We have all been watching The hurricane news this week as my sister lives in Florida. My niece actually bravely stayed in the TV station where she works along with her dog! Both are safe but we await news of the damage as they had a direct hit. It has been quite a traumatic week. So much so that when I was due to play outside in a wood this weekend I was fired up with Yorkshire survival-ness. On waking the sky was grey, the rain was hitting the window and the tree branches were swaying erratically. I polished the small ‘busking’ harp, gathered a waterproof mat and a thick knitted cardigan that would keep me warm but also looks really good. Then I became inventive. A gazebo would last about 2 seconds in theseYorkshire gusts so I concocted a canepy by laying poles through the roof bars on my car and using an old inflatable rubber mattress as my roof. The last step was to put on my newly dubbed walking boots, pack my lunch , load up the car and set off. On arrival I was greeted like a star. Although everybody else had to brace the weather they had arranged for me to play inside the most beautiful Tudor chapel hidden deep inside the vast mansion. Indeed I never knew it was there and have visited the property several times before. Oak panelling covering the walls, oak floorboards and a level oak ceiling ensured the best amplifier a musician could possibly have. Sat in my boots and ‘bad weather-clothes’ I was thrilled. One of the most difficult projects of my harp-making career was to achieve a small, carriable harp that could still achieve a full sound. I was inundated with enthusiastic people drawn to the chapel by the sound of harp drifting through a fair section of the house. I had a pipe band to compete with and Morris dancers downstairs. The Accrington Pipe Band were superb playing outside in the pouring rain, we all survived but not only that, achieved something in the process – respect to you all.
At boarding school there was a huge vegetable garden. It was fabulous, you could get lost in the rows of beans, peas and raspberries. The nuns were self-sufficient and fed us 300 or so girls from their farm and the gardens. There were Walnut trees and Cherry trees and rows and rows of beautifully trained ancient Apple and Pear trees. We were allowed to keep pets at school and I had an Old English bunny called Barney. Every day after school I used to check the boxes at the end of the gardens for scraps. All the leaves from Cauliflowers and any other veg were left in this box along with bruised Apples etc. A lot of the girls used to shove some pellets into their rabbits cage and rush off to other things but not me. Barney was my best friend and was treated as such. He became very tame and hopped along behind me or laid down to wait for me. I soon managed to get myself on the best list at school – the fruit picking list. We picked crates and crates of fruit and I learnt to whistle. The nuns had a rule you see. Just the one. Whilst we were in the garden we had to keep whistling. If we stopped they rushed in to find us within seconds. Just enough time to stuff our mouths with raspberries.
I am so proud to be asked yet again to play at the opening night of Bradford’s Literary Festival. They said it would not be the same without me as I was an exceptional Harper. Ooooooooooo! 🙂
The weather here has been beautiful and it was warm enough in the evening for our neighbours to sit in the conservatory and watch tv. In the pitch black outside a black shape kept moving past. Thinking it was Stix the cat they opened the window to shout at him to leave them in peace but instead Dodge the donkey’s head burst through. He had worked out how to open the field gate and wandered into their garden. We arrived back late to find a note that Dodge had been put into another field. Finding a black donkey in the dark wasn’t easy but we did it. I often get phone calls from my pupils. ‘Katie’ they start. ‘ I’m stuck!’. I love it. The younger ones launch into their tune putting the phone on the floor so that I have to wait until they pick up again to explain. Often 5 minutes later they’re back with another tune to sort out. Usually it all ends very quickly with ‘I get it, sorry, byeeeee’, as it suddenly dawns. Yesterday I had a panic-stricken dad on the phone. I always encourage performance and my pupil had practised a modern tune to play at a ‘naming ceremony’. Everything was going well until she suddenly realised she had forgotten the tuning key. The last I heard was he was looking for a DIY shop in Bristol to buy a radiator key. For some reason the pegs that hold the strings on a harp are usually the same size as a radiator bleeding valve. As harps are thousands of years old I’m guessing one of the first plumbers also had a harp! Well I hope the race around Bristol was successful, I know the performance would have been and I am now off up to the top fields as the Tour de Yorkshire races right past us. Look out for Stix on telly. I’m sure he’ll find a way …. (ps looking forward to a concert in The Dales next week)
