be found. I love weird and wonderful stories of history and can bore you witless with my recitations. But enough for the day. I will bend your ear again some other time with my sagas.

Sitting at home, I sometimes think of days gone by. And so it was when I remembered wandering through a graveyard as a young woman, where the graves had collapsed and sunk down in deep pits. I went on Google maps, as I do, and searched out the cemetery. But it was gone and in its place was a road and a few scattered houses. There was an area that looked vaguely like graves could have been there at one time. So I zoomed in. Nope. Nothing, nada. Never one to let sleeping dogs lie, I emailed a few people who lived in my home town. Did any of them remember the abandoned graveyard? My mother, who saw ghosts like you and I see living people, would tell me of the ghostly people wandering around that site, so I knew it wasn't my imagination. A friend emailed back to say that yes, he did remember it and in fact his brother had fallen in one of the graves as they visited it with their parents. I think his Dad was mayor of the town at the time? And another friend said that yes, the graves had been dug up to build the road and the descendants of those interred people had to be found via various means. So, I am not crazy. That night I sat and wondered why on earth this memory had surfaced? Was I fixated on graves at this time with all the thousands of dead people around the world. Images of rows of coffins in New York had been on the news. My home town was quite small really. We all knew each other and a large proportion of the town were my relatives. My grandfather owned the properties in the centre of town and an uncle owned another large portion. The rest of the properties were in the hands of old friends or family. My great grandmother ran a 'finishing school' for gentle-ladies and I could walk down the street and greet almost everyone, white or black, with familiarity. I was told that I resembled my great grandmother (can't see that myself when I look at old photos) and it was a nice town to grow up in. But that graveyard? Why is it only a few of us that remember it? Am I that weird? Okay, don't answer that. Where other people look to tumbling cats and trick playing dogs for amusement, I look at graves.

A friend recently told me that she admired me for being so positive after the death of my husband. Well, I am not one to cry into my cornflakes all day and complain about my circumstances. And what does it profit me to be morose? I am off into the garden now to catch some of the late Autumn sunshine as I pick the last of my fruit. I have so many guavas that I have bottled 5 bottles of stewed fruit and there is still more to harvest. My grandmother would be proud. In these days of filling our pantries with food for a rainy day, I remember my mother and grandmothers and their industry to fill their pantries with home bottled fruit and vegetables. My mother had a whole room of shelves that were never empty. If there was a glut of some vegetable, it was pickled. If there was an excess of fruit, it was stewed. This generation has become so dependent on supermarkets and shops always being open, that it has taken a pandemic to bring us all back to what our mother's taught us. Use it up, make it do, wear it out or do without. Old sheets and blankets were made into clothing, or bags ... or even carpet bags from carpets that were worn in places. I am glad that I come from a heritage of industrious women. I am seriously enjoying the home made produce of my own hands and the hands of dear friends. I used the last of Sue's tomato sauce last night. But I know she has been busy bottling away in her home, so expect a visit when this virus has run its course. I will swap you guava jelly for tomato sauce. Ooooh and the lemon curd. Yummy. Sorry folks, I will not be sharing that anytime soon. Delicious. And the plum sauce. Oh alright, enough of the talk of food. I am going to go pick my guavas and give you all a break.