Was that Biggles I saw flying over?

I've been in grumpy form for the past week.  An old knee injury from school days when a classmate mistook me for a goal post and whacked my knee - very firmly - and then a bad fall twenty years ago - came back to let me know it was still lurking.  I have been hobbling along on an old walking stick of Mum's.  OH has been wonderful, just as the weather improved and he could return to the garden, we get to make our own production of Driving Mrs Irish Eyes!  Lovely! Still and all, going to the bank, crossing the road and other such expeditions have been enlivened by gentlemen opening doors for me, a very nice young Hipster gentleman assisting me across the road by holding his hand up to the oncoming traffic and causing an Aston Martin to squeal to a stop.  I should have gotten the Hipster's address, maybe he might have made a nice son in law...YD*, you may now stop glaring at me!

The table in the hall finally decided it wanted to retire and a nice oak topped neat console table was purchased to take its place.  One of the History Group pals said it reminded her of visiting the house as a child, and that my Grandmother and Mother always kept their May altar on it, in my childhood the May altar was always on my dressing table.

I do, however, have a vague memory of the original table, and yes, there is some similarity apart from the fact that the main body wasn't painted.  A 'Fifties Bride, Mum had a love of the modern look of Teak, and a lot of stuff went to the garage.  A hideous telephone seat in Teak replaced the original oak table.  It is now residing in the garage, no, not spite on my part, but it didn't sell for the modest reserve placed on it at our local auctioneers, and on-line it didn't raise any interest either.  I'm not surprised.

  

Anyhow, I felt inspired to reinstate the May altar to the hall and what lovely memories it evoked. The statue came from OH's Godmother's house, it is so old that the faces of the Virgin and Child are almost worn smooth.  The telephone was a gift from a telephone chap who installed the Internet in the house.  I had Mum's cream coloured plastic looking thing and he was delighted that I was keeping to history.  A few days after he finished his installations, he arrived up with the cream Bakelite phone, from his own private collection and said he loved the idea of the phone going to a good home. 

The History ladies and I had a "meet up" last week.  We hibernate all winter and as soon as we think Spring is in the air we emerge with whatever interesting snippits of local history we have accumulated over the winter.  First meeting of our season was held here and we had good old night of it.  As OH informed me the next morning, you're the only group that can meet up at 8 o'clock, drink tea, gossip, laugh, and still be going strong at one in the morning and all on tea! 

We're all interested in history, local gossip and we range in age from 62-89 years.  There's no formality and we don't keep minutes but we exchange information about this village and what our eldest member recalls.  I'm the youngest in the group and having spent a lot of time with my Mother, I'm as well informed as the eldest...apart from she lived it and I listened to Mum telling me about living it.  Long may our eldest member live, her memory is like a computer God bless her.

YD has taken an interest in gardening lately, and like Scrooge, OH, aka Himself, has given her a plot to plant.  He stands over her like Inspector of Gardens to HRH, and one of these days he'll be told where to stick his salvias.  She has a plan with a capital P.

I've been busy scattering wild flower seeds all over the place behind his back.  He's the man for neat lawns, tidy hedges, square lines and military discipline per plant.  Show me a straight line in nature and I'll admit defeat.  Hopefully this summer will be full of riotous colour and bee's and butterflies aplenty.

This morning I went out to take a look at the recent spate of seed flinging, when a loud roar in the skies made me look up.  It was one of those moments out of time.  There I was, green wellies on foot, shabby green trousers, khaki t-shirt, green religious cardigan in what Himself refers to as either my Landgirl look or "Your Mother is going into battle again with the gorse" look.  Religious cardi? There are so many holes in it, all patched with brown herringbone tweed patches, remnants of an old pair of trousers that it could sing hymns.

Overhead, roaring majestically, was a WWI bi-plane.  Oh! my beloved Biggles! It was flying so low that I got a wave from the pilot.  Instantly I was taken back to my childhood and the year when I was nine and my Dad gave me my first Biggles book.  I was, as per usual, in bed with one of the multitudinous ailments that dogged my youth, and completely bored having run out of reading material.  Dad handed me a book about this Air-Policeman and his pals Algy, Ginger and Bertie and their adventures in Moldavia against the wicked Von Stalhein.  I was gripped.  Imagine my delight when I discovered that there was more where that came from.  

