Blog: May 2023
Forty-nine years old this month; during the last three to four years I have aged considerably in appearance. Life has moved around and about me in the Scottish Borders, but strangely, the two friends have made here are both English, originating from the West Midlands.
This morning I travelled with Charlie to Borders General Hospital near Melrose; for a routine check up. I waited for around an hour, and felt discomfort from a Scottish man glaring at me, with his ugly Philippine girlfriend. Charlie returned after an hour with the all clear, we enjoyed a cup of coffee at the WRVS cafe before leaving the hospital.
We decided to drive into Melrose, visited a charity shop before enjoying a breakfast in a French pâtisserie café. Returning from the toilet another Scottish man with his ugly Philippine girlfriend (different from the couple at the hospital) had seated themselves on a table opposite us; this was too bizarre to be a coincidence, twisted evil of Martinism I thought.
Heading out of Melrose we were followed by a white ford fiesta van which pulled up 500 yards away after we stopped to take a few pictures of Bowden loch. The driver of the white van appeared to be filming us, although we ignored him and drove off. Sheep at both grass keeps were OK, Charlie is planning on sheering the two flocks soon, both pens are in place.
Spent the hottest part of the midafternoon at the farmhouse, then we drove out to Saint Mary's lock; although the loch is in the borders, it's not the most enamouring loch by far, but we were inquisitive at the history of an 18th century pub that once served beer there. Charlie seems to think it was the place where the Ettrick Lady folk song was written.
I enjoy visiting Megget water immensely, and this time we drove to the end of this reservoir; the views were outstanding. An old ewe ran by, I managed to get a picture of her with all fours in the air! We noticed a sign along this road, the estate charging tents £10 for overnight camping. Returning to the farmhouse we enjoyed two pints at the Tushielaw Inn.
We have risen early, commenced work on the farmhouse kitchen garden. First we dug up huge clumps of nettles, then roughly levelled the soil. We planted another row of potatoes before hammering in more wooden fence posts. The perimeter consisted of four large corner posts with three small posts each side.
Strangely we aligned posts at the front side of the kitchen garden exactly at exactly the same measurement of a spare hurdle, this hurdle also has hinges. The chicken wire did not roll around the posts flat, and even when we attempted to pull the wire tort, there was little visible difference.
At midday, we fell short of a roll of chicken wire to complete the fence. We visited both grass keeps, finding three or four lame lambs to be suffering from mild scold. Both flocks will be penned and sheered soon, so we will be treating the scold then, they will also be wormed.
WE visited the garden center in Newton St Boswells, but I refused to go inside, because the retail store makes me cringe; Charlie returned with plants and several garden kanes. Returning to Hawick via car, some of the panoramic views were awe-inspiring of this natural serenity of asceticism.
Charlie stopped to allow me to take a picture of a beautiful violet Cornflower; wow, isn't the Scottish Borders bonnie.
Returning to my flat, Charlie watched the football highlights, Coventry v's Luton Town, he uses football as an intermediary to bridge difficult conversation.
How I am enamoured with the countryside of the Scottish Borders, but I relate to Normandy and further north, into Norway and Denmark, as being my ancestral home.
Felt unwell and slept through the afternoon. Driving to the east of Wilton Lodge park, I noticed two cyclists had wild camped nearby, as I paused to take this panoramic photograph.
In the evening, at sunset, Charlie began hamming fence posts into the ground. This is the first attempt at keeping wild rabbits out of the newly created kitchen garden.
I fry a mean cooked breakfast, today we enjoyed sausages, eggs on toast.
We purchased wood to build extra hurdles for the grass keep pen, and also wooden steaks and chicken wire to protect our new kitchen garden.
It's rare I get the undivided attention; perhaps it's because we had a missing lamb returned today.
Mind very much troubled from months of pain in my left, lateral forefoot; I have been to see a podiatrist and she diagnosed nerve damage. I believe this to be a prolonged injury sustained from a flip-flop accident in Sri Lanka and not from problems located in my hip, as the podiatrist suggested.
"Race prejudice is a gift of nature intended to preserve in purity the various divisions of mankind which the ages have evolved". - H.P Lovecraft.
Today we collected hurdles, and began erecting a pen at one of the grass keeps; Charlie stated "it was nothing to be proud of", "take pride in everything" I replied. The sheep at the other grass keep coming to their pen, we've just been feeding them, slowly gaining their trust. Flocks at both grass keeps were taking shelter from the blistering heat of the sun under a shadow cast from a hedge and tree.
The head flew off the lump hammer as Charlie was thumping the posts into the ground; we gazed at each other in disbelief.
In the afternoon a delivery came, running shoes for exercise, wind chimes and a USB DVD player, we watched True Grit starring John Wayne, bemused by the script; people never talk with such cocky sharp wit mannerism, a cheesie attempt at Shakespearian dialoge. After we watched an evil apocalyptic zombie flick named 28 Days Later, very Haitian. Cillian Murphy stars in this film, directed by Danny Boyle. Other than being lily pad adventurous, I didn't figure or rate the red victim and carkee perpetrator senario, such Martinist storyline.
We enjoyed a cooked breakfast with rectangluar beef sausages, that Charlie named Scottish Sausage. If I am moving around active I will eat well, but also, in retrospective be mindful to limit food consumption when inside my flat; as I am expanding very little energy. Walking out the door found two frogs in the farmhouse pond.
After shovelling the last of the muck [caked layers of rotting sheep poo and straw], enabling the tractor to gain clear access, he attached the topper to the rear of his ageing tractor and thus began vaporising hundreds of dock leaves between beds of nettles. He then drove up to the paddock, lowering the topper onto heeps of muck.
