At last. It may not be warm. Let alone hot.

We may have had very few early morning sunrises when a golden glow seeps past our tiny bedroom curtains around 5.50 a.m.

But at least we’ve had a few days without rain in a row, and the land and ground have dried sufficiently for catch-up to begin on the huge range of jobs which normally get knocked off gradually over late winter and early spring.

In addition, the last two weeks have seen a slew of seasonal firsts which lift the spirits and remind us that, heck, we’re nearly into May and the longest day isn’t all that far away. Where has this year gone? Even the nesting kites thought it was time for a bit of play with some scavenged wool.

The above few words were written just 2 days ago, since when grey skies, occasional drizzle, heavy rain and perceived temperatures of just 3 to 4 degrees C suggest that winter hasn’t done with us yet, and any daytime temperature of over 15 degrees C this year is still some way off.

Let’s start with the seasonal sightings and events. Our first swallow returned on April 14th, a distant brief glimpse in a rare blue sky. It had to wait another 9 days before a second joined it to chatter excitedly overhead and in the barn. The following day, I spotted a Redstart, and we both heard a Cuckoo, up the valley to the North. Our first Orange-tip,  Anthocharis cardamines, also put in an appearance during a slightly warmer, dry interlude.

With a full moon due on the 22nd, and the stream at last falling back a little after all the recent rains, I did a walk along the banks hoping that I might still spot spawning Brook lampreys, Lampetra planeri, again. No luck, but I did see two typical lamprey redds – areas of freshly disturbed stones and gravel amongst the otherwise sludgy algal-cloaked stream bed – typical of lamprey activity just a few days earlier. At the centre of the images above and below, and then zoomed in. Within just a few days the pristine clean exposed gravel soon loses this stand-out appearance. And in exactly the part of the stream I would have expected: the most sunlit, easterly third of the stream bed, and at the tail end of slightly deeper water, just before the surface breaks up into a faster rill. I suspect that the lampreys might have been active a few days earlier when my attention was focused elsewhere.

A slightly warmer day had found me once more up amidst the daffodils taking photos and measurements of some of the latest cultivars to open. I spotted a small, pristine solitary mining bee resting up on a daffodil flower. Then another. Then two more. They were, if not everywhere, then certainly in large numbers and were so unphased by me that I assume they must have all emerged in the sunshine and relative warmth that morning. I even had to rescue two which had fallen into a small pool of rainwater trapped in one of the biomass pellet bags containing daffodils waiting to be planted out. I had a go at identifying the bees, but gave up – probably an Andrena species.

We lifted the daffodils in the bags last year, splitting overcrowded clumps and it’ll soon be time to empty the bags, split the bulbs and plant them into newly prepared patches to enhance the display next year. This will be quite a task, since after an hour of effort, with Willam’s help, lugging them into place, I counted we have over 80 bags to process. That’s a lot of bulbs.

This task was in addition to a serious effort by W and I to sort out aberrant daffodils in this Malus/Sorbus copse. Since the medium-term plan is to create a comparative display showcasing different cultivars in clumps, the effect is spoiled if a few ‘wrong ‘uns’ are lurking amidst the uniformity of one form. To help with this tedious job, which continued over several weeks as more flowers opened and I discovered more imposters, I bought a new spade!

Described as a Spear and Jackson ‘tub draining tool‘ it looked to have the sort of profile I wanted. It’s proved to be a boon, since it’s narrow, tall, curved, heavy, and with a very long spade. This means it can get in amongst adjacent bulbs and can be almost hammer-dug in with arm effort only, rather than having to use your foot and knee flexion, as one normally would, to drive the spade into the ground – which is far more awkward to do amongst a group of flowering bulbs.

The spade depth has allowed me to lift all except one bulb in a plug of turf without digging too shallowly and damaging too many bulb roots. A similarly shaped circular plug of turf can also easily be removed from the new planting spot, in the same way with arm effort only, and the lifted daff plonked in with minimal disruption. The plug of turf being carted back to fill the gap where the lifted bulb was removed. In years to come as clumps become crowded, this spade will also prove invaluable for more routine lifting and splitting, I think.

