Forget-me-not! — ¡Nomeolvides!

Hi folks! I hope this finds you well.

¡Hola amigos! Espero que estéis bien.

I just wanted to share with you a couple of photos of one of my favourite flowers — the humble but very beautiful forget-me-not. I am lucky that their flowering has coincided with my stay here in England, as is the case too of other of my favourites, such as the bluebells, lily-of-the-valley, and cherry and apple blossoms. The daffodils have finished now, but they also put on a fine show for me!

Quería simplemente compartir con vosotros un par de fotos de una de mis flores favoritas – la humilde pero muy hermosa nomeolvides. Tengo la suerte de que su floración haya coincidido con mi estancia aquí en Inglaterra, y con otros de mis favoritos, como las campanillas, el lirio del valle y las flores de cerezo y manzana: los narcisos ya han terminado, ¡pero también pusieron un buen espectáculo para mí!

Apple tree in flower — **¡el manzano en flor!**

**Flags around the cherry tree in support of Ukraine** — ***Banderas alrededor del cerezo en apoyo de Ucrania***

Please excuse my poor Samsung photography: I never plan on taking photos, they somehow just happen, and they are a poor comparison to the stunning photography of others, such as Vova Zinger’s photo blog

Por favor, disculpe mi pobre fotografía (usando mi Samsung), es que nunca planeo tomar fotos, pero de alguna manera u otra, sucede. Son una mala comparación con la impresionante fotografía de otras personas, como de Vova Zinger y su blog de fotos

Anyway, the flowers of the forget-me-nots (Myosotis sylvatica) are easy to press. I used to press them and then use them in making pictures or greeting cards and bookmarks… (hmmm… that’s a good idea for my online Etsy shop which is looking quite sparse right now…). However, in retrospect, I don’t think I want to dice with trying to smuggle hand-picked forget-me-nots past the border police in the airport, as this would be illegal.

Las flores de las Nomeolvides (Myosotis sylvatica) son fáciles de prensar. Yo solía prensarlos y luego utilizarlos en dibujos, tarjetas de felicitación y marcadores… (hmmm… eso es una buena idea para mi tienda online Etsy shop que se ve bastante escasa en este momento…). Sin embargo, en retrospectiva, no creo que quiero pasar como contrabando con mis Nomeolvides delante de la policía fronteriza en el aeropuerto, ya que esto sería ilegal.

Well, apart from being beautiful in all their powder-blue and delicate yellow simplicity, they also have an interesting symbology, representing true love and respect. When you give someone these tiny blooms, it represents a promise that you will always remember them and will keep them in your thoughts. They are also considered a symbol of fidelity and faithfulness (but I’m not too bothered about this last one!)

Además de ser hermosas vestidas en azul bebé y amarillo delicado, las Nomeolvides también tienen una interesante simbología: representan el verdadero amor y respeto. Cuando le das a alguien estas pequeñas flores, significa que siempre le recordarás y le mantendrás en tus pensamientos. También son considerados un símbolo de fidelidad y lealtad (¡pero no estoy demasiado preocupado por este último!)

Additionally, they symbolise different things in various countries, such as:

In Newfoundland, they represent those who fell in World War I.
In Armenia, it’s a symbol for the Armenian Genocide Centennial.
It’s the symbol for International Missing Children’s Day.
The Alzheimer’s Society uses forget-me-nots as a symbol for memory loss and to raise awareness for the disease.

(Please note: I have taken the above from the Farmers’ Almanac, and the author: Amber Kanuckel)

Además, simbolizan cosas diferentes en varios países, tales como:

• En Terranova, representan a los que cayeron en la Primera Guerra Mundial.

• En Armenia, es un símbolo del centenario del genocidio armenio.

• Es el símbolo del Día Internacional de los Niños Desaparecidos.

• La Alzheimer’s Society utiliza la Nomeolvides como símbolo para la pérdida de memoria y para crear conciencia sobre la enfermedad.

(Del Almanaque de los Agricultores, artículo de Amber Kanuckel)

Also, please see the above site for some decent photography of forget-me-nots, such as the following photo which I have borrowed from them (I suppose that’s alright as I am advertising their site at the same time?!):

También, vea por favor el sitio antedicho para una fotografía decente de la Nomeolvides, tal como la foto siguiente que he tomado prestada del mismo artículo (supongo que está bien copiarlo, pues estoy anunciando su sitio al mismo tiempo?!):

Definitely not my photography, but taken from the ***Farmer’s Almanac*** (see link above) **Definitivamente no es mi foto, pero tomado del Almanaque del Granjero (ver enlace arriba)**

But I wouldn’t like to go without finishing with a poem:

Pero no me gustaría ir sin terminar con un poema:

The Forget-Me-Not Fairy — Cicely Mary Barker

Where do fairy babies lie
Till they’re old enough to fly?
Here’s a likely place, I think,
’Mid these flowers, blue and pink,
(Pink for girls and blue for boys:
Pretty things for babies’ toys!)
Let us peep now, gently. Why,
Fairy baby, here you lie!