Over the next two years or so the local Library was raided for Biggles Books, my weekly pocket money of 2/6d spent in its entirety on Biggles Books, and Mum did pretty well out of it too.  I earned pocket money by doing dishes and hoovering...we had a spotless house then I can tell you.  Worrals and Gimlet were good, but Biggles was the best!  

The plane this morning returned about an hour later flying higher and did an Immelman roll and rocked his wings as he headed off across country. I'm still on a high.  Time stood still for a moment in my garden and I saw the same sight that my Grandparents would have seen.  ~Awesome~ 

Vintage makes me smile

I have been watching a programme on our national television station recently in which three architects/interior designers visit three houses every week and judge them on style, functionality and other criteria.  Each week features a modern, Edwardian/Victorian and traditional cottage style and the winning home will go on to feature in a final programme.  I'm not sure what the prize is as I came late to the series, but I amuse Himself when I let a roar at the television when one of the judges complains about chintz/crockery that is "vintage".

When I moved back home to live here, it nearly broke my heart to have to get rid of my grandmother's sideboard [a woodworm tenement] and my late Father's wardrobe [first cousin worms to the sideboard tenants].  Mum's eyesight had been steadily failing and the little puffs of woodworm dust went unnoticed.  No amount of Cuprinol was going to revive these pieces so out to the bonfire they went.  I saved the handles and have used them on the replacement furniture.  It has worked well.

I'm a blue and white ware-aholic. I love Spode, Burleigh, Willow Pattern, you name it, and I get a tingle when I come across some in our local auctioneers.  Aside from what I have inherited, I have built up a collection from presents from family, relations and friends.  At one stage in the past eight years it looked like I was becoming the dumping ground for all those "unwanted old stuff" from those who prefer modern or chain-store "stuff".  What I don't want myself I pass on to a local charity shop, which is another tale in itself.  I rarely come home empty handed.  Still it benefits the charity on the double.

Some of my favourites:-

an acquisition from an antiques warehouse, Indian Tree has always appealed.

A junk-shop find, this planter holds the poinsettia at Christmas, and fruit in June and July

A corner of my study.  This jug belonged to my grandmother, the first "Chatelaine" of this house.  The box with roses came from a supermarket with sewing things inside.  It now serves as a tea caddy for when I "escape" to the study.  The little delft  jug on the shelving unit is part of a set of three that Mum brought back from a holiday in Holland.  The picture is an enlargement of a photo of the Blasket Islands, Kerry, taken with my camera phone.  The roses were a birthday present.

My dresser in its first incarnation in a corner of my then "new" kitchen.  After I had the extension built I brought out all my pieces which had been carefully stored and put them in temporary accommodation.  The smaller of the two vegetable dishes was inherited from my Great Grandmother, and the modern Spode was a present from my youngest daughter.

A couple of years later the dresser has moved to another corner, a Rossmore cabinet, bought when I first got married and was setting up my new home, holds the every day used Willow Pattern. A mix of new and old Spode and Willow Pattern graces the overmantle.  The salt and pepper set were a "find" present from youngest daughter who, coincidentally shares the same taste.

There is a tradition, in Irish homes, of placing a statue of the Sacred Heart somewhere in the home.  This is a statue which my Mother inherited from her Aunts who had a massive collection of them placed around their home.  Two spinsters, who lived together in acid harmony, they had a houseful of antique and "vintage" pieces.  I used to spend happy hours browsing around the house as a child.

There is something magical about "vintage pieces", be they inherited or bought - maybe on a whim, maybe to grace a particular area in the home.   Whatever the reason for having such pieces, it is continuity that makes the impact.  It is the fact that these pieces once were very special to someone.  If they could talk, the stories they could tell. 

I love to think of my gentle Grandmother, a legendary apple pie maker [in the family], sitting looking out of her kitchen window, nibbling on a slice of freshly baked in her range, slice of apple pie and sipping from one of the cups I have inherited.  She would have looked out upon almost the same vista as I do when in my study.  What was once her kitchen is now my study.  Where once cows stood, lowing gently as they called to be milked, there is now a flower bed.  The main cow-house is now a garage/workshop for Himself. 

Times have changed, the third chatelaine of this house though is very much in tune with the first chatelaine.  In between came Mum, lover of Ercol and all things modern.  I guess I am a throwback.