Lifting and moving daffodils is much more of a problem than with snowdrops since their bulbs are invariably smaller and nearer the surface. Which is why, along with the later season when much more waits to be done around the property, and there’s much more leafy growth around the fading daffodil leaves, I’ve rarely split or moved daffodils in the past.

The daffodils have been a delight in this possibly record-breakingly gloomy April.

This is my very variable sequence of rainfall and PV inverter totals, a great guide to light levels, since 2014:

136.9mm – N/A

34mm – 519 KWH

108mm – 394 KWH

47mm – 410 KWH

158mm – 346 KWH

94mm – 416KWH

50mm – 498 KWH

19mm – 522 KWH

53mm – 420 KWH

111mm – 393 KWH.

2024:  225 mm – 299 KWH – a record high; a record low!

I’m including a short video compilation I’ve managed to put together of some of late March’s daffodils.

Finding so many solitary bees very close to one of our honey bee colonies was a particular delight since it’s often claimed that honey bees negatively impact other solitary bee populations. Spot the differences below – the honey bee is the last image. The only bee, apart from bumblebees, in the UK, with specially adapted pollen collecting baskets, or corbicula, on the hind leg.

A few days later I located a colony of a different larger mining bee in a small area to the South of a few birch trees in our lower meadow. And an ashy mining bee in our upper hay meadow. They seem to be thriving, along with the even smaller species which survive amongst our cobbled paths, and also became active for the first time this year, over the last 10 days.

__

Just before the full moon this month there was a brief weather window when I reckoned I could safely open the honey bee colonies I aim to take a box of comb honey from later in the year. With temperatures barely due to hit 13 degrees C and a brisk North/North Easterly wind, I knew I had to plan carefully and be as quick as possible since any chilling of larval ‘brood’ bees can impact their survival, or long-term health once they emerge as adult bees.

Given the dreadful weather we’ve had, I opted to add a single saved frame of capped comb honey (taken from their hive last autumn) into the centre of the insulated box of empty frames, which I was going to add – for the bees to, hopefully, fill through the summer.  The empty frames obviously require new comb to be built out first by the bees, before any collected nectar can be stored, which all takes time and effort for them. The honey-filled frame should also help to encourage the bees into this new empty space above their colony, and get working, plus be an additional food source should (as has turned out) the weather stays miserably poor for foraging for many more days. The task was carried out on consecutive days on the two hives which I choose to manage in this way, and I’m grateful to our dear friend and garden visitor on the day, Los Hammerton, for taking and allowing me to include some of the photos below which he took of me doing this.

I’d worked out that if the ‘super’ box to be added (stored in a cool outbuilding over winter) is put into the sun-warmed car for a couple of hours, then the super, comb and frames will get pre-warmed to a temperature closer to the inside of the hive (around 36 degrees C). I also did some of the preparatory work of lifting off outer weights and layers from the hive, before I carried up the new box. This had a simple tea towel cover on top, to keep as much warmth in, as the addition was made as swiftly of possible. With no pre-smoking of the bees. Both hives were therefore minimally disrupted.

Los commented that as I prised and lifted off the hive cover, he could actually see from his standpoint a heat shimmer of warm air rising from the colony. Something that working very close to the bees, I’ve never noticed, but perhaps also a reflection of the large temperature difference between internal and external air, during this very cool spring.

Why not wait a bit longer, until better weather opportunities present? Mainly because there are no hints of this any time soon on medium term forecasts, and many of the high value nectar forage sources like Malus and Acer blossoms are about to begin to open.

Other seasonal jobs completed in this rush of dry weather work, included bringing up the cut wood from hedge laying this winter, after at last being able to get the Goldoni tractor into the fields. And then leaving it dumped for my skilled log splitter and stacker, Fiona to get to work. Which she speedily does, shrinking what seems like an enormous pile, down into barely a fifth of what we’ll need to replenish stocks after this mild, but long winter.

For the last couple of years, we’ve also tried to cut the wet, peaty zone of our lower hay meadow, (which is never cut during summer), in the late spring in one of the extended spells we always get in late February or March. And use this as an excellent soft, absorbent bedding material for our lambing pens. Except this year we haven’t had any such dry spells, so we exhausted our bedding and had to shift to old leftover hay from our 2022 harvest.

