My Random dog...

I can’t say that I’m a fan of dogs, I’m more of a cat person, and dogs on the beach aren’t my favourite things. I hate the way they run around yapping at seagulls, charging into the sea, shaking the wetness off of them and all over you, running up to each other and sniffing or fighting. No, I’m no fan of dogs.

My type of dog wouldn’t do any of those things. My type of dog wouldn’t do much really – apart from keep me safe.

So here’s my type of dog, I call him Random, I think you can probably guess why. Ugly old thing isn’t he.

As I mentioned he doesn’t do much, just stands guard for me, wards off intruders. He fixes them with his stony glare and keeps the bad at bay. He’s a good solid chap, well balanced, rock solid, not about to lose his marbles running around in circles barking at the wind.

Random’s not a stroking dog, Random doesn’t like being patted – and he won’t run for a stick, or beg, or play dead. Random is his own dog. He’ll barely even wag his tail to order, not like some.
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I like Random. Despite his flintiness there’s something about him, something comforting. Good dog Random, good dog.

I wonder which is worse, his bark or his bite?

Puss in books...

Who says cats can’t read?

I like nothing better than a good book. Adventure stories are my favourites, something like 'Moby Cat' – and then there’s the classics, 'A Tail of Two Kitties' is one of my favourites and of course science fiction, who could forget 'The Paw of the Worlds?' Sometimes I read Mistery novels and once a romance. I didn't really get on with that - too much bodice ripping for my liking.

Still, I’ve always got my nose stuck into some book or other, I’d go as far as to say I’m a real bookworm – not that I’m at all wormlike but that is the correct term I believe. It’d be more accurate in my case if it was bookcat or bookkitty, but then we academics can’t have it all our own way.

This book is very interesting, it’s a story about a gentleman cat burglar who steals from the landed gentry, robbing them of their jewels and money and never seeming to get caught. Not at all like me! Whenever I try to hissing snaffle anything – a piece of fish, or some cream, or a sausage - I always get hissing caught and Hisfault and Foodies are always shooing me away from something or other. Don’t they know that sharing is a good thing? Perhaps I should write a book about them. Now what would I call it? How about 'A Passage to Idiot' or 'The Odd Couple' - no that one's already been done.

Oh well, back to my reading… thing is, after a line or two I always begin to feel sleepy… I’ve been reading this book for six weeks now and still haven’t got past the first chapter.

Oh well… There’s plenty of time for reading later, after all this books not going anywhere and neither am I… z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z-z

Mountains, snow, and wiper blades...

Winter was back this weekend in Wales. Snow adds something to mountainous scenery, height, depth, an alpine look. You feel that at any corner you might come across a group of yodellers or a chap in leather shorts blowing on an Alpine Horn.

Take a look at the pictures and you’ll understand what I mean. Driving home on Sunday my daughter Holly took these fantastic photographs from the car as Gaynor drove them home after a week long holiday. It must be catching this taking pictures from the car thing - it's a bit hit and miss, with the motion blurring and bumps, but when it works the edge of a wiper blade adds a little extra interest.

Anyway, Holly's photographs are great. Austria? Switzerland? Italy? No North Wales.

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Is that an Alpine Horn I can hear?

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Contrails...

A good clear day, cold and crisp and blue, the air full of ice and the condensation trails made by aeroplanes weaving to and fro across the sky.

Contrails, as they’ve become known, are the artificial clouds made from the trails of condensing water vapour caused by the cooling of the exhaust fumes from aircraft engines as hot gases hit the surrounding air and cool. Usually they are a cloud of microscopic water droplets, but if the air is cold enough the trail can be made of tiny ice crystals – like today.

Just think, less than a hundred years ago there were no contrails. These straight, linear, clouds were first noticed in the 1920’s when experiments in high altitude flying began. A hundred years ago they would have been just another unusual cloud, now you can’t look into the sky without seeing one.

Yes, these days they are inescapable - and sometimes they even spell out your initials (well mine anyway!)

A stone in Criccieth…

And there it was as though it belonged there. Not big, nor small, but big enough. Alone and one, singular in the snow beneath the tall, dark, trees

I’d read a passing reference to it on a site. ‘The stone stands in a field just outside of the town and is visible from the footpath although it stands on private land. Visitors are not welcomed.’

Private land. It certainly looked private, private and secret despite being visible from the road. I’d seen these things before, many times, and I knew just what it was. I could easily climb the gate and walk across the snowy field towards it, get closer, close enough to touch, close enough to lay my hands on so that I might feel its oneness.

‘Male or female?’ I wondered as I quickly walked away leaving it to its self. It’s hard to tell the sex of these things, even harder to tell the dark ones from the light. I didn’t want to take the risk. Best leave it in the field with the snow and the tall, dark, trees.

Best leave it in its natural state – alone, all alone. Vistors are not welcomed.

Light on a hill....

Driving home, the other side of Caernarfon, accelerating fast up the hill in the overtaking lane I saw it coming in towards me. Light, the strangest light - moving, swirling, shape-shifting, like oil in a glass of water - and a strong wind gusting, whistled up from nowhere.

I had to have a picture.

So, stopping the car in the lay-by at the top of the hill, struggling out and into the turmoil, blown and buffeted by the wind that cancelled the sound of the speeding cars with its thrump, thrump, thrump, I captured these images – they almost, sort of, do the thing justice. Purple orange light, the light you get just before the storm arrives, but moving, swirling, shape-shifting. And in the ninety seconds that I stood just watching, I felt the temperature take a dive. Then it hit, the ice, slapping my exposed face with its bite. Not rain, or snow, nor sleet, but shards of ice – an ice storm accompanied by rumbling thunder and wide orange-yellow flashes of sheet lightening high above the screaming trees.

And then a thought - suspiciously I looked around. Was she here? I couldn’t see her, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be close - behind a tree, beyond that hill. The thing is, you can never be sure with the Ice Queen, she may be beside you without you knowing - invisible. So quickly, so as not to let her into the car, I carefully climbed back in and drove off and down the hill to the ice-free safety of the roundabout below.

Snowdrops...

A magic find. A secret.

Snowdrops, a whole spinney full of them. Hidden away by the side of the Criccieth road I came across thousand on thousand and, looking around to check nobody was watching, after all the sign did say ‘Private – Keep Out’, I clambered the gate and stepped into a wonderland of glowing white and delicate spring green.

Spring green. Maybe soon, but despite the snow and ice the snowdrops made it through, there’s no discouraging them.