Easter in Ireland 1916 - 2016

Easter is a time of year I usually wish could be fixed to be held in late April.  Days that would be warmer as a contrast to the cold of Christmas, and less close to my parent's anniversary.  However, it isn't, so I set out to enjoy it as a holiday that is sometimes mid-winter - judging by the bitterly harsh wind that swept across our country for the past few days.  When it does fall in April it is a holiday that is the harbinger of Springtime and Summer, long days and warmth that makes me feel luxuriously lazy like a well fed cat.  Somewhat like Ms Pounce.

The first indication that things are stirring is the hedge coming into bloom.  The roses which have looked like shaven headed convicts all winter now sprout a deep wine growth and the promise of blooms and heady perfume yet to come is dazzling.

Easter in Ireland was somewhat different this year.  It is one hundred years since the Easter Rising of 1916.  This was Ireland's first attempt to gain her independence and to take the management of her own governance into her own hands.  Padraig Pearse, Thomas J Clarke, Thomas MacDonagh, Eamonn Ceannt, Joseph Plunkett, Sean MacDiarmada and James Connolly were the signatories to the Proclamation of the Provisional Government of the Irish Republic in which they declared, at the GPO,  the right of the Irish people to the ownership of Ireland, and to the control of the destiny of the Irish, to be sovereign and indefeasible.  They pledged their lives to the cause of Irelands freedom, welfare and its right to take its place  among the nations of the world.

  They paid for  this "rebellion" with their lives. Sixteen people were shot in Kilmainham Gaol after the Easter week-end Rising, including the signatories.  One of them,  James Connolly, was shot whilst tied to a chair having been wounded during the fighting.  Their deaths spurred the Irish people on to seek their independence.   On Easter Monday, 18 April, 1949, Ireland was declared a formal Republic.  Today Ireland stands proudly among the nations of the world.  Today, our army is involved in peacekeeping activities wherever there is conflict. 

The nation marked the 100th anniversary with a parade through Dublin city and many cultural events; nationally there were parades in every county on Easter Sunday.  Fifty years ago I stood with my Mother on O'Connell Street [Sackville Street as it was known in 1916] and watched the 50th anniversary Parade pass by.  Unfortunately, this time around arthritis prevented me from going into the city to watch the parade, and we watched it on t.v.   St Patrick's day is usually the day people claim pride in being Irish, but Easter Sunday, 2016 was the day when Ireland felt its nationhood with pride.  I am proud to be Irish.

Another St Patrick's Day

After a long, harsh winter St. Patrick's day dawns bright and sunny - and a biting east wind.  My plans to attend a local Parade are blown away by this wind.  I am sneezing and coughing at a rate of knots.  Executive decision taken...I am staying in, cosy before the fire.

A mug of tea, a good book and I shall relax.  I find my mind wandering down the years to other St. Patrick's days.  Days such as my ninth year.  Mum and I took the train into Dublin to see the Grand Parade.  There was another bitter east wind blowing up the River Liffey from the sea, and the parade of that year was small but yet community cosy.  Nowadays our parades are like huge corporate events.  Showy, glossy, loud and based on entertaining the tourist.  No problem with that, but...I do hanker, at times, for the more "local" style of yesteryear.  My memories for the Parade in 1963 are locked in because a very fat lady, in stiletto heels, stood back from in front of me, her stiletto heel found purchase in my foot.  Today all that remains of that stiletto puncture is a small scar.  I do remember my mother bringing me to the St. John's Ambulance van to have my foot bandaged and being given a lollipop.  I'm sure that helped the pain.

The daffodils are out.  We planted 300 bulbs last autumn.  Each year we add more and they are now beginning to form rivers of yellow around the garden; they are followed on by tulips, awe-inspiring with their Easter colours of pink, wine, cream, yellow of all shapes and varieties.  1970's Paddy's Day is vivid in my memories.  The year the house nearly went on fire.

I was 15 and had just had my hair cut short for the first time since I was five.  I had also just gotten my first perm and did I think I was the finest fish in the ocean?? Oh yeah!  I was sitting under the hairdryer [hood type] as part of getting ready to go to my first disco that night.  If excitement can be measured as energy then we wouldn't have a climate change problem with all the energy I was emitting. 