The purple moor grass, Molinia caerulea, which yields the wonderful bleached dry leaves by late winter and is so typical of such ‘rhos’ pasture, has now begun to grow its new season green leaves. And the ground is still too wet for our BCS power scythe to take into this area. However, a chance manual pull of some bleached leaves as I walked past a few days ago, showed that they were very loose. A trial raking out of an area with our wooden hay rakes followed and was so successful, that we quickly manged to cover most of the area, and in so doing have a store of well over a year’s worth of bedding for next year. The bags will be emptied in the now cleared space in one of our hay sheds – minimal effort, gentle exercise, a useful by product of an ‘unproductive’ bit of land, which eventually gets recycled once more after rotting down in a muck heap as a turf suppressant in our daffodil/crab apple/Sorbus copse, prior to bulb planting, as illustrated above..

Even better, by removing this dead material from the rhos pasture zone of the meadow, it’s allowed the great diversity of flowering plants – Valerian, Meadowsweet, Celandines, Marsh Violets, Devil’s-bit Scabious, Lady’s Smock, etc. which are growing amongst the moor grass, to suddenly see the full light of day. They can now grow away more easily at this critical time of the year.

___

We’ve finished our lambing for the year, with probably our best ever results, in spite of the weather. 16 lambs from 10 ewes, plus one that didn’t conceive, with 9 ram lambs  and 7 ewe lambs, so no shortage of options for flock rejuvenation going forward. However, it’s been our most demanding season to date with 3 significant lambing assists, culminating in ‘Hartlebury’, who was clearly not achieving anything late in the afternoon on April 9th.

After bringing her in to assess with dusk approaching, the time came for an exploratory examination. A very big lamb head was presenting with just the very hoof tips of one leg. So began the most protracted delivery of my experience. Fiona held ‘Hartlebury’ (H) who was remarkably tolerant and opted to stand throughout, whilst bent double I struggled to make any real progress in manipulating either hooves or head with just my fingers, into a position where I could get any meaningful traction. Many minutes passed by.

Fiona now knows to stay quiet at such times, whilst I struggle to achieve any progress. Not just experience gleaned from previous difficult lambings, but also memories of challenging surgical operations from distant years, when at some point the benign banter in the operating theatre would tail off. If things were really challenging, I’d ask for the background music from GWR FM to be turned off for maximum concentration, until whatever crisis was peaking, had passed. Everyone knew what this meant. We probably all deal with such dramas in our own way. I go into silent mode.

Needless to say, approaching this sort of difficulty at the end of the lambing season, when one is feeling physically and emotionally tired, means the task becomes a little harder. However, there has to be only one outcome – barring the trauma and poor outcome of a sheep caesarean – which drives one on. The lamb has to be delivered, one way or another. Dead, or alive. It ain’t going to come out on its own, and only you are going to be able to manage it. Believe me, this is a huge pressure. Whatever thoughts pop into your head, as you struggle away.

As I worked silently, with my own thoughts, and dusk fell darker, the LED of my beanie light gradually dimmed. After maybe 20 minutes, and wondering if I could do anything else, I reckoned it might be worth trying both hands/fingers on different parts of the hoof tips at the same time, so glanced up for the first time to ask Fiona if she could hold ‘H”s tail out of the way, which up to that point I’d been holding in my left hand.

And discovered that Fiona was illuminating the scene from above, with her Smart Phone (SP) in one hand, whilst she held the still, groaning, but wonderfully compliant ‘H’ against the pen-side hurdle. My immediate unspoken thought as one of the UK’s few determined SP avoiders, (although I later discovered Los Hammerton is a fellow abstinent) was:

“Can’t you do anything without getting your SP out?”

What I didn’t realise until later was that she wasn’t just supplying extra light, but had been recording the whole thing – hoping to get a video of a safe lamb delivery. Which I’ve managed before, but which I also realised was a long way off me achieving on this occasion. When we later played back the 4 minutes of so of video she’d captured, it consists of poor light images of this inconsequential, seasonal rural drama.

The soundtrack? Some dusk birdsong, ‘H”s grunts and pants. The metallic clunking of bodies against the hurdle. Some sloshes of soapy water as I dunk my bloody, mucous lubricated hand in the bucket beside me. The slurps of body fluids and tugged-on hidden lamb parts with my sighs as I physically struggled away. The 4 minute scene culminates with me asking in a voice which accurately captures my exhausted, down-beat state of mind:

“Are you not able to put your phone away, and hold the tail for me, dear?”

