Joseph Hemelryk of Trelawnyd

The small War Memorial situated in the centre of the village has only 6 names engraved on it. Five men have been dedicated from the Great War, and one man named Joseph Hemelryk, is the single Trelawnyd casualty, from World War 2.

The Incription on the Trelawnyd Memorial

Joseph, was a major in the Royal Canadian Infantry.(Although it is documented that he was actually born in Trelawnyd) His parents ,Lt.-Col. George Edward Hemelryk, O.B.E., J.P., and Elizabeth Mary Hemelryk lived in Henfyn Hall which was located just outside the village after returning to this country in 1911 . Apparantly they originally emigrated to Canada in 1905.

http://www.dyserth.com/html/henfryn_hall__mia_hall.html

Joseph died literally days before the end of the war, and is buried in the Netherlands at Holten Canadian War Cemetery

He was attached to the Glasgow Highlanders and was 33 when he died.

Jospeh's Grave in the Netherlands

The Hemelryks sold Helfyn Hall in 1945.
So with all this history going on in my head, I thought It prudent to attend the village's Remembrance day service which was planned for 4pm. The service is taken by the vicar and by the chapel minister .

The villagers at the Memorial Day service this afternoon. Auntie Glad is centre in red

 

It was a cold afternoon for some of the older members of the village to pay their respects, but thirty or so souls turned up. I stood on the perimeter with Mabel (who was impeccably behaved)

I thought the presence of a bulldog was apt

I had to leave the service early as it was going dusk......roosting turkeys wait for no man....or for any memorial service for that matter!

Charlene Soraia

Some songs catch you unawares
I was driving back from work this morning and heard this one
Perhaps, it was the words,
Perhaps it was the beauty of the voice,
Perhaps it was the fact I was over tired,
The whole thing made me tear up

The 100 Cheesiest Movie Quotes of All Time

A bit of light relief before night shift..enjoy

Responsibilities

The field..a place of a dozen care plans

  This morning I took all four dogs into the field to "potter" whilst I filled water butts and fed the pigs.The weather has closed in somewhat, and as the cold wind whipped against the little "Ukrainian Village" of animal houses with some violence , I paused for a moment watching  some of the moulting hens braving the elements as they do every day of the year.

.....and......I was suddenly overtaken with an overwhelming sense of responsibility for them all...

It was a strange feeling.

Beatrice, the hen still recovering from a stroke in her own pen, Phyllis the bullied bantam, now splendid in her new white plumage ,Boris, now blind in one eye, searching around for grain with a little difficulty and Mabel nervously watching the needy runner ducks, splashing hysterically in the pond....what would happen to them all if I was incapacitated in some way?

Who would ensure that the score of individualised care plans were carried out properly?

Who would care?

I suspect  , all I am  feeling is a part of that slightly fearful anxiety  parents have to experience when they look at their children albeit in a much diluted form.....that strange and powerful sense of responsibility for another life.....(or in my case, 80 little lives, who all look to me to be fed , watered, housed and protected)

I am not complaining, I never would, but sometimes........when you look at a gander with a sore foot and a moulting hen in need of a tonic, you realise that there are always  80 pairs of eyes watching you, and 80 little "people" just waiting for you to sort things out for them....

Cack Handed

I have always been cack handed, ever since I was a little boy.

If something was to be dropped and broken, something was to be tripped over and something was to be spilt..I was the one that would invariably do it all....and do it in a style befitting a circus clown with major co ordination problems.

It is a curse I have had to deal with all my life.

Well, this morning, as I was trolling through the local auction house web sites ( in search of a small Christmas gift for him indoors) I came across a photo of a late 18th Century Georgian bookcase....and I was reminded of a time.......(many moons ago) when I was responsible for the destruction of a VERY expensive piece of furniture which I did not own.....

Even today...my blood runs cold at the very memory of that day......

Before I was happily ensconced in my relationship with Chris I did have a relationship with a guy in Sheffield who collected antiques ( and very expensive antiques I may add) He had a penthouse flat in Sheffield and owned a country property in the Lake district...so lived a very different lifestyle to my nurse existence in a two up two down in a slightly down-at-heel suburb of the city..Anyhow I digress.