All they wanted was a golden harp but they were mesmerised by the sound of my homemade wooden harp decorated with gold painting. The two most remembered tunes at a local primary school where I played a few weeks ago were Sleeping Beauty and a flamenco tune with lots of drumming and bells. Sleeping Beauty is known courtesy of Walt Disney but it was good to get feed back on an unknown tune, although everyone, regardless of age, likes the rings on her fingers and bells (not on her toes, but on her ankles)! I add, for those of you who have never heard me play, I have parrot bells on kilt pins around my ankles and rings with wooden beads on my fingers for bodhran style drumming. The most favourite tune at concerts is one of Daves. He was once awaiting a procedure at hospital and was on a waiting list. I went shopping and suddenly he got a phone call from hospital. They were sending an ambulance to pick him up as they had an unexpected slot. He had no time to write me a note so he sang me a song on the answer phone. Although I can’t sing well, I can play a melody well and the tune makes a wonderful instrumental. You may be wondering about that modern invention, the mobile phone! For years we had no reception at our house, neither did my Mum and well over half of the venues I play at up The Dales still anounce before a wedding “if you’re lucky enough to have reception on your mobile please turn it off”. Currently I have an old £9.99 phone “just for emergencys”. This may be a good time to thank the two builders from Oldham who gave us a litre of water for our car as we were perched precariously on rocks at the edge of the reservoir trying to get water in an old yoghurt pot… (Dave’s tune: O Come to me my Darling from The Book of Caris)
It was very nearly completely unnoticed, silently and efficiently done, not to mention the speed in which the deed was done. Alas though, a teeny, tiny scrap of sellaphane drifted out from under the sink unit. I pulled it and lo and behold it was the empty wrapper from a pound of bacon. Stix had polished it off so fast he nearly got away with it. I have made him a ‘delux’ wooden cat house and swopped his food for a well known brand – all in an effort to make him appreciate the delights of home. It seems to be working, well at least Stix is hanging around now, if only to raid the pantry. I took part in many successful pantry raids at boarding school. The cook was named M rs Cook – proudly reminding us at every opportunity of her famous ancestor, Captain James Cook. She was about 4 foot tall, was a tower of strength and made the best muffins in the whole world. Based in Whitby we were proud of our sea-faring heritage and Mrs Cook made us ships biscuits for break from a recipe passed down her family. They could apparently sail round the world and last for months. I believe her, I have never come across anything quite like them and I loved them. I got to know Mrs Cook quite well because we had a system of chores at school. The worst job was washing up. To make it fair each half term the rotor started at each end of the alphabet. My surname beginning with H meant I was permanently in the middle and permanently washing up. It did have its perks though and Mrs Cook was generous when she baked and smiled and turned a blind eye, keeping our secret from the nuns. As I practised the harp Stix appeared at the window, so I smiled at him.
The water came over the sills of the car and soaked my bag but I tucked my dress up and had my wellies on so my feet kept dry. The bride and her maids all had their yellow wellies on so I kept mine on… so what if they were old black Dunlop ‘real’ wellies? My dress nearly covered them up. I learned a trick a few years ago when it never stopped raining all summer. I make my own dresses so bought loads of synthetic furnishing taffeta. If there’s a shower the guests run in first leaving me and the harp. I’m not bothered about a bit of rain but my harp is – so I make my skirts huge so I can shove some over the harp whilst I wait. You can screw the material up and it dries in 5 minutes without needing an iron. Anyway this bride went down the aisle to Daisy, Daisy which was a first for me but very sweet. I am practising all my Turlough O’Carolan and jigs ready for a concert in Doncaster coming up. My pupils are all learning jigs – trouble is every time any one gets out of time and it all falls apart the parrots (Charlie and Lills – both rescue parrots) join in our laughter and Lills calls them a ‘f—-er’. I used to wince but it seems to be having the opposite effect to what the ‘mums’ and me thought. Yesterday Charlie decided to imitate an electric drill as well. ‘Good job you’re not a dentist’ someone said. Yes I thought it could be worse, but we’ll keep trying so I’m off to sing ‘Daisy’ and call Lills ‘a little tinker’.