Riveting quick fire YouTube, it ain’t. Sorry.

But this is how such real-life/death events sometimes are. Entirely messy, frustrating and protracted.

I can conclude this saga by saying it took nearly an hour from when we’d started. Aided by Fiona’s tail holding, and me using towel grip onto the hooves. Once I’d worked their tips an inch or two beyond H’s body. Eventually I was able to pull the legs out a bit further, and somehow manged to get two fingers behind the lamb’s skull and lever it out beyond the vulval-lip-impasse. Once this point was passed, the lamb was swiftly and easily delivered.

I picked up the towel and worked away on its chest and body, knowing that I’d already felt unseen tongue movements a few minutes earlier. But the lamb’s attempts at first breaths were feeble, fluid-filled and had the sound of a death rattle. Worse still, whilst these sounds improved a little after several minutes of rubbing and drying, its head flexed backwards in an abnormal posture know as opisthotonus. I’d never observed this in a new-born lamb before, but took it to be a very poor prognostic sign, indicative of cranial trauma or hypoxia. Or both. See here for more detail, gleaned from the sort of attention given to high value foals with similar problems.

I kept working away, drying the lamb off, and Fiona sprayed the umbilical cord with iodine. Eventually, he (by now delivery number ‘9’ had been sexed) could just about support himself in sternal recumbency, so we left ‘H’ and ‘9’ to it, with little hope for survival and went back inside. An hour later, it was clear ‘9”s co-ordination was impaired and he couldn’t stand on his front legs to reach the teat. So the next obligatory step was milking ‘H’ out on both sides, in sequence. For this we swapped roles and I held ‘H’ whilst Fiona worked away. Transferring the milk into a big syringe I managed to get ‘9’ to swallow around 150 mls of the greeny-yellow, thick colostrum, or first milk – such a vital source of antibodies for any mammalian neonate.

By now, midnight was approaching and as we left the pen, I noticed that for the first time in ages, the clouds had parted and we could see a few stars.

“If he makes it” I said, and we both still thought this unlikely, “We’ll have to name him after a star. Beginning with ‘K’ “.

I discovered a wonderful recording (performed by the University of Pretoria Camerata, conducted by Dr. Michael Barrett) of this beautiful song, by Latvian composer Ēriks Ešenvalds. Who wrote it to accompany the lyrics of the poem ‘Stars’ by American poet Sara Teasdale. Which seems appropriate to include at this point.

I’d never heard of Sara before, but she won the first Columbia Poetry Prize in 1918, a prize that would later be renamed the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. She wrote seven collections of poetry during her life, which ended tragically after her physical and mental health deteriorated and she committed suicide in 1933.

I shall forever think of those outside moments, and the soon to be named ‘9’, when I listen to this song in the future:

Stars

Alone in the night
On a dark hill
With pines around me
Spicy and still,

And a heaven full of stars
Over my head,
White and topaz
And misty red;

Myriads with beating
Hearts of fire
That aeons
Cannot vex or tire;

Up the dome of heaven
Like a great hill,
I watch them marching
Stately and still,
And I know that I
Am honored to be
Witness
Of so much majesty.

Early morning, just after dawn the next day, and ‘9’ was still alive. Follow on milkings and syringe feedings continued for 36 hours. He grew visibly stronger, his obvious ataxia reduced, and eventually he just about managed, with hand holding support, to make it to a teat and suckle on his own. Hurrah! At last we felt hopeful, and the orange spray ‘9’ was applied.

But he was no longer a ram lamb. No longer plain number ‘9’. We were sufficiently confident to name him. And so ‘Kang’ it was. Not the easiest to remember, but monosyllabic and apparently a ‘giant star’ in the constellation of Virgo, which is just about visible to the naked eye at this time of the year in our latitude. Should we get our act together and have a good look – if the clouds part once more.

‘Kang’ is now instantly recognisable having a snowy white fleece with little of the ginger hairy kemp which is typical of most Tor ddu lambs, and aids their survival in our wet climates. He does indeed shine! Within just 4 days, like most of this year’s lambs, he was trying to jump up onto his mum’s back.