Kicking there, with no one by,
Baby dear, how good you lie!
All alone, but O, you’re not—
You could never be—forgot!
O how glad I am I’ve found you,
With Forget-me-nots around you,
Blue, the colour of the sky!
Fairy baby, Hushaby!

El hada de la Nomeolivedes- Cicely Mary Barker

Hada bebé, Hushaby!

¿Dónde están los bebés de hadas

¿Hasta que tengan edad para volar?

Aquí hay un lugar probable, creo,

En medio de estas flores, azules y rosas,

(Rosa para niñas y azul para niños:

¡Cosas bonitas para juguetes de bebés! )

Echemos un vistazo ahora, suavemente. ¿Por qué,

¡Hada bebé, aquí duermes!

Pateando allí, sin nadie,

Cariño, ¡qué bien duermes!

Solo, pero O, no estás

¡Nunca se te olvidará!

¡Qué contento estoy de haberte encontrado,

Con Nomeolvides a tu alrededor,

¡Azul, el color del cielo!

Hada bebé, Hushaby!

The above picture and poem are taken from Flower Fairies (which everyone should have!) by Cicely Mary Barker (28 June 1895 – 16 February 1973).

La imagen y el poema anteriores están cogidos del libro Flower Fairies — Hadas de las Flores (que todos deberían tener) de Cicely Mary Barker (28 de junio de 1895 – 16 de febrero de 1973).

The beautiful and enormously talented **Cicely Mary Barker** (Wiki)

Cicely Mary Barker was an English illustrator best known for a series of fantasy illustrations depicting fairies and flowers. She was a devout Anglican and donated her artworks to Christian fundraisers and missionary organisations; she also wrote and illustrated many religious books, such as The Children’s Book of Hymns (1929), He Leadeth Me (1933), The Feeding of the Five Thousand (1929), The Parable of the Great Supper (1934) and many more. For more on this fascinating, extremely talented and inspirational lady, see on this link.

Cicely Mary Barker fue una ilustradora inglesa conocida por una serie de ilustraciones de fantasía que representan hadas y flores. Fue una anglicana devota y donó sus obras de arte a recaudadores de fondos cristianos y organizaciones misioneras; también escribió e ilustró muchos libros religiosos, como El libro de himnos para niños (1929), Me dirige (1933), La alimentación de los cinco mil (1929), La parábola de la Gran Cena (1934) y muchos más. Para más información sobre esta fascinante, extremadamente talentosa e inspiradora dama, ver en este enlace.

Thank you for reading! As usual, your comments are always welcome, I love to hear from you.

Bye for now — take care xxx

¡Gracias por leerme! Como siempre, tus comentarios son siempre bienvenidos, me encanta hablar con vosotros.

Adiós por ahora – cuídaros xxx

The pear blossom and Edna St. Vincent Millay

Hi folks! I hope you’re keeping well.

I just wanted to share with you a photo of the first blossom to open on my pear tree (here in my country abode near Posadas village in the province of Cordova).

But how could I not include a poem about a pear tree? So here it is:

The Pear Tree by Edna St. Vincent Millay

In this squalid, dirty dooryard,

Where the chickens scratch and run,

White, incredible, the pear tree

Stands apart and takes the sun,

Mindful of the eyes upon it,

Vain of its new holiness,

Like the waste-man’s little daughter

In her first communion dress.

And here is the lady herself:

Edna St. Vincent Millay (February 22, 1892- October 19, 1950, USA) Photo taken by Carl Van Vechten, 1933 (from Wiki)

‘Edna St. Vincent Millay was an American lyrical poet and playwright. Encouraged to read the classics at home, she was too rebellious to make a success of formal education, but she won poetry prizes from an early age, including the Pulitzer Prize in 1923, and went on to use verse as a medium for her feminist activism.’ (Wiki)

For more about her, see here: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Edna-St-Vincent-Millay

The pear blossom symbolises hope and lasting friendship and is also associated with purity, longevity, and immortality. It is held in high regard by the Chinese.

