Up early for the wonders

'Midday' should be the middle of your day, not a few hours after waking up. And 'midnight' should be the middle of the night, not an hour or less after going to bed. 

Those of us not shackled by the tyranny of having to be at a place of work for an allotted time should aim to live within natural rhythms set for us by nature, with sunrise and sunset the reference points, rather than the workplace clock and TV schedules.

With the change to summer time two weeks ago, I've continued in my habit of rising before sunrise. Because it's getting earlier and earlier, I'm going to bed earlier and earlier. Last night I was in bed at half past nine, and up this morning at half past five. Sunrise was at quarter to six. I fed the cats, made myself a coffee, and by half past six I was on the doorstep, dressed for sub-zero temperature (-3.1°C on the outside thermometer), ready for an hour's pre-breakfast walk. 

Opening the front door and stepping outside, I became aware of a low, continuous hum to the north. Intriguing. I shall find out what it could be... Once I'd passed the forest and entered the orchards, I discovered what was going on. Automated spraying of apple trees, to protect them against the frost. And I'd soon see that this was happening in all the big commercial orchards across the neighbourhood.

It seems counterintuitive to spray water on a plant when it’s freezing outside; the apple growers are using the latent heat of fusion to protect the delicate buds of their trees. When water changes state from liquid to ice, it releases a small amount of energy in the form of heat. As long as water is continuously being sprayed onto the tree and that water is turning into ice, it releases enough thermal energy to keep the temperature of the plant tissue underneath at exactly 0°C. This is just above the critical temperature that kills fruit buds. Depending on the stage of development (bud vs. full bloom), a fruit tree might not suffer damage until the internal temperature drops to -5°C. By encasing the branch in ice and water, the temperature is locked at 0°C, preventing it from falling to the much lower ambient air temperature, especially if its windy. The ice acts as a thermal buffer and as insulation. Once the bud's encased, it's protected from the evaporative cooling effect of the wind, which can strip heat away from plants much faster than still air. 

This method is a high-stakes balancing act for the farmers. The sprinklers must stay on until the ice starts to melt naturally. If they stop while the air is still below 0°C, the ice begins to evaporate. Evaporation brings on a rapid drop the temperature of the bud well below the air temperature, killing it instantly. And then bear in mind that ice is heavy. If the frost lasts too long or the water application is too intensive, the weight of the ice can snap branches and destroy the very trees the farmers are trying to save. 

At this time of year in Mazovia, the critical targets are the apple blossoms (kwiaty) and young fruitlets (zawiązki). These tissues are extremely vulnerable. Damage can begin around -2°C to -3°C. Without protection, an overnight frost can wipe out a large proportion of the crop. The ice looks destructive, with branches encased in ice, icicles hanging (below) – but the plant tissue itself is held at around 0°C, not the colder ambient air temperature. Crucially, ice forms outside the cells, not inside them. Cellular damage occurs mainly when internal water freezes, which this method prevents. Looks weird though, seeing all these icicles dangling off the apple buds.

The sprinklers require a massive amount of water. Apple growers have to ensure their reservoirs can store enough water for hours of constant spraying. Fortunately, this winter's long weeks of snow cover has helped.

It’s a beautiful but stressful sight; a race to keep the ice 'wet' until the morning sun takes over. [Update: by mid-afternoon, the thermometer was showing 16.3°C outside.]

Below: Grobice, orchard, transformer. Power and water needed to keep the trees safe from the potential ravages of frost.

Below: earlier, half an hour after sunrise, on my front doorstep, just as I was about to set off.

By quarter to eight, I'm back in my house; the outdoor thermometer now shows +3.2°C. The growers have made it through the night; the 14-day weather forecast suggest that this would have been the last frost for this crucial period (blossom time).

My morning walk today was filled with beauty and wonder, and I learned a lot. It really is worth foregoing late nights and making the most of the morning sunshine.

This time three years ago:|
The Lie of the Land (short story)

This time four years ago:
A Future Like This

This time five years ago:
Qualia memories: rural Gloucestershire, 1973

This time six years ago:
Lent 2020 - the summing up

This time seven years ago:
Strength in numbers

This time eight years ago:
Cultural differences: distance to power

This time 14 years ago:
Painting the Forum Orange

This time 17 years ago:
That's what I like about the North

Strike a blow against impertinence – a short story

Based on a dream I had on the morning of Friday 10 April 2026...