One afternoon he asked me if I could help in load several choice pieces of furniture into a van, so that he could take them to auction. As I recall there was a French chiffonier, an early Victorian farmhouse grandfather clock and a rather handsome George III glass fronted bookcase, which dated from 1780. All beautiful pieces of furniture.
We carried each item down 4 flights of stairs without incident and loaded the clock and chiffonier. I held onto the bookcase as my boyfriend cleared some room in the van, and for some totally unknown reason left the thing standing in the road as I walked up  to see what was going on.
Sheffield streets are steep, and in what could only be described as slow motion we both turned to see one of the bookcase doors open ever-so-gently.....unbalancing the whole piece.

As I screamed ( and I did scream)..the bookcase started to topple...like a tree and with the biggest of crashes it fell onto the road.......glass doors downward.
I couldn't move. My boyfriend (who was crying silently) did however and without a word he lifted the bookcase off the road.
There couldn't have been more damage to it if Hattie Jacques herself had jumped on it from the top of a wardrobe, and even to my unsophisticated eye, I just knew that I had inflicted damage a nurse's pay could not quite cater for.
Still in silence, the bookcase (or the pile of wood and glass that it now resembled) was loaded up and driven away, leaving me to ponder my fate.
On impulse I drove immediately to one of the less attractive parts of Sheffield ( Think The Wire) and offered my old beat up peugeot 105 up to a scrap merchant to buy......The scrap merchant was a big hairy arsed bloke who seemed rather sceptical of my motives... but seeing that I looked rather distressed, he offered me a cup of tea and seemed ever-so-faintly amused that I was selling my car because I knackered the front off a priceless antique and wanted to "pay" for the damages

As I recall he gave me 150£ for my car....
I never knew what happened to the bookcase....
The relationship never lasted either...................

The Adventures of TinTin: The Secret of the Unicorn

I just didn't "get it"
Not wacky enough to be a cartoon
Not realistic to be a filmed drama
Beautifully crafted, full of Spielberg touches
and for me...........despite all the protracted action...........dreadfully dull
4/10

Mabel's Donny Osmond Teeth and Golden Angels

Cro had the right idea.....a wintry wet day and sat in front of the fire with a wine.....

It is bloody wintry here too, but I will content myself with a log burner, antiques road/whatever on the tv...no wine I'm afraid......on weight watchers and going to the cinema a little later to see Tintin

Mabel showing her Donny Osmond (ish) teeth----- she remains very nervous of anything and everything but is slowly getting better

I am feeling just a little guilty about being so  dismissive about Sir Jimmy in my last post, so I will tell you about our day in way of diversion. Chris took the day off and in between  my jobs (Bulldog toileting and bulldog car desensitisation trips) we ventured out into weekday quietness and had lunch out.

Lunch ended up in a rather sweet place in the nearby town of St Asaph...and afterwards we had a serene amble around St Asaph Cathedral..a place I had never been before.

The cathedral it is claimed to be the smallest Anglican cathedral in Britain and dates from the 13th Century.

The place was totally deserted when we entered and even the small shop situated by the entrance had a sort of "honesty box" left out for any shoppers to use rather than the obligatory "lady on a till" that we are used to in most popular places to visit!

I was also amused by the free tea and coffee left out for visitors on a table by the shop.......a nice touch..I thought.

A golden archangel standing tall over the aisle  caught my eye........it was beautiful

I have a thing for angel statues

Apart from the angel..one other thing moved me greatly inside the cathedral

It was something that was written in a prayer book inside one of the chapels

A lady had written

" Say a prayer for me.... I want to be a better mother"

Hummmmmm!

Is it me, or does anyone else find Jimmy Savile's organisation for his own funeral just a little bit odd? The lying in state (in a Leeds hotel), the gold coffin, the three days of "mourning" and the burial of the coffin at a 45 degree angle in Scarborough ( so that he could "see" the sea), smacks to me  less about of a sense of humour and more about a degree of pomposity.

It screams Showbiz without much of the show and now, not much of the Biz

Perhaps I am being somewhat unfair.

I actually met Mr Savile many years ago now (God I sound a little like Tom here), it was at Stoke Mandeville Hospital during one of the inter Unit Spinal Injury Games. He was larger than life, that was certainly true, but I did find him a slightly odd character who was somewhat full of himself.......perhaps it would be more charitable to say that I didn't warm to him...despite the fact he seemed such a benevolent character on screen and on the radio.

His funeral, to me, didn't feel quite right...it shrieked of "look at me, I am loved".....however, as I am writing this all I can think is "what the hell"...... if it gave the old guy pleasure , planning it all...what does it matter eh?

Perhaps it is me that is not being very charitable