A Maying Song

This delightful young lady, Bella Hardy, sang in the choir at my wedding.
She probably doesn't remember that strange guy who wobbled off the train at Edale in 1994.



Well done, Bella.

Arran Boat Song

I bought my concertina through EBay from the nice guy on the left. I would REALLY like the one he's playing here, but he tells me it's not for sale.



Nice tune, Martyn, let me know!

The Foggy Dew

I have recently encountered this Australian folk enthusiast on Youtube. (See http://uk.youtube.com/user/raymondcrooke). He has a fine repertoire and gives very helpful information about his material. He reminds me of someone and he seems a very nice bloke. Here he is with The Foggy Dew.



Here are the lyrics I have. Raymond seems to have acquired two more verses and I await response to my formal enquiry.

The Foggy Dew
(Fr. P. O'Neill)

'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
When Ireland's line of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum,
Did sound its dread tattoo,
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.


Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Britannia's sons with their long-range guns
Sailed in from the foggy dew.


'Twas England bade our wild geese go
That small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
On the fringe of the grey North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Valera true,
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
'Neath the hills of the foggy dew.


The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide
In the springing of the year.
And the world did gaze in deep amaze
At those fearless men and true
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.

Easter uprising 1916. I believe Fr. O’Neill wrote more verses and that. Originally, ‘Valera true’ was ‘Cathal Brugha’, otherwise known as Charles Burgess, who was second in command of the IRA during the uprising.

Thanks, Ray!

No offence intended, but I just had to add this. Here's Sinéad and The Chieftains:

US Presidential Election, 2008.

Thank the US populace that this election didn't have to be settled by the questionable deliberations of a biased Florida judge!


Many congratulations, Senator (President-elect) Obama.

Now do your job and make a difference.

As you traverse the great abyss of inequality, may your journey be carbon-neutral.

Walk upon water like I know you can.

Carpe diem, Barack.

Do these things, and I might learn to love you. (No tongues, now!)

The Meaning, Value and Relativity of Time.

This post could take some time!

Here's a conundrum. You ask me, "What time is it, please?" I consult my Rolex and tell you precisely what it shows. Instantaneously the time I told you is past, lost and gone forever. Is this an example of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, having something to do with quantum physics?

A couple of weeks ago my wife and I went for lunch with her delightful sister. She, of course, is my sister-in-law. She lives with her partner; I suppose that makes him not-quite a brother-in-law. He has sons by a previous relationship. Let's suggest that they might be my almost-step-nephews.

Got that? Good!

Now, reading this has cost you nothing in financial terms, but, so far, I have expended five gratuitous minutes composing it. In a previous professional life my time was valued at £1.00 per minute; that would be £5.00. In a more recent life-episode, as a purveyor of light bulbs earning the national minimum wage, my minutes were valued at something less than one penny each. Was it worth getting out of bed?

To continue, the conversation with my quasi-relatives at the aforementioned luncheon included the enquiry, "Well, what do you do?" An existentialist might simply have responded, "I am." The elder of my two almost-step-nephews (not an existentialist) responded more interestingly, "I trade in international minutes."

Pause, lasting several standard seconds, for curiosity while you study the graphic below:



Now, ponder the following question: I know that there is interplanetary variation in the length of a year, but is there a global geographical variation in the duration and value of one minute?

Now, there's a thing. Here's my almost-relative who buys and sells TIME. No, I don't mean Swiss clocks and watches. He really meant the enigmatic fourth dimension of the universe!

After some circumlocution it became clear that my almost-step-nephew is involved in communication technology. This fortunate and charming individual drives an expensive motor car, affords the petrol, enjoys exotic foreign holidays and has a pretty fiancee. (Now, what distant almost-relative will she become?) Clearly this trade in something totally ephemeral is highly profitable. He sports one of these elegant timepieces:

Where am I going wrong? How can I engage in this enterprise? Are international minutes recyclable? What is the carbon footprint of these minutes? How are they stored, packaged and distributed? Do they have a sell-by date? I have been unable to sell any of my spare moments on EBay. Would I be better off describing those moments as 'international minutes'? After all, unless a Japanese minute is shorter/longer than a European one, you can use them anywhere in the world.

Now follows some circuitous philosophy. If time didn't exist, nothing would ever change. We would all suffer even more boredom than you, dear reader, if you've got this far, are now experiencing. I would have no birthday to celebrate. I wouldn't be 58 years old. Indeed, I would not have been born. The question, "When was...?" would be meaningless, as would the notion of tense of any verb. Dr. Who would be out of a job, and you would not be required to learn history at school. In fact, NOTHING would ever HAPPEN and that adverb 'ever', derivatives thereof and other words like 'now', 'then', 'last', 'penultimate' and 'next' would have no meaning at all, whatsoEVER!

My considered conclusion is that time is a cunning strategy of the Almighty whereby we are all called to rest every seven days. Admittedly, most take no notice of that, but time still ensures that sentient creatures are spared the tedium of nothing ever changing, whilst (there's another time-orientated adverb) benefitting from the glory of planned obsolescence.



PS. The lunch was delicious!

A Demonstration of the English Concertina and a Creaky Armchair.

A traditional song called Searching for Lambs:



OK, I know I'm not very photogenic. Please regard this post as entirely experimental!

John Blunt

I have borrowed this temporarily from my friend Raymond. I am planning to learn it.



Why does Ray insist on the key of E? That's all the black notes on the concertina!