{{ London, October 1964, late evening. A sudden and intense shower. The Rolls-Royce/Bentley showroom by St James's Park Underground station, round the corner from Victoria Street. Four men are sheltering from the pouring rain just inside the entrance to an exclusive gallery of shops next to the showroom. Pride of place on the showroom floor that month happened to be an immaculately restored 1938 Rolls-Royce 25/30 Shooting Brake with coachwork by Hooper & Co. of London. A man in his 40s is admiring it through the curved plate-glass window. He'd been in the pub for much of the evening and was heading home, waiting at a nearby bus stop when he was forced to seek shelter from the downpour. Still staring at the distinguished lines of the vehicle, he says out loud to no one in particular: "Cor – any of you chaps see your way clear to extending me a loan for that beauty?" 

Image generated by Google Gemini

Totally unexpectedly, he receives a blow to the side of his head followed by a punch in the gut. As he doubles over, a knee comes up to meet his face with a hard crack. He falls to the ground. His assailant is joined by two other men, who clearly knew each other though had hitherto not been speaking among themselves. Lying on the pavement, he feels a well-polished leather shoe pressing lightly on his cheek, turning this way and that.

"Let this be the very last time you address your social betters with vulgar impertinence," said a calm voice above him. "May this be a lesson to you"  said another upper-class voice, kicking him hard in the stomach. Another shoe is aimed at his groin. Someone treads on his hand. The beating suddenly stops as the three men walk briskly away, hail a passing black cab, and leave the man to slowly get to his feet. }}

[At this point the dream fades. What follows is a fictional follow-up, partially imagined  drifting in and out of my hypnopompic state before I finally woke up.]

He staggered across Parliament Square and went to New Scotland Yard to report the assault. The desk sergeant noted that the man standing in front of him with a bloodied face had been drinking. Not the first of the night and far from the last. Yet when the victim mentioned the name of the pub, the Two Chairmen on Old Queen Street, the sergeant recalled a phone call from the landlord reporting a disturbance earlier the same evening and requesting the presence of a police officer. However, it was not until after the assault had been reported did a constable finally turn up at the pub, just after last orders had been called. The PC took a statement from the publican, who gave detailed descriptions of the three men suspected of the bus-stop assault, as well as corroborating the presence of the assaulted man in his pub for much of the evening.

It turns out that the three assailants were all aristocrats. Landed gentry. Among them, their ring-leader, the eldest son of the 8th Earl of Malmeseley. They had been drinking heavily, round after round, getting increasingly vociferously aggressive. 

Earlier that day, Harold Wilson had been to Buckingham Palace, where the Queen had asked him to form a government. This followed the Labour Party winning the previous day's general election by the tightest of margins – a majority of four seats. The news had brought the three men to boiling point, all convinced of the existential threat to their way of life posed by a new Labour government. 

"I evaded capture by the Japanese in Malaya in 1941. Fought alongside local guerillas. Survived disease and constant risk of betrayal in the jungle. Returned to London in late 1945. My family home, used to billet American airmen, you see, had been bulldozed to extend the runway of the nearby air base. Three hundred years of history reduced to a pile of rubble." 

He had spent the next 19 years in a mounting state of anger. Anger at how the natural order of the world had suddenly changed. Increasingly he was finding himself being disobeyed, disrespected, ignored. A bunch of insolent nobodies were in charge of Britain.  Men who'd not cut the mustard managing the branch office of a provincial building society are taking decisions that determine the direction of government policy! And now with Wilson at Number Ten, they'll back – in force – emboldened. Back in the ministries. Back in the county halls. "NOBODIES!" he screamed at the saloon bar. "UTTER NOBODIES!" When asked by the landlord to keep their voices down, they turned on him denouncing him as an undercover socialist and a tool of Wilsonite Labourism.

"Grammar-school interlektuals. Jumped-up mediocrities who hadn't even come across Thucydides or Ovid let alone read them in the original. Look at those despicable graspers in their gabardine raincoats checking their football pools in the Daily Express. Ready to open the floodgates to West Indians and Asians who by way of gratitude would vote Labour for generations." 

The aristocrat's son was in full flow, all restraint washed away by glass after glass of claret which followed the initial gin-and-tonics.

"Nowhere's safe!" he yelled. "Nowhere to hide from the county planner's office or from the taxman's rapacious claws! Housing estates and orbital roads, television aerials, electricity pylons, new towns and airports springing up everywhere, blighting our once-beautiful island. Motor-cars for all? By-passes, lay-bys and rights-of-way? Television and cake! Egalitarian FILTH! I SAY LEAVE ENGLAND AS SHE IS! I cannot tolerate change! Nazis? Brownshirts? Jumped-up lower-middle class scum! Bolsheviks? Communists? Even worse – common labourers! Peasants! Illiterate hordes! BUT THE WORST OF ALL ARE THE GRAMMAR-SCHOOL EGALITARIAN SOCIALISTS FRESH FROM SOME MIDLANDS UNIVERSITY! THESE PEOPLE HAVE NO APTITUDE TO RULE! IT IS UNNATURAL FOR THEM TO RULE! It takes four years at prep school, seven years at Harrow or Eton and three years at Oxford or Cambridge to know how to RULE! Above all, it takes generations to know how to RULE! IT IS INNATE!" roared the son of the 8th Earl of Malmeseley, somewhat contradicting himself. "They must know their place! They must DEFER to their BETTERS!" 

