EDP Column 2
Hello, I’m Liza Goddard; Granny, Actress, presenter and now columnist! I live at Owl Farm in Norfolk with David, my husband, Sophie, my daughter, and Adelaide my granddaughter, the Darling. Thom, my son is married to La Belle Helen and they live in London. My mother Clare lives near by.
We never need an alarm clock, Albert, the Wellsummer cockerel, greets the dawn joyously every day. A barn owl returns from a night’s hunting as I cross the farmyard. The moon is still up as I let Albert out with his girls, Victoria, Elizabeth and Anne and they follow me round the paddock as I go round with my barrow picking up the pony ‘biggies’. How come the small ponies, Hugo and Starlight, in one night can make the Augean horses look constipated? I have to watch out for dung beetles and leave their piles of dung alone.
As I start hunting for eggs I notice that the Pasque Flower is out , one of my favourites, it’s delicate white petals flushed with pink. It comes out every Easter, even when Easter is late, how does it know?
Finding eggs is a bit of a lottery, the girls lay them in all sorts of places. They did have lovely nest boxes provided when they arrived, with little ladders for easy access but not one of them showed the least bit of interest, much better obviously to lay in the hedge, or behind the hay or even out in the open. Still, the eggs are things of beauty, the yolks, a rich cadmium yellow and the taste – heaven! How tasteless, by comparison, the modern shop bought egg is.
At Easter, when we were young, we drew comic faces on our eggs before boiling them. My mother used to decorate the house with an Easter tree, laden with eggs, a tradition I continue. We have to blow some eggs, shop bought of course, I wouldn’t waste ours on this, paint them with bright colours and hang them from twigs. I did some the other day and proudly displayed my artwork. The comment was ‘The Darling painted those did she?’Oh well, I love doing crafts, however badly. I put up the twigs in a vase, hung the eggs and put the tasteful arrangement on the kitchen table. Ceaser, the cat, thought it was the greatest cat toy ever. He swatted the eggs all over the kitchen, knocked over the vase and scattered the twigs. Oh well!
David has a Yorkshire tradition of rolling brightly painted boiled eggs down a hill. We will have to use the paddock, I’m sure the ponies will enjoy the spectacle. He also has a Christmas Yorkshire tradition of flaming raisins, trying to pick raisins out of burning brandy; we don’t let him play that one.
This year The Darling is three years old and her little friends are coming round to hunt for Easter eggs hidden in the garden, if the Labradors, Scoter and Daisy don’t find them first. The Darling’s friend George always brings his chainsaw, a toy one, so he’ll be able to fend them off. Victorians invented chocolate Easter eggs. Hurrah, as I’d given up chocolate for lent, I will be indulging.
As I watch the children hunting for eggs among the daffodils, everywhere I look new life is burgeoning, birds are sitting on eggs, the ponds are full of spawn. Bringing home the meaning of Easter, Resurrection and life. Peace on Earth and
Happy Easter to you all.