Well, that’s all for now — thanks for visiting.

Take care xxx

The door and Rabindranath Tagore

Hi folks! I hope that you are well…

I just wanted to share a photo with you of a small door that I painted some time ago. Now that the oil paints have dried thoroughly, I am going to varnish it with shellac. The door is from an old wooden dresser of hip-height, and is a style typical of Spain (I live in Córdoba). Unfortunately, apart from having been weather-beaten and sorely neglected, it was definitely rough around the edges, a testament to its antiquity. I hadn’t mistreated it, but found it in this state lying on top of a load of rubble in a skip. I love to hunt out these small treasures and then breathe a little life into them.

So here it is:

The wood is solid beech, and it weighs about 2 kilos. (I am selling it though, if anyone’s interested…)

I couldn’t end this post without including a poem by the Indian poet, Rabindranath Tagore, who mentions a door in his lovely poem, The Gardener.

The Gardener

Who are you, reader, reading my poems an hundred years hence?

I cannot send you one single flower from this wealth of the spring, one single streak of gold from yonder clouds.

Open your doors and look abroad.

From your blossoming garden gather fragrant memories of the vanished flowers of an hundred years before.

In the joy of your heart may you feel the living joy that sang one spring morning, sending its glad voice across an hundred years.

Rabindranath Tagore (7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941) a Bengali from Calcutta, was poet, writer, playwright, composer, philosopher, social reformer and painter. In 1913 he became the first non-European and the first lyricist to win the Nobel Prize in Literature. His poetic songs were viewed as spiritual and mercurial; however, his «elegant prose and magical poetry» remain largely unknown outside Bengal.

For a brief biography and summary of works, see this link.

Well, that’s all for now.

Thank you for visiting. As usual, your comments are always welcome — I love to interact with my ‘visitors’.

Take care xxx

Christ’s Passion Flower

Hi folks! I hope you’re keeping well…

I just wanted to share with you this photo of the beautiful Passion Flower I photographed when I was in England; it was just gracefully hanging over the neighbour’s fence, and the decorative, orange fruits languidly dripped from the verdant, intertwining branches.

The symbolic meaning of this flower is interesting and goes something like this:

The Passion flower (Passiflora) was named by Roman Catholic missionary priests who encountered the flower while on their journey in South America in the late 1500’s. They named it after the Passion of Jesus Christ, believing that several parts of the plant symbolized features of His suffering and death.

The symbolic parts of the plant are:

the filaments that represent the crown of thorns that Jesus wore before His crucifixion,
the three stigmas on the passion flower which represent the three nails that held Jesus to the cross
the ten “petals”, His ten faithful apostles, and
the five anthers symbolise the five wounds that Jesus suffered when he was crucified.

The passion flower started to become widely known, and many used the flower to teach about the crucifixion.

The flower can also be used for medicinal purposes to treat such cases as: anxiety, insomnia, stress, attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). It is also used for flavouring in foods.

To end this blog, here is a poem about the Passion Flower, written by Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo, a highly-acclaimed poet of Nigeria. He was also “a teacher, and librarian, who died fighting for the independence of Biafra. He is today widely acknowledged as an outstanding postcolonial English-language African poet and one of the major modernist writers of the 20th century… Despite his father’s devout Christianity (he was a teacher in Catholic missionary schools), Okigbo had an affinity, and came to believe later in his life, that in him was reincarnated the soul of his maternal grandfather, a priest of Idoto, (the water goddess of the Idoto River in his hometown), an Igbo deity (Igbo, the people of south-east Nigeria). — Wikipedia

Passion Flower — Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo (British Nigeria, 16 August 1932 – 1967)

And the flower weeps

unbruised,

Lacrimae Christi,

For him who was silenced;

whose advent

dumb bells¹ in the dim light celebrate

with wine song;

Messiah² will come again,

After the argument in heaven³;

Messiah will come again,

Lumen mundi⁴…

Fingers of penitence

bring

to a palm grove⁵

vegetable offering⁶

with five

fingers of chalk⁷.

Explanation of the poem:

1 — «dumb bell» referred to the practice in the Roman Catholic Church where bells are not rung between Maundy Thursday and the first Mass on Easter Sunday

2 — Messiah pointed at the expected King and Saviour (Jesus Christ).

3 —»after the argument in heaven» looks at the shaking of the powers of heaven referred to in The Gospel According to St. Luke, Chapter 21, verse 26, prior to the coming of the Son of Man, described in verse 27.