It was at this point that the landlord phoned for the police. The complaint was duly noted down; no action, however, was taken.

The subject of the beating, Kenneth Snoddy, 48 of Chalk Farm, London NW3, had also spent that Friday evening drinking, with several of his colleagues from the Colonial Office. There was much chatter about their ministry being merged with the Commonwealth Relations Office, maybe even with the Foreign Office itself! Rumours, of course, but with a new Labour government in power, far more likely to go ahead. How would this play out? Lots of talk of internal politics. Who would rise to permanent under-secretary of state in a merged department? Would jobs be lost? Would there be promotion opportunities? Ken Snoddy supped up his fifth pint, bade farewell to his colleagues and set off to catch the bus home. Three pairs of eyes watched him go.

The case did not make it into the papers. Lord Malmesley had a quiet word at the club with Lord Camrose; the Press Association's court reporter assigned to cover the 8th Earl's son's appearance at the magistrate's court was given another case to cover at the last minute, and the story of his acquittal didn't make the day's agency wire feeds.

This time two years ago:
Early blossom, Jakubowizna
(Early indeed! Currently. no sign of apple or cherry blossom, let alone dandelions!)

This time seven years ago:
Ealing under blue skies

This time 12 years ago:
Wes Anderson's Grand Budapest Hotel

This time 13 years ago:
Warsaw 1935: a 3D depiction of a city that's no longer with us

This time 14 years ago:
Cats and awareness

This time 16 years ago:
Why did this happen?

This time 17 years ago:
Britain's grey squirrels turning red

Andrew Marr's 'A History of Modern Britain'

There's never a good time to write a contemporary history. Historical narratives need closure. Loose ends need tying up, threads need to be neatly summarised. Causes linked to effects. The start-point of any history is easier to set than its end, and the choice of where to begin a modern history ends up defining the work. 

I picked up Andrew Marr's A History of Modern Britain (2007) having watched Adam Curtis's 2025 BBC documentary, Shifty. Curtis starts his look back at what's gone wrong with Britain by dropping the pin on May 1979, from the day Margaret Thatcher became prime minister. On the other hand, Andrew Marr's narrative (which came out as a BBC documentary in 2007 and in book form later the same year) starts in 1945 with the general election that brought in Clement Attlee to Number 10. This was as radical a moment as the one that ushered in the start of Thatcher's revolution. Attlee's Labour government brought in the Welfare State and the National Health Service, it nationalised large swathes of the British economy, it started decolonialisation, and introduced major educational reforms. All this against the backdrop of national bankruptcy and the onset of the Cold War.

Whilst I cannot quibble with either start date when it comes to analysing the state of the UK, I'd say that bringing Marr's A History of Modern Britain to a conclusion in 2007 was settle on the worst end-point possible at which to wrap up. For the shit was months away from hitting the fan. The global financial crisis would usher in austerity, the Tory-LibDem coalition and ultimately lead to the Brexit referendum. But Marr's documentary was in the can before Tony Blair had resigned as prime minister, to replaced by Gordon Brown just after the entire series had aired.

With that major proviso – one that was entirely out of the author's hands – let me go on with my thoughts. I'd very much like to place Marr's History of Modern Britain alongside Shifty as a significant explainer of the forces that shape contemporary Britain. However, they differ greatly in form and in content. 

Shifty begins its narrative when I was already a young man, whilst History of Modern Britain begins 12 years before my birth. I recognise Marr's portrayal of postwar Britain, it's hopes and its handicaps as the world I was born into; grey and drab, but getting brighter year by year as the goodies of consumer market, and innovation in technology and marketing, were rapidly disseminating through society. 

The optimism of Labour, the steady stuffiness of the pre-Thatcher Tories. I remember well the 1964 general election, Labour's victory, its slogan, 'Go Labour!' and prime minister Harold Wilson talking about the "white heat of the technological revolution" that prompted my father to vote Labour (something he'd never done before, nor indeed again until much, much later). Hovercraft, supersonic airliners and the GPO Tower, augmented by fictional visions of the future (Fireball XL5, Stingray and Thunderbirds) grounded in the heroic recent past (Airfix kits of Spitfires and Lancasters, Churchill tanks, HMS Ark Royal and Commando soldiers). This was all before Shifty's timeframe.

