14th November 2025

 

the Storseisundet road in Norway.

I start with this road that travels across water bumping on land that zig zags across, a marvellous feat of engineering.   I may be anonymous this morning because the computer or at least blogger refuses to acknowledge me.  Hey-ho.

Just had a deep discussion on whether the bread in the freezer is mine or not.  I win and will eat the bread but which is not mine.  But am not going down to Lidl because rain is expected all day.  Actually I quite like the rain.  Also because Andrew goes swimming I have to be in for our cleaner Sam.  But will she turn up I wonder?  Sam comes one morning every fortnight and cleans the main rooms of the house.  But last week went on holiday to Turkey.

Yesterday we had the first of the builders come to look round to give a quote on the work of transforming this house.  The plans have gone into the council and it will probably be 8 weeks before we hear anything back.

The following poem by Australian poet and writer Frederic Manning (1882-1935) captures both Autumn and the first world war.  Found in The Guardian.

A frail and tenuous mist lingers on baffled and intricate branches;
Little gilt leaves are still, for quietness holds every bough;
Pools in the muddy road slumber, reflecting indifferent stars;
Steeped in the loveliness of moonlight is earth, and the valleys,
Brimmed up with quiet shadow, with a mist of sleep.

But afar on the horizon rise great pulses of light,
The hammering of guns, wrestling, locked in conflict
Like brute, stone gods of old struggling confusedly;
Then overhead purrs a shell, and our heavies
Answer, with sudden clapping bruits of sound,
Loosening our shells that stream whining and whimpering precipitately,
Hounding through air athirst for blood.
And the little gilt leaves
Flicker in falling, like waifs and flakes of flame.

Leaves by Frederic Manning