Around half past three our phone rang.  It was my father ringing from the local town where, as a policeman he was on duty, to say that he could see the hill behind us and it was on fire.  The gorse had either spontaneously combusted or been aided and abetted to do so.  The flames were raging faster than the fire brigade could cope with and it was wind blown in our direction.  In those days the gorse came a little closer to the house.  My parents firebreak was not mine.  Today the gorse is well away from endangering us.  As it raced towards the house Mum and I went into action, out with the garden hose to wet the back of the house; me, resplendent in my hair curlers. 

It was a bad day for a fire, a Tuesday and most of the neighbours had taken advantage of the day off work to go and visit friends and relations.  However, those who were around helped out with forks and spades and shovels stamping out the flames.  Another neighbour ran around the hill to tell the Brigade to come around to our side.  Three hours later our kitchen was filled with firemen and neighbours, sooty, sweaty and exhausted but victorious.  The fire was out, the smouldering small fires in the dry grass contained and we passed around tea and sandwiches.  The disco was forgotten; the hair was now well dried in its rollers and smelling of burnt gorse.  At school the following day one teacher asked the class did we have a quiet St Patrick's day.  We certainly had a hot one at home.

1976 comes to mind because it was such a warm, balmy day.  It was unusual to see people in at the Parade in Dublin wearing light clothing.  We had a week of what passed for heat wave for us that year.  Later on we would have one of the hottest summers of that century; St. Patrick's day just presaged it.  My friends and I decided to go to the Zoo that day.  We hadn't been for years and, as the saying goes, the fancy to do so took us.  I was wearing jeans, tennis shoes and a Houston college hoodie that a pen pal had sent me.  Every few yards people would stop me and ask me was I over for the Parade. 

You can imagine their faces when I replied, in my Irish accent, that no...I was local.  Disappointment was the most frequent reaction followed by "well then, are you at college in Texas?" Again, disappointment.  "Well, then wouldja not wear a good green jersey if you're not an 'merican" said one hardy soul to me.  Chuckling, I wandered off with my friends.  It was the American tourists who were more decked out in green, as always on St Paddy's day, that year.

Ninteen Eighty is another St. Patricks Day memory that leaps forward.  OH and I had just married on the 15th, we were on honeymoon in Kerry.  The place was deserted.  Many people had gone up to Cork or Dublin or Limerick to see the big Parades.  We had the road to ourselves as we drove out to Valentia Island.  It was warm and there was a balmy west wind blowing across the Kerry coast.

In the meantime many St Patrick's Days have come and gone.  Memories of the excited little faces of my daughters at their first Parade in Dublin, of taking part in Parades with their Tae Kwando classmates in local parades, of long evenings with friends, chatting and talking before the fire.  Nights such as these are real Ceili nights.  After all, a ceili is a gathering or get-together to sit and chat and sing a song or two, aided by a glass of Paddy, my favourite Irish whisky.

Lá feile Padraig to you all and may the road rise before you.

I took this last Saturday while sitting out in the front garden.  OH was busily cutting hedges making the best of what was to be the first of four fine days.

This summer, to loosely call it that, has been alternately cold, wet, foggy and miserable interspersed with beautifully warm days with chilly evenings.  Galway has been left off the calendar; weather-wise there is no point in sitting on a train watching fog across the country to arrive with a downpour in the City of the Tribes.

Madam Pounce sitting contemplating her next bird attack.  She is fourteen and still going strong.  I dream of a civilised cat to replace this maverick with the fast paw and quick and bad temper.

Maison Madame Pounce

OH's first attempt at a bird table; balanced on the trunk of a cordeline and his excuse for it's drunken stance is "Drainage my dear, drainage!".

Show off!

On the Foxfront, we have lost our brave adventurer, we found his headless corpse hidden behind some gorse.  Miss Pretty, his mother, was keening for him one evening, and about two days later we found the grim remains.  On the brighter side of things, his sister has survived, and blossomed.  Both Dash and Miss Pretty are very protective parents and she is well cared for.  She is passing through her fox teens, and bids fair to give Mum a run for her money in the glamour stakes.

THE FOX SIGHT SAGA

THE FOX SIGHT SAGA

The saga continues with the cubs venturing out further from the nursery rock outside the den.  If they survive the Hoodie [Grey] crows all will be well.