Marr, being a first and foremost a political journalist, is at his strongest dwelling on the political intrigue going on behind the scenes and the personalities. The downfall of leaders, from Harold Wilson through Thatcher and Blair, is well recounted.

Popular culture is neatly covered, but with a strong generational skew towards the 1970s when the author (born in 1959) was growing up. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Kinks, Pink Floyd, David Bowie, Roxy Music, the Sex Pistols, the Clash, Ian Dury, the Jam, the Police, the Specials, UB40, Live Aid all get a namecheck or two, but there's no mention of hip-hop or rap, Oasis or Blur – popular music fizzled out with the onset of Marr's adulthood. And indeed mine (it could be argued that compared to the 1970s, contemporary popular music is feeble).

History rhymes. I was reading this book's coverage of the run-up to the Iraq war ('weapons of mass destruction) with the run-up to the Iran war going on ('weapons of mass destruction'). I was reading about Peter Mandelson's contribution to Labour's 1997 election victory just as he was being arrested on charges of abuse of public office. The seeds of Brexit were sown, with a major contributory factor being Tony Blair's decision to open the UK labour market to Poles and citizens of the other seven countries that joined the EU in 2004. Instead of the 13,500 migrant workers forecast by analysts, over a quarter of a million turned up within a year, with many settling in rural parts of England and Wales that hadn't seen a foreigner in centuries.

Marr's prequel to A History of Modern Britain, the BBC documentary series The Making of Modern Britain (2009) is readily available on YouTube to watch (sadly,  A History of Modern Britain isn't). One way or another, I'd recommend reading the book though. And having it on your bookshelf, especially if you or indeed your parents, lived through these years. It's a gripping read and never becomes dull, not even in the minutiae of fiscal and macroeconomic policy details. 

Having said that, Marr is more small 'c' conservative than Curtis – his approach to history more conventional. The two work well together; for me. A History of Modern Britain is an excellent guidebook to Shifty, providing a historically rigorous framework upon which can be stretched the canvas of Curtis's compelling vision.

This time two years ago:
A family 'what-if' and the soul

This time eight years ago:
Work proceeding around Jeziorki

This time nine years ago:
Karczunkowska reopens to traffic

This time 14 years ago:
Goodness gracious!

This time 15 years ago:
Muddy feet, Warsaw 'pavements'

This time 16 years ago:

Cycling and recycling

This time 17 years ago:
Winter clings on to the forest

This time 18 years ago:
Toyota launches the iQ

This time 19 years ago:
Old school Łódź

Post-Lent local infrastructure catch-up

Two very welcome pieces of infrastructure work were being laid down at the tail-end of last year; activity paused as the snow fell, and after nearly two months when not a hand's turn was done, the crews have returned.

First up the pavement linking the level crossing north of Chynów station to the station itself, and continuing south all the way parallel to the railway line to the level crossing south of the station. And then there's the asphalting of the road between Machcin II and Gaj Żelechowski.

Starting with the pavement. Just over a kilometre long, this will bring huge relief to pedestrians who will be able to walk safely from the southern end of Chynów to the station. Decent pavements, with a proper kerb to keep cars off them, lower pedestrian anxiety, especially at night. I also hope that some train passengers who currently drive to the station might take it upon themselves to walk instead, getting some healthy exercise and reducing local traffic. Parking provision (which is plentiful!) will be upgraded so that drivers don't have to park in puddles when it rains. But access to the car park be provided from the southern end of the 'down' platform, or will drivers have to walk up to a quarter of a kilometre around the station building to reach their cars? 

Below: state of work after Easter. Everything, like every thing, from the station to the level crossing, with the exception of the empty station-master's house, has been levelled with the ground, including (sadly) the farmyard in which the station masters would keep livestock and farm implements. The pavement awaits pavestones (what's kostka brukowa in English anyone!?!), note the parking bay to the left. What will happen to the station-master's house? One can only hope it will be converted into a tandoori restaurant, bar and grill, with neon signs visible from the train and from the street. And what will happen to the 6,000 square metres of empty land? Turned into a nice park with meadow flowers, path and benches? Or allowed to grow wild, subject to periodic pruning? 

I must mention another rail infrastructure project that's being worked on right now, namely the installation of real-time digital passenger information systems at all stations along the line from W-wa Zachodnia towards Piaseczno. This is the Centralny System Dynamicznej Informacji Pasażerskiej ('central dynamic passenger information system'), with 100% of eligible costs being covered by the EU's National Recovery Plan for Poland. Work has to be completed and accounted for by August, so it's full steam ahead! It will be great to see this in action. Warka and Warka Miasto stations already have this system working, and it's really helpful to see when the next train will actually arrive.