4 — “Lumen mundi”, the Light of the World (Jesus Christ)

5 — “Palm grove”, the place of sacrifice

6 — «vegetable offering», the fruits of the earth that are being sacrificed, that is, palm oil, kola nuts, alligator pepper and eggs of white hens

7 — «five fingers of chalk», the sacrificial chalk which is sold in «fingers».

(The explanation of the poem is taken from The Analysis of the poem Passion Flower by Christopher Okigbo)

Well, that’s all for now….

Thank you for visiting, your comments and/or questions are always welcome — take care! xxx

Morning clouds here in Posadas, Shelley and… painted nails!!!!!!

Hi folks! Hope this finds you in good health and spirits…

I just wanted to share some dawn clouds with you because this is like sharing the hope and promise that the day might be a little cooler… but actually, this is not so, as the temperatures have been forecast to hit the 48° C (118.4° F mark by next week). Yikes!!!

But, how could I leave off without a poem honouring the clouds. This time, it’s Percy Bysshe Shelley:-

THE CLOUD — Percy Bysshe Shelley

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,

As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under,

And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;

And all the night ‘tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,

Lightning my pilot sits;

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in Heaven’s blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead;

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of Heaven above,

With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the Moon,

Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas,

Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone,

And the Moon’s with a girdle of pearl;

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march

With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,

Is the million-coloured bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,

And the nursling of the Sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain when with never a stain

The pavilion of Heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again.

**********************************************

Shelley — 4th August 1792, Sussex — 8th July 1822 (aged 29), La Spezia, Kingdom of Sardinia. now Italy

Percy Bysshe Shelley was an English romantic poet, dramatist, essayist and novelist. He was described by American literary critic, Harold Bloom as «a superb craftsman, a lyric poet without rival, and surely one of the most advanced sceptical intellects ever to write a poem.» For more on his biography, you can take a look at this Poetry Foundation link.

Last but not least — though bewarned, this has nothing to do with clouds and Shelley — I have been breaking up this monotony of heat by being frivolous and painting my nails! (See the photos below for proof!!!)

As prewarned, here are my frivolously painted nails (ha ha!) — not the most appropriate for rummaging about in my vegetable patch! However, due to the poor photography you can’t really appreciate them in their full glory, nor could I bear to go out in the heat again to take another photo!!!

Well, thank you for bearing with me though!

Do take care and bye for now xxx

After the rains have passed…

A photo of the cloud as it gradually encroaches upon the neighbouring cottage here in the countryside of Posadas (Cordova)

The Cloud – Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 Sussex, England –1822 Tuscany, Italy)

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast,
As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night ‘tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;
And I all the while bask in Heaven’s blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead;
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of Heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,
Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till calm the rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone,
And the Moon’s with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,
While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water,
And the nursling of the Sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain when with never a stain
The pavilion of Heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams
Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,
I arise and unbuild it again.

Thank you for visiting — take care xxx

The mimosa’s in flower (here in Posadas, Cordova)!

The mimosa tree’s already in flower. Well, it’s not actually in FULL flower, but I thought I’d better take a photo of it today as rain is forecast and so the flowers won’t look fluffy and chick-like anymore, but will become rather shrunken and consolidated! The scent from the tree is delicately perfumed…

Here are the opening verses of a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley about the mimosa:

The Sensitive Plant — Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 Sussex, England –1822 Tuscany, Italy)

A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew,

And the young winds fed it with silver dew,

And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light.

And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.

And the Spring arose on the garden fair,

Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;

And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast

Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.

—————————————————————–

(For the full four-stanza-long poem see https://kalliope.org/da/text/shelley2003060601)

This poem was written during the early 1820’s when Shelley was living with his wife in Pisa and was experiencing difficulties in his marriage after the death of his child, Will. The poem describes a garden full of flowers which is attended by a lady, and the flower that stands out from all the others is the mimosa, or ‘sensitive plant’. The three sections of the poem reflect the seasons and there is a contrast between night and day and between the flowers and stars. This reflects the feeling of man’s temporalness compared to the eternity of the universe…

In the secret language of flowers, mimosa represents secret love, safety and increased sensitivity. Belonging to the acacia family it is also the symbol of gold, sun and a triumphant life — something I think we all would like!

Thank you for reading — take care xxx

The Boxing Day Chestnut Tree

Hello everyone — I hope you are all well and have managed to have a good Christmas / Boxing Day / holiday.