I had the house to myself [a rare treat] last Saturday and I made up a list of things I needed to get done.  I resisted the temptation to go for a walk in the bitterly cold sunshine and after a business like breakfast, I brought the breakfast dishes over to the sink…and that is where the plans of yours truly, mice and fox cubs went astray.

It was eight o’clock in the morning and the sky was filled with big blooming white clouds, the Tall ships were in the Bay for the Bank Holiday week end and I stood watching them gracefully wheel about in a scene my grandfather must have taken for granted back in the early 1900’s as he brought his cows home for milking.

A sudden movement to the left caught my eye.  There, stalking across the lawn with a purposeful stride was The Rebel, whom we have now decided to rename Reckless, duly followed by Cautious who tripped up over a cowslip or two along the way.  Dash was further along, obviously heading out to the local golf club to help relieve them of surplus rabbits.

He paused for a bit of territory marking against my new rockery and snarled something at the cubs that sent Cautious scurrying home to Mamma.  Reckless is made of sterner stuff.  He turned away casually and wandered off to pounce upon a stick that needed killing instantly.  Dash headed on up the hill along a much favoured and well-worn track. Pausing at the top to take stock of where the cubs were, it was engagingly funny to see his shoulders dip as he realised that Reckless was only a tussock away. 

There would be no “rabbitting” that day – besides which the wind had shifted and become stronger.  Foxes dislike strong winds, it makes it much harder to hear danger and to decipher which direction it is coming from.  On such occasions they will remain in their den.

"Escape to a Burrow" presented by
Bunny Wabbit

Reluctantly Daddy Dash led the way back to the garden with Reckless attacking his brush.  Miss Pretty [Mamma] and Dash have started their moult and they look tired and shabby at the moment. 

Part of Dash’s tail was damaged in a fight last autumn.  He took grave exception to an In-comer dog fox who thought he’d try his luck with Miss Pretty.  In the course of a noisy and vicious fight Dash’s tail was bitten near the tip and nerve damage obviously ensued.  The fur fell off the tail from the bite downwards and he looked as if his brush was mangy for most of the winter.

Foxland

Miss Pretty obviously still found him attractive, judging by the markings on Cautious and Reckless.  Their paternity is not in doubt, and he is an attentive father.  At the moment it appears that the nerve damage may be self-healing and he has a most peculiar looking brush.

I took a seat, just for a few minutes to watch the Dash family play pounce and chase and drag an old bag [that had blown into the garden] around the lawn.  Suddenly Baron Von Rich-Beaking and his crew woke up in the pine trees next door and decided that fox fun was not to be tolerated.  Spoil sports to a feather, all nine of them took flight and headed into our garden. 

What happened next was no doubt irritating for the O’Dash family, but hilarious in its own way to watch.  One by one the crows dive bombed down across the foxes.  Miss Pretty quickly herded C & R back towards the den.  A troublesome task with Reckless fully determined to assist Daddy.  Dash had stayed behind and turned to face the squawking mob.  Rising to his hind paws he narrowly missed taking out Herr Von Grubby-Beak. 

Dash heading off about his business

 By this stage the Baron and his boys had called up the reserves and we now had 14 grey crows harassing our beloved Dash.  Backing slowly across the lawn and keeping one eye on Miss Pretty’s progress with the cubs and Reckless’ attempts to come to the aid of his father, Dash held the lot of them off.

I could take no more, Dash is a firm family favourite and although I prefer to let nature take its course, I stood up, opened the window and shouted as loudly as I could.  Distracted by the noise the crows nearly flew into each other.  Dash, no sloth when it comes to taking advantage of situations, turned and ran towards Reckless.  Nipping gently at his tail, he chased the cub back to the Den at the bottom of the garden and to safety.

For a full hour after, discruntled Hoodies flew in low across the garden and landed on our roof.  As I went about my housework, I could hear the heavy thumping on the roof as they hopped across.  Crows are highly intelligent, and are not above revenge tactics.  Mme. Pounce, crossing through the veg patch later in the day, complete with freshly killed baby Robin, lost her catch when Von Beak-Squawking and Co., decided to dive bomb her.

Mme. P rules the Home Front

Ah, but she’s a cunning cat; calmly picking up her catch again, she walked into the shrubbery and out the other side into her house. 

Mrs Robin looking for Baby

Her usual affectionate relationship with Himself is somewhat strained at the moment.  Baby Robin had taken to gardening with him, landing on his boot, sitting on his lawn mower.  However, the cunning tail-flicking feline will woo him back again no doubt.