On, beyond the far end of Jakubowizna, and the asphalting of the rural track that connects the main road to Gaj Żelechowski and Dąbrowa Duża to the south. This is the latest stretch of unmade road to be surfaced and joined up to the network, following the work completed last April. Below: 860m of roadway has been hardened, flattened, rolled and now just awaits the top coats of asphalt.

From the outside, these may appear to be small projects. But here locally, taken as a whole, along with every other piece of new infrastructure since Poland joined the EU, the improvement to quality of life is vast. Water-treatment plants, street lighting, warehouses for agricultural produce, alongside road and rail infrastructure and private-sector telecoms investments all make life better for everyone.

UPDATE Saturday 11 April. All done.Two days work to lay the asphalt. Beautiful job.

This time 11 years ago:
History's repeating... or is it?

This time 13 years ago:
Sunshine, snow, April

This time 15 years ago:
In vino veritas

This time 16 years ago:
Are we getting more intelligent?

This time 17 years ago:
Lenten recipe No. 6

This time 18 years ago:
Coal trains, Konstancin-Jeziorna

This time 19 years ago:
Jeziorki from the air

Post-Lent cat catch-up

Two big pieces of cat news. One – Czester and Scrapper have been fixed. Two – a new cat has entered the house.

Let's start with the boys. 

One Friday in late-March, Céleste did not return home in the evening. She did not appear on Saturday, nor on Sunday. By Monday I was starting to get worried. She'd never been away this long before. Mid-morning, I went into the forest next door, trailed by five felines. Together, we reached our fallen log, I sat down, surrounded by cats. Within a few minutes, I noticed Céleste's presence among us. She came up to me, I stroked her, she was very affectionate. We all went home to eat – but Céleste left soon after and didn't spend the night inside. I woke up at about 2am for a wee, and before going back to sleep I pondered whether something was going on within the feline family that had caused her to withdraw. It occurred to me that Czester and Scrapper had been showing signs of getting, uh, over-familiar with their sister... And so I called the vet on Tuesday morning to arrange for their castration, scheduled for the Friday morning. No sooner had I finished my call than I opened the front door to find Céleste on the threshold waiting for breakfast. She continued spending nights outside, but she started to come back during the day to sleep in the kitchen while I was around.

The big day came. I had already brought down two cat carry-boxes from the attic, ready for the morning. The vet had asked me not to feed the boys before the procedure. Neither Czester and Scrapper protested as they were lowered into the boxes vertically, the lids fastened. The remaining cats were then fed. Czester and Scrapper were loaded into the car and driven – a three-minute journey – to the vets and their appointment with enforced impotence. I was told they'd be ready to collect in the afternoon.

And so it was. A procedure so, so different to a female sterilisation! Whereas Wenusia had to stay indoors for an entire week, the boys were merely kept in overnight, and by the next morning, they could already eat as much as they wanted and were allowed to go out! Wow! Had I know it was going to be this easy, I'd have done it earlier! (There was the issue of the car's immobilisation due to many weeks of snow cover.)

Below: here they are, i due castrati. Scrapper flashes me an accusing glance: "Why d'ya do it, human?" Czester, the former sister molester, just lies there, resigned.

I feel guilty. The telos has been taken from their young lives. But should I feel guilty? Castrated cats live up to three times longer than whole males. They are far less prone to cancers, they don't get into fights for territory or females, and, as long as they're not overfed, are generally healthier. They're not carried away by hormonal urges. But are their lives their own? Have they still agency? Much feline philosophy to ponder.

This leaves the question of Arcturus and Pacyfik. The vet told me that he was booked up solid until the end of the week after Easter, and to call then. But I'm not quite sure the boys are ready yet. Neither are showing any sexual aggression towards Céleste. "Spare us the cutter". For now, at least.

Céleste still elected to spend Friday night outside, and her first encounters with her castrated brothers suggested there was a little vestigial testosterone coursing around their bodies as evinced by their over-eager greetings. But by Saturday, they had become more polite. And Céleste has subsequently returned to choosing to stay indoors overnight, every night. Which given the light frost that accompanied the change from astronomical winter to early spring, must have been a relief to her. She's obviously not being bothered by Arcturus or Pacyfik – yet.

Two days after the operation, Czester jumps up onto the kitchen table, looks me in the eyes and asks to be let out. I reach up to open the window. He steps onto the window sill. No longer am I confronted by a pair of big bright orange furry balls proudly displayed between his hind legs. I am looking at a small round cauterised wound where his maleness had once been. With Scrapper, the loss is less evident, as he was possessed of a smaller scrotum which somehow blended in better with the rest of his rear quarters.