Firstly, sorry to say that the photos in this post and the last post have been eliminated due to insufficient space on the multimedia (see my later post for details…)

I would just like to share a couple of my Boxing Day photos with you:

A HUGE chestnut tree and my son working up his hunger for his Boxing Day meal!

The Boxing Day meal with his VEGETARIAN plate in the foreground (veggie sausages, roast potatoes, braised celery with peas, caramelised carrots in sweet wine, cabbage ‘agrodolce’, apple sauce and bread sauce). This was followed by mince pies and custard that he managed to buy from Iceland in Fuengirola on his way back home to our country abode in Posadas (Cordova province). It was a special meal because of the (partial) family get together.

And to finish with, here’s a poem about a chestnut tree written by a contemporary poet:

Beneath The Chestnut Tree Andrew Blakemore (1966)

Beneath the chestnut tree I lie
And gaze into the summer sky
And watch the clouds go floating by
Within the sea of blue.

Here I came at break of dawn
And I’ve remained throughout the morn
Feeling lonely and forlorn
With nothing else to do.

Resting in its leafy shade
Upon the firm and grassy glade
The afternoon and evening fade
And disappear from view.

I see the sunset then unfold
The skies of amber turn to gold
The passion that I couldn’t hold
No love could be more true.

I remain as darkness falls
When echoes of my heartache calls
The sadness that I feel appals
If only I had you.

Thank you for visiting — comments and questions are always welcome.

Bye for now — take care! xxx

It’s that time of year again!

Hello folks! I hope that you’re keeping well.

Firstly, sorry to say that some of the photos in this post have been eliminated due to insufficient space on the multimedia (see my later post for details…)

Well, as the title suggests, it is definitely that time of year again! And I would like to share a few festive photos and a poem with you.

So here they are:

Our very homely-looking Christmas tree. Although it’s alive, it’s not actually a fir or spruce but a very large branch pruned from one of our wild Pistacia lentiscus bushes. It makes the house smell so resiny.

*The Nativity scene.* We have oxen, camels, sheep and homemade pigs, ducks and geese. Unfortunately the 3 Kings haven’t arrived yet, because although I’ve been seriously rummaging around the baubles and tinsel, I just haven’t been able to find them yet. (Must’ve gone trotting off somewhere…)

Every year we add bits to it. This year it’s the baker / cook working away in his corner in front of the stone oven and balancing a basket of goods on his head — right-hand side. (And I really must repair Jesus’s hand this year, because he had a bit of a mishap a while ago so He’s missing a little corner of it! Out will come the plaster of Paris…)

A bit of a close-up, and yes, I’ll have to mend Mary’s hand too. (We have had these figurines for a long time now, since the kids were born, so that makes 25 years more or less!)

Apart from the tree and Nativity scene, we’ve also put loads of tinsel, baubles, stockings, hanging pine cones etc. around the house. The decorations reflect the light and bring a glowing cheer to the dark evenings.

Meanwhile, in Cordova, the central square Plaza Tendillas has been dressed in thousands of lights, as so too the tall palm trees:

And back in my local village of Posadas, apart from all the streets, gardens and trees being lit up, they are usually decorated by the ladies from the crochet group too. However, since social gatherings are not permitted, nothing as yet has been displayed, so I am including their work from last Christmas. (I included other of their photos in a previous blog of mine.)

They made an extensive Nativity scene totally from crochet (except for the cork which was used for huts)

And there were also life-sized statues in one of the main streets — as you can see they were all robed in crochet garments

The street Nativity scene came with a well and fire too…

… and a flying angel announcing the Good News!

Well, to end this Christmassy blog I’d like to finish with a seasonal poem:

Christmas Eve 1893 — Christina Rossetti (5 December 1830 – 29 December 1894)

Christmas has a darkness
Brighter than the blazing noon,
Christmas has a chillness
Warmer than the heat of June,
Christmas has a beauty
Lovelier than the world can show:
For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
Brought for us so low.

Earth, strike up your music,
Birds that sing and bells that ring;
Heaven has answering music
For all angels soon to sing:
Earth, put on your whitest
Bridal robe of spotless snow:
For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
Brought for us so low.

Thank you all for visiting — I hope that you are able to enjoy this special time.

Take care! xxx

Your comments and questions are always welcome — it is nice to hear from you!

The sun makes its exit!

‘Your light is more magnificent than sunrise or sunset…Its the Light that outshines all’

— Jalāl al-Dīn Rūmī (Balkh 1207-1273) the greatest Sufi mystic and poet in the Persian language

And here is yesterday’s sunset…

Take care! xxx

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