Dreaming dreams of fresh Robin.

Cautious and The Rebel; Keep the Home Fires burning

The stunningly handsome “Dash”, hero of this garden and its environs, is a proud Dad.  The Rebel is a cute bundle of fox fur, cinnamon in colour, and he first came to our attention two weeks ago.  This means he is about seven weeks old, and is full of vim, vigour and mischief.  Daddy Dash has had to chase after him across the lawn, cuff him with a gentle paw and the prod of a nose in the side to return him to the den.  As he slowly loses his “cub” face and his “fox” face emerges from the fluff, I have a vision of him, red and white spotted kerchief tied to a stick thrown over his shoulder. Off with him on many great adventures.

Yesterday, as he sunned himself on what we now term the nursery rock; devious thoughts of escape no doubt running through his foxy brain, a second smaller cub tentatively put a paw and cute little face out of the den and came to join The Rebel.  I don’t know if The Rebel is dog or vixen yet.  We have named the sibling “Cautious”.

Cautious is much more nervous, and a short bark from Mother, Miss Pretty, had he/her race back into the shelter of the cotoneaster; meanwhile The Rebel groomed himself/herself meticulously, sneered over a small shoulder at Cautious, stretched in leisurely fashion and sauntered back to the den.  We await, with interest, the development of this stunning pair.  Cautious is more russet in colour and her/his face is still cub-like.  Both have inherited Daddy’s white tipped tail. 

Last year’s cubs, three of them, were not a success.  One died within weeks of showing himself, one left home for pastures new and the other emigrated for a while to a nearby hill and returned with mange.  Copious quantities of blue mouldy bread thrown out to him appears to have cured the mange.  Nothing like raw penicillin to do the job.  He is horrible to behold in looks, but at least his fur has regrown.  We haven’t seen him around for the past few weeks and I think Daddy Dash has warned him off.  There is no doubting Dash is a protective father, he ran into the midst of fourteen Grey Crows the other day when he thought they had The Rebel in their sights.

 

In WWII, or The Emergency as it was referred to here, the Luftwaffe was industrious in its determination to sink the mail boats coming across from England, and to that end Dublin Bay was targeted on a regular basis.  The North Strand area of Dublin took a direct hit and much damage was done.  With typical Irish phlegmatism the attitude was one of “arrah sure! It could have been worse!” amongst Dubliners. 

My Mother used to tell me of nights when my Grandmother would take my Uncle and Mum out of the house and away across the fields to the shelter of a cowshed.  My Grandmother was terrified that the planes flying overhead would drop a bomb by mistake, as they flew overhead, on their way to bomb the mail boats. 

One evening last week I thought of my Grandmother as many planes flew in over the house.  Irish citizens were returning from all over the world to cast their vote in the Marriage Equality referendum.  At one stage last Thursday night one could be forgiven for thinking there was an armada of airplanes overhead.

I moved a garden chair to a newly cleared part of the garden which has a view over the Bay.  Inspired to do so by having to stand in a bitter wind [this is May right?] admiring the Queen Elizabeth 2 in all her stately nautical glory recently.  As she lay at anchor in the Bay, every available hill, road with a view and even some private lanes, were traversed in order to catch the best photo.  One lady arrived at my gate and asked could she go up onto our roof, was there any part of it flat enough for her to stand on and take a “leeeetle picky”.  Her resemblance to Miss Map notwithstanding, I declined access – we don’t have a flat roof – and she told me she was very disappointed in me.  People never cease to amaze me.

My newly placed chair is in a cleft in the rocks, sheltered from wind and sun, cosy and an old childhood haunt.  In our youth, my pals and I hid here while we decided who was a Cowboy, which of us were Red Indians and whether we were cattle rustling, robbing the stage coach, or even rescuing the stage coach from “The Baddies”.

In the intervening years since The Lone Ranger, Wild Mikey and The Sun up Kid and I moseyed along to our hidey hole, a rowan tree has taken root at the entrance to our special area.  In full bloom at the moment, it has a smell reminiscent of almonds and horse stables.  If we get any sort of a summer without snow in it, the lap top and I shall be seeking inspiration out there.  Flask of tea and ice top buns, gluten free naturally, will be the order of the day.

Mum's thinking post