Other than behaving more courteously towards their sister, there has been no major change in Czester's behaviour, although post-snip, Scrapper has become vastly more interested in food. In any case, the seasonal shift from winter to spring has led to a general increase in appetite among all the cats. I am finding the need to open an extra sachet or tin to keep them all satisfied, and have increased their three feeds a day to four.

********

Hipek

Around 19 March, I started noticing a new cat on my działka. An elderly white neutered tom with black patches on his head and haunches. His behaviour indicated a longing for company and (despite his bulk), hunger. I felt sorry for the guy; he kept turning up outside my house a couple of times a day. I left some food out for him which he ate with gratitude. He then started to jump up onto the parapet. I'd open the window, he'd gingerly probe the inside of my house, but in the end caution got the better of him. Not wanting electrically-warmed air to escape, I'd shut him out. Until one day he decided to come in.

Below: "You were outside. I was inside."

Wenusia does not like this outsider at all. She'd hiss and swipe at him with her paw. This old cat was not family. She didn't want him hanging round her kids. He might spread disease. But he never retaliated, just gently withdrew. Pacyfik also showed a dislike towards the newcomer. Everyone else, however, was entirely cool with his presence. Czester, Scrapper, even the unneutered Arcturus, would come up to him and they'd sniff each another's faces. No problems, no aggression. Too old to be their dad. I never saw this white cat around Wenusia around the time she got pregnant.

I photographed the white-and-black cat and shared the photos on the local community Facebook page. There were many comments and shares, but no one called to claim a missing cat. The next day I took a long walk around Nowe Grobice, Grobice and Jakubowizna, seeking posters, I found none. No one seems to be missing this old guy, although one helpful comment online said that it was common practice to snip the tip of the left ear of feral cats that have been captured and neutered, as a visible sign that it's been spayed. I checked this assertion with AI: 

Me: "In the countryside, it's said that a cat with a clipped ear is neutered. Is this true?"

Gemini: "Yes, it’s true. A distinctive notch or clip on the tip of the ear (usually the left one) is a universally recognised sign that a community cat has been neutered or spayed. The main goal is identification from a distance. Free-roaming cats are often wary of humans. A tipped ear tells humans that the cat has already been 'processed'. It avoids the stress of trapping the cat a second time, and prevents veterinarians from performing unnecessary surgery (especially important for females, where the lack of an obvious scar can be confusing). Ear-tipping is permanent. Once the fragment of cartilage and skin is removed, it does not grow back. The cat carries this 'badge' for life. This practice is standard in 'Trap-Neuter-Return' (TNR) programmes. It is unlikely to be replaced soon because microchips or tattoos require catching the cat to read them."

So there we are. He's a placid and gentle senior cat, looking for acceptance somewhere. After a couple of weeks of daily visits, when it became clear from chats with my neighbours that no one's missing such a cat, I gave him a name: Hipek (short for Hipolit). Weighing 5.3kg, he's much bigger than any of my cat family. Bit by bit, I have won his confidence; he will come by twice a day for food in the kitchen, and last night he actually stayed in the house. As I write, he's asleep in the cat basket on the left of the window sill (Arcturus's in the one on the right, as is his wont). I just hope that Wenusia and Pacyfik will come to accept him in the same way that Scrapper, Czester, Céleste and Arcturus have.

********

The ticks are back. Blood-sucking, disease-spreading little bastards. Having found several across all cats (including three on Hipek), I have bought anti-tick collars for everybody. Foresto brand, they work well. Wenusia wore one all season last year; not one tick did I find on her. Buying them in bulk means a discount (123zł each rather than the 140zł I paid last year for the one).

This time seven years ago:
Thanks for the memory: morning flashback

This time ten years ago:
In which I learn to speak

This time 11 years ago:
Sunshine and snow, Łazienki Park

This time 12 years ago:
Shopping habits in the wake of Lidl's opening 

This time 13 years ago:
In vino veritas

This time 14 years ago:
Are we getting more intelligent?

This time 15 years ago:
Lenten recipe No. 6

This time 16 years ago:
Coal trains, Konstancin-Jeziorna

This time 17 years ago:
Jeziorki from the air

Post-Lent photo catch-up

Easter is over, my Lenten cycle of posts is complete. Time to share some of my better photos from last month. Below: sun low in the afternoon sky, Jakubowizna. Beyond the last row of trees in this plantation, a fence, and beyond that, an orchard.

Below: looking west along ulica Wspólna ('Common Street'), illuminated by a setting sun.
 

Below: the track from Machcin II towards Rososz. This stretch is either deep sand or deep mud, drivers tend to avoid this bit and detour down a passable, though also unasphalted, section of road further east.

