Something nasty

Sure it couldn't be Lammas time without a few words from Judith Starkadder. And the fearful fear is that something nasty may return to the woodshed.

I see the Cold Comfort Farm woodshed as a metaphor for human progress and endeavour - rather like Prometheus, Frankenstein's monster or the Millennium Dome. The things we make have ostensibly noble ends - be it to give humanity fire, to extend our understanding of life, or to make the Queen sing Auld Lang Syne. Or - as it may be - to keep the wood safe while it dries, ready for us to burn - creating a fire that warms the heart of man and leaves little pin-hole burns on the Axminster. But all the time, if we're not careful, there's something nasty lurking behind it all.

Happy Lammas Day. Whatever it is all about.

Long dark night-time of the soul

What a traumatic night. Not that I ever imagined that sleeping in the woodshed in the orchard would ever be a breeze. Although there was a breeze. Went right down my back. Very uncomfortable.

But around 11 pm I heard a mystical noise coming from outside. Narrowing it down, I realised it was something with Hnaef's voice, singing Thomas Hardy's poem "To Lizbie Brown". It then started rooting around in the woodshed and, in my sleep-befuddled state, I assumed it must be one of the Pope's legion of robots, come to take me away to the Ordinariate.

In the circumstances, what else could I do? Naturally I kicked the robot in the shins. Switching on the genuine authentic candle-effect LED tea light which the Archdruid had issued me for lighting in inflammable situations, I found Hnaef laying on the floor, clutching his knees, surrounded by the logs which Mrs Hnaef had ordered him to collect (Hnaef having once again forgotten during the day time, and only now returned from the White Horse).

But I am full of angst. For even now I am awake, and have eased the wrinkles and creases out of my muscles, I cannot be sure that Hnaef was not really a robot. And, now I think of it, I'm not totally sure I am not one myself. For surely if the Pope's legions of robots had removed the real me, and left in my place an identical robot, onto which it had played all my memories: how would I know?

I think I may sit here in the woodshed a little longer. This will require some thinking.

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For those who wish to know what Hnaef sounded like, albeit he didn't look like this and he didn't have a piano:

Beyond the Woodshed

Just a little plug of someone who appears on our sidebar occasionally.

"Beyond the Woodshed" is a tale of idyllic splendour and excitement in rural Dorset. Mrs Starkadder doesn't post often but when she does it is full of the love of life, family and countryside. Well worth reading.

Cold Harbour Spinney

Remarking on the Starkadder clan has caused me to remember that the Furzton estate in Milton Keynes is associated with the "Cold Harbour" fields.  I wonder if there is a linguistic link with Cold Comfort Farm?  Perhaps a "Cold Harbour" is likewise a place where you can stay, but without really enjoying any creature comforts.  If so, most unlike Furzton - which is very pleasant, with nice houses that look like houses and a rather nice lake.

Nearly Spring?

I note that Judith Starkadder, on sight of the wandering man, has decided Spring may be in the air.
I think she may be wrong, but you can only hope.  There may no longer be anything nasty in the woodshed, but it still doesn't seem to be a bundle of laughs on Cold Comfort Farm.