I pressure washed the garden path, the lichens give the farmhouse character, but make the slabs very slippery; not so much a problem in the summer, but in the winter. The grass also required trimming where the lawnmower couldn't chop, many nettles had to be ripped out by hand.
Taking a ewe down to the floor involves sneaking up on them, grabbing the fleece then placing your hand underneath their chin, along the jaw line, turning ewes neck to offset balance. Sometimes whilst on the floor the ewe's kick hard, which can hurt significantly.
In the afternoon visiting both grass keeps, Charlie dagged six ewes and spray violet three or four lambs hoofs; one required a shot of anti-biotic but we did not have nor bottle or syringe at hand. Returning to the farmhouse a mini appeared to be waiting on a T-Junction, I readyed myself for an overtaking, and as anticipated a left behind, accompained by my camera flashing. Your twisted spite cult reveres you for terrorising people catatonic, enabling yet another traitor to forsake, pass by and leave us all behind, flesh torn from inherent worth.
In the evening, it's difficult sometimes, with bones aching, to decided on staying awake by the hot fire, or relaxing upon an electric blanket in bed; until tiredness decides to up me to a more comfortable place, under the duvet.
The prolonged question, as it seems, is "what these Marxist brainwashers won't do to force, via psychological manipulations, these invading flesh crawling cuckoos upon us, as they side step into our inherent worth, as devils forking projections?". Over and over again, chased down, targeted individuals are alienated, and spitefully reset into diabolical worthless; forsaken and sacrificed, disinherited, and dissolved as multicultural fertiliser. What is most heinous is the way they inflict suffering upon us via slow burn trauma "should I stay or should I go" trigger inductions, that reanimate, twist and turn us until we burn out dissociate catatonic, a despondent psyche psychologically voided from enacting self-preservation.
I witnessed and experienced these "Jesus in the Slum" recriminations from Christianity first hand, during the year of 2010, whilst displaced, "stranded" and ritually abused as a targeted individual, apathy trapped inside central Westminster's "Nobody Zone". Beyond prolific targeted abuses, being subjected to this cultured decimation is inconsolably horrific, every dark and quiet place is defecated, the street grime sticks to clothes and, with the warmth of sunrise, discharges a lingering smell of urine, smeared with pear drops scented disinfectant. At night, the trapping, of rattling bones knocking upon external silence of Portland stone; cooling upon aching muscle strung tort, saturated, rotting with lactic acid.
Dissociate encircling darkness, holding clarity of sight captive, diffused by satanic flames, blazing ignition from burning crack pipes; vaporising concern from minds of vagrant Soho sex workers. Observed by faceless strangers, some not so strange, through timed incursions, presenting grievous contempt, deprivation reverence of their decimation apostolate. In the wrong place, a deck chair smashed over your head, walk the wrong way, a bin thrown at you, walk too far, reported as insane. One cannot comprehend the touchless, loneliness, etched behind tired, troubled eyes, gaze lowered, dissociate unresponsive, detached as if not part of you. To leave us, to this, without ever questioning, why we were here, but never there.
I don't know where I had a nervous breakdown, perhaps it was when I was hyperthermic, my clothes handed to me wet and stained blue; maybe when I was lying upon sticky snow, unable to comprehend bitter cold. And all the while they manufacture consent from every subordinated dispossession. But yet I remember, and shall never forget, or forgive; how the skinned our spirit from the nurturing soul of our people, as dispossessed disembodiment, voided potential despised hapless from a validated existence.
I've been arguing with Charlie for days to purchase a half decent vehicle; the current car is broken beyond repair. I want him to get a vehicle that suits his job, which is farming; instead of purchasing a cheap blat car, that will last a few months, and cost much more money to repair. We talked about a pick up or even a ranger rover, so I was suprised to see a "red and black" pickup parked down the street this morning. Uncanny that I have never seen this pick up in the neighbourhood before today, then parked outside a dodgy flat block down the road from where I live.
The afternoon lay to rest on the sofa, bemused and laughing at the antics of paedophile hunters streaming their stings over Facebook. I did not eat until the evening, as I have restricted my appetite to only consuming one meal a day; because I desperately need to lose weight, I've never been this big in my entire life. In the evening Charlie came, and drove me and our friend to Newcastleton; we had planned to go to Kielder, but pausing to observe nighttime creeping over dusk whilst dismissing visiting a bothy nearby, we turned back at the Kershope / Scottish Borders sign, returning towards Newcastleton.
We called into a wee bar named "the trap"; inside a publican commented on our appearance, stating "has CND just walked through the door". The malcontented glares and abrasive comments failed to disturbed us, as we corresponded our conversation unabated. I don't know how they justify advertising this establishment as having a garden, it's a lump of concrete with rotten wooden seating looking ready to give way and break, the grey wall area (nothing green in sight) scented with a pungent dry, stale aroma of fag ash. But this is an isolated town, other than Common riding (on bicycles) and a yearly folk festival, not a lot happens in Newcastleton.
In many ways I don't blame these small towns as villages for not being welcoming, in view of what has surrounded me during these chased down, stigmatising and ostracising thirteen years. When you're a targeted individual, pretence exceeds appearance, impression is received by corrupted perspective, twisted by discordant story tellers; establishing anti-social constructs that ostracise you with irrationalised contempt, bolstered by baseless assumptions manifested, wherever, whatever, however you present. It is imperitive we break the icy, chilling silence story tellers provoked untoward targeted individuals; those zombified despondent, and spitefully down cast, unjustly tangled into sufferings their ancestors conquered.