Below: cranes in flight. The local crane colony didn't fly south for the winter, but remained here, despite the long weeks of snow cover. Photo taken 30 March over Chynów.

Below: moonrise over Jakubowizna. looking up the lane towards my dziaka.

Left: looking down the lane from the end of my drive towards Chynów. A beautiful sun descends towards the horizon. Taken at the long end of my 70-300mm Nikkor telephoto zoom, making the sun seem unnaturally large.

Below: an evening Koleje Mazowieckie service to Warsaw approaches Chynów from Krężel. Photo taken from the level crossing to the north of Chynów station a few seconds before the barriers came down. The clocks have just gone forward, the sun has just set (19:10).

Below: semi-fast Koleje Mazowieckie service heading to Radom, between Chynów and Warka – this train does not stop at Krężel, Michalczew or Gośniewice along the way. 

Below: crushed-velvet dusk; the corner of ul. Miodowa ('Honey Street') and ul. Główna ('Main Street'), Chynów.

Below: the road sweeps into Jakubowizna, on the north side of the railway line.

Tomorrow: plenty of cat news from Jakubowizna!

This time seven years ago:

Działka update

This time eight years ago:
Łódź is a film set

This time nine years ago
Contemplative imagery, Ealing and Warsaw

This time 14 years ago:
Baffled: my first visit to Jeziorki's Lidl 

This time 15 years ago:
In vino veritas?

This time 16 two years ago:
Are we getting more intelligent?

This time 17 three years ago:
Lenten recipe: tuna, chickpea and pesto salad

This time 18 years ago:
Coal train sidings, Konstancin-Jeziorna

This time 19 years ago:
Jeziorki from the air

 

Easter Sunday – triumph of Life over Death

Waking up to witness the sun rising through the trees in the forest next door, I fed the cats, made myself a coffee, and sat down to start writing these words.

As a child, I used to wonder why the two main religious festivals of Christianity were spaced across the year as they are. Christmas falls just after the Winter Solstice, while Easter falls at or shortly after the Spring Equinox. But there is no major festival around either the Summer Solstice or the Autumn Equinox. Easter is around three months after Christmas, and  then it's eight or nine months until Christmas comes round again, with summer holidays in between.

Why the asymmetry? 

If one looks symbolically – metaphysically – and at Church history – it becomes clear.

Christmas is the celebration of the triumph of light over darkness. It is celebrated ten days after the year's earliest sunset. By 25 December, people across the Northern Hemisphere, even without sophisticated measuring instruments, could tell that the sun had stopped retreating and had started its return.

This year's earliest sunset will occur here in Chynów on 13 December at 15:24. By Christmas Day, it will set at 15:28. a full four minutes later. [However, due to the Earth's 'wobble', the latest sunrise won't happen until 31 December, at 07:43. Equinox – the crossing of the Sun back into the Northern Hemisphere is on 21 December, which also happens to be the year's shortest day, balanced as it is between the earliest sunset and the latest sunrise].

The Feast of Christmas, then, can be seen as the triumph of Light over Darkness. In the beginning was the Word (John 1:1)? No, in the beginning was Consciousness. From Consciousness emerged Thought, the Thought was communicated via the Word. Consciousness and Light. The spiritual, metaphysical nature of Light...

The ins and outs and what-have-yous of the date of Easter is way too complicated to even begin to explain (other than its historical relation to the Jewish feast of Passover). Suffice to say, it can fall as early as 22 March or as late as 25 April. This year's Easter is somewhere around the middle of that spread. And typically here in Poland, this means that Lent began with snow on the ground (left, 18 February) and ended with trees starting to come into leaf (right, 5 April) in the forest next door.

Life has returned. The sap is rising; birdsong fills the sky. The Earth is waking up, a powerful force, a natural resurrection. The dead, dry vegetation that lies on the ground is jostled aside by fresh green shoots pushing up towards the sun. In the year's cycle, this is a turning point. We can look ahead to warmth and plenty. Christmas marked the first, fixed, turning point. Darkness retreats, light advances. At the same time every year – it is astronomical. Easter, however, marks a moving turning point. Because of weather, spring can be early, or late. It is imprecise, biological. Hence a moveable feast, to remind us that nature's bounty is not to be taken for granted. 

We live in a Cosmos fine-tuned for life. The 31 physical constants are all just so, each to within orders of magnitude with many zeroes – indicating non-random or finely adjusted values. A small change in several of the physical constants would make the universe radically different. Matter might not even exist. The laws of science contain fundamental numbers, such as the size of the electric charge of the electron and the ratio of the masses of the proton and the electron, which seem to have been very finely adjusted to make possible the development of life.

