Up and away

I drove us down to Alresford to attend my sister's funeral. Having no wish to encounter the M25 the route I took included some B-roads, so we proceeded mostly through a glorious countryside of green meadows and huge trees in full leaf overhanging the roads - including the road down by the Chilterns, where I think we saw enough red kites to satisfy even Mr H. We saw one down on the road quite close by, making a meal of a dead Meles meles, an image which I would rather forget.

The funeral went as well as these things can - possibly somewhat better than anticipated. Several venerable cousins turned up, whom it was lovely to see, and I met two great-nieces for the first time. Oh, and my brother is a star. My old friend Pauline turned up with a guitar she'd borrowed from another old friend for me to use - thanks to her, and to Keith.

What with the funeral and laying my sister to rest in the churchyard beside her husband and going to the Swan for the buffet and chat afterwards, I didn't take a photo all day, so was very pleased to see this hot-air balloon above me when I got out of the car back in Milton Keynes.

In the end the song that emerged was a traditional song from Ireland called the May Morning Dew - many people have recorded it including I think the Chieftains, but I probably learned from Peta Webb. The words have been through the folk process more than somewhat, but this is approximately what I sang. The tune could be described as haunting - well, it certainly haunts me.


How pleasant in winter to sit by the hob
Listening to the bark and the howling of the dogs
Or in summer to wander the wide valleys through
And to pluck the wild flowers in the May morning dew.

Summer is coming, oh Summer is here
With the leaves on the trees and the sky blue and clear
And the small birds are singing their loved ones to woo
And the flowers they are springing in the May morning dew.

The house that I was reared in is but a stone on a stone
And all round the garden with weeds is overgrown
And all the kind neighbours that ever I knew
Like the wild rose they are withered in the May morning dew.

God be with my mother who is now dead and gone
Likewise her brothers, Arthur and John
As they tripped thr0ugh the meadow, the wild hare to pursue,
With their joys they are mingled in the May morning dew.