Birthdays in our house were never about lavish presents – it was all about the party – the wackier the better. I was asked to play the harp at a medieval castle today. My dad (his preferred name being pa pa – with French-pronunciation – after a visit to stay with some friends in their chateau where the children curtsied to their father every night before dinner) used do get quite cross with this particular castle because they beat us in battle way back in the 13th century. When I say they beat us I mean their castle beat ours … theirs is now a large conference venue and ours was left in ruins only to be renovated a bit at a time with each different owner, each having their own ideas over the centuries. It never left him however and another of his pet hates was modern music. ‘Turn that music off” he would shout at my sister and I ‘it will ruin the foundations”. He meant the vibration of course – what would he make of the harps I now play? I love playing the harp in this particular castle because the whole building seems to sing along. His favourite walk was to the remains of John of Gaunt’s castle nearby. It stands on the top of a very remote hilltop and when I was a child the nearby Manor House was abandoned and we used to play in it. As we approached teenage years our birthdays included our favourite walk then progressed to holding the party in the ruined castle itself. In the midst of winter, after dark, we walked the 2 miles or so to the castle to find that Dad had been up and left a crate of Beaujolais Nouveau and a full picnic . The walls of the castle were all lit up with candles in jam jars. The ‘fathers’ of my friends always threatened to appear dressed in sheets for a laugh but we were left to scream by ourselves or collapse in hysterics when a stray sheep wandered into our party be mistake. The dads never made it from their meeting place, The Queens Head, where we used to wander back to later in the evening.
As I write our cat, Stix, is missing. Not for the first time and although he,s always turned up it’s still agony waiting. Last Christmas he jumped into a delivery truck and it took some serious detective work before I rang a depot in Leeds to ask if they had acquired a black cat with a white bib and amazing whiskers. They dropped him off in Haworth the next day. He has a long list of homes locally that feed him so maybe he’s having his Christmas dinner somewhere. He once found his way into the bedroom next door and snuggled up in their four poster bed. The lady,s screams were so loud he has never ventured back. I have rescued him precariously from the top of my step ladders from the barn roof many times. Once two American tourists took him back to their hotel in Haworth. They thought he was lovely until he raided their bags overnight for chocolate and ransacked their room leaving chocolate everywhere. They took him to the vets next day who rang me up! We originally swopped him for a bag of cat litter as we felt sorry for him as he was being dragged round by his tail (without complaining) by a beautiful three year old child. He has been with us ever since so come back soon Stix.
We were supposed to keep the rams separate from the sheep until a few weeks ago to avid Christmas lambs. We have 3 mature tups with magnificent horns. The horns are thick and plaited and on their third loop. They cannot butt facing each other anymore but launch themselves sidewards about 3 foot up in the air to clash horns. They had the run of the middle paddock along with a small tup lamb born this year. He is tiny and is completely free of horns. They ate all the windfall apples and walnuts even though I tried to sneak in and get some walnuts (I hate to eat them but thought it would be good to try and stain the dining room floor again). Any way we rounded them up and let them back in with the sheep. They charged through the gate … then we noticed that the tup lamb was missing. We searched the woods and finally went to count the sheep. Yep, you guessed it, he had jumped back into the field weeks ago and we hadn’t noticed. He came up to say hello with a sly grin and I’m sure he winked at me.
I remember chanting this as little girl – something like ‘Grandma’s stuck on the lavatory, she was there from Monday to Saturday and nobody knew she was there’! I also remember my dear Grandma taking me on holiday with her to Ibiza and she got locked in the lavatory at the airport. I stood and waited silently for a long time until the security man took the lock off. This time it was my turn. Some of the houses I play the harp in are massive, so much so, electric quad bikes are used on every floor to whiz down the corridors taking cleaning stuff and moving furniture. This house was no different. I was offered the use of the lift that ‘Great, Great Grandad had invented’ but declined. The rope looked sturdy enough but the chair perched precariously on the very small platform put me off somewhat. I took the stairs and then the quad bike. The final verbal instruction from the ‘Lord’ was lost as the head cook, Beryl, set off on the quad with me on the back. It was something about the lavatory. Nevermind I thought it’ll probably be obvious. There were two lavatories side by side with their own sinks – mirror-like on each side of the corridor. I picked the one on the left. I pulled the old Victorian lever to flush and the words came to me …. It was definitely something about the one on the left being broken. A huge growling, grumbling vibration filled the room and echoed down the long corridor. It kept growing as I crept silently back to my harp and sat waiting for the dinner guests. It carried on in ten minute intervals all the way through dinner. Luckily as the cheese was brought in it had softened so everyone could hear the harp again. I hid behind the harp every time the ‘Lord’ glanced questioningly in my direction but Beryl shot me a grin and a wink from the doorway halfway through.