Life is material. Life hosts consciousness, the immaterial. You might be able to find the neural correlates of thought, but not of consciousness. You can't calculate or weigh qualia.

********

I am entitled to nothing, but am grateful for everything good that comes my way. I don't have a need for a caring God, but I do need a purposeful God. A direction with which to align, a direction away from chaos and barbarism, and towards order and love.

To me, Easter is a strong argument against a random, purposeless Universe that just somehow exists. It serves as a reminder that it is unfolding towards something, and that we should strive to get close to that flow.

********

On this day last year, I had my heart attack, and was rushed to hospital by ambulance, wheeled into the operating theatre and given three stents. One year on, I feel fine. I give thanks.

Today is my father's birthday; he would have been 103. I still dream of him often, and feel convinced that his consciousness abides, perhaps in the body of a boy living in Ursynów.

In the bright Easter sunshine, I set off for a walk shortly before 7am today, a walk in gratitude and joy.

Easter Sunday 2025:
Jesus and me

Easter Sunday 2024:
Triumph

Easter Sunday 2023:
Easter and photo catch-up 

Easter Sunday 2019:
Easter in Ealing (my last as it happens)

Easter Sunday 2013:
Easter Sunday in the snow

Easter Sunday 2008:
Snowy Easter in England

Lent 2026: day 46 – approaching journey's end

Easter Saturday, the final day of Lent. Tomorrow, Easter Sunday. A day that celebrates the triumph of life over death (much as Christmas celebrates the triumph of light over darkness).  But that post is for tomorrow. Today, a short summing up of the past 46 days since Shrove Tuesday...

From the point of view of Giving Things Up, this year has been a total breeze. It gets easier with every passing year. Indeed, as ultimately happened last Easter, I won't end up staying awake to midnight just so that I can enjoy my first alcoholic drink in six and half weeks. Rather, I will wait until the Easter Sunday breakfast (brunch more like, timing-wise). The IPA's in the fridge. I continue to do as I have been doing these past few weeks – going to bed early (10pm – or 9pm winter-time according to my body clock) and waking up before sunrise.

Going without alcohol or meat for 46 days was no problem. The temptation to crack open a cold beer at the end of a long day spent lopping trees in the garden was there, but easy to overcome. Not eating meat? Not a challenge at all. The year round, I tend to keep meat-eating for special occasions. However, I doubt that I could go vegan; fish and dairy (cheese and natural yogurt) are dietary staples when it comes to protein intake. There have been no salt snacks, no fast food. And of course no confectionery, no cakes, biscuits, desserts (other than fruit and nuts in yogurt) nor fizzy sugary drinks, but these are absent from my diet the year round. Caffeine, like fish and diary, I have no intention of giving up for Lent; I merely limit myself to one strong cup of coffee a day before breakfast, again the year round (barring social occasions).

Exercise – I missed four days' worth after twanging some back muscles (I overdid it with the scything and raking in the garden one weekend), but have recovered and have stepped up the regime to get back to my average targets. Walking is nicely ahead of all previous years (over 13,000 paces a day every day since the New Year).

The will required to do something is greater than the will required not to do something. Getting down to write a Lenten blog post every day for 46 days was not easy, especially as I had decided not to simply use AI to consolidate, summarise and re-order old material. I wanted each day's post to be the result of my thoughts, insights and intuitions as they came to me. Let the Holy Spirit talk through me! And I managed, for the seventh year in a row (although last year's hospital stay meant I missed a total of ten posts from the 2025 series).

The essential question is what have I learnt? How far have I advanced in my spiritual quest? 

It is too early to say. The big new insights arrive later. They come unbidden; they help shape my thinking. Looking back over my past Lenten posts is helpful; each year's Lent is a spiritual milepost along my life. I can see how my thinking has sharpened, acquired definition and nuance, and how my faith has deepened. The role of experience-driven intuition is crucial in diluting doubt; the physicalist world view, where everything is matter and death is the end now fails to have any traction in my mind. 

The devil is doubt; doubt is materialism (it's all matter, including your awareness, all extinguished at death); materialism is indeed the devil; matter decays, washed away by entropy. Consciousness survives entropy (you may be frailer than you were a few decades ago, but your consciousness, your awareness of qualia, is just as clear and crisp as when you were small).

Lent stands in many ways as a material as well as spiritual practice. Giving things up makes you stronger in the material world. Lent is good for the body and good for the soul.

Lent 2025: day 46
Lent's end – but really?

Lent 2024: day 46 
Why do we exist? Why does anything exist?

Lent 2023: day 46
The summary, finale

Lent 2022: day 46
Easter Everywhere, but not Ukraine

Lent 2021: day 46
The summing up

Lent 2020: day 46
Nor followers, nor leaders; one's own way to God