What remarkable resilience to recover from such dystocian trauma.

Given the weather, he was kept inside for a good week like many of our lambs this year, until the day when we let ‘H’ and ‘Kang’ out together. And he just about made it in a straight line, benefitting from stretching his legs, and has gone from strength to strength.

For those who would reasonably question the rationality of this tale, the effort involved, the fact we opt to choose names for our lambs that have minimal monetary value, and in the case of the ram lambs will probably end up being taken to slaughter in another few months, I have no simple riposte.

It is as it is, and we feel our lives are enriched by these experiences. I can’t explain any further.

Although it made a sufficient impression for me to cross swords with the editorial team of CAM magazine – a free publication sent to all Cambridge alumni 3 times a year. Just after ‘Kang’ was delivered, they published a feature about the on-site farm used for part of the veterinary students’ education at Cambridge. With a range of interesting interviews and photos of lambs, cows, collie, farm staff and photogenic female students accompanying the article.

But which image did they actually choose to go on the cover of this infrequent, august publication? 

Have a quick look at the link to issue 101, and perhaps, as I did, one might ask why settle on such an uninteresting image (which I eventually got them to confirm was a big pile of cow S**T?)

Was there a subliminal message, I wondered? Eventually I elicited a reply from the team that it was designed to pique readers’ interest. To explore further.

Well, I guess we all sometimes use such tricks. Maybe. (Will Kang Do?)

But a muck heap??

__

A good deal of my time is spent with the young lambs, from day one, crouching down at eye level, and trying to engage with them. It works wonders for eventually ending up with less frightened sheep, who will follow us rather than having to be herded. Which frankly without a sheepdog is an impossible task on our steep small fields.

This year I’ve been even more observant of lamb behaviour and how inquisitive and exploratory they are. Brought into sharper focus after listening to a fascinating discussion with Professor Jonathan Haidt, on the subject of his recently published book: “The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood Is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness.”

(Thanks to Chris for sending me this.)

Haidt’s exploration of this huge issue in many young children and how he traces its links back to the explosion in ownership of Smart Phones amongst today’s younger children, as well as their use of “social media”, is both compelling and shocking. It’s not all negative though – he has suggestions to turn back the tide, and in particular explores the essential benefits of outdoors play, which most terrestrial mammal’s young engage in, as a vital part of learning to come to terms with the wider world.

Virtual reality, or online interaction just isn’t the same as a bit of rough and tumble and head-banging to sort out one’s place in the world.

Yes, the YouTube above is a long watch, but I’d suggest anyone involved at any level with younger children would benefit from thinking about this topic, and perhaps sharing this link with those children’s parents – as we have.

I should conclude this section with this comment.

In my occasional (frequent?) conversations with Fiona about the benefits and downsides of SP usage, I must acknowledge that I’m completely copping out. Sadly, much of modern life would seem to struggle without them.

It’s just that before they were around, very strangely, life seemed to carry on OK. Didn’t it?

We didn’t HAVE to be constantly in contact with everything, and everyone. Have we become happier or more fulfilled as individuals or as a society since they became ubiquitous? And I struggle to understand how human self-discipline can compete successfully with SP algorithms, and the brain chemistry induced compulsion/addiction behavioural traits which such devices elicit. Nay, are designed to exploit. Even before the much heralded AI explosion really kicks in.

__

It’s been a good year for flowers on our Rhododendron plants, so far. Shrubs that tend to get bigger and better year on year, but are particularly floriferous this spring, aided by last summer and autumn’s consistently wet conditions, when the flower buds for the following season are forming. Our third to flower, is the very lovely R.‘ Bruce Brechtbill’. I discovered this was named after the eponymous nurseryman. who owned a nursery in Eugene, Oregon. In about 1966, a single plant of R. ‘Unique’ (which he propagated for sale) was discovered to have pink, rather than the normal cream-white flowers. Bruce Brechtbill, propagated this ‘sport’, probably by cuttings, to bulk up its numbers. He died in 1973 and in the following year the new selection was submitted for registration under the name ‘Bruce Brechtbill’ in honour of the late nurseryman.

It has gorgeous large flower trusses, and as a ‘sport’ would probably have arisen as a result of a spontaneous mutation within the DNA of one of the plant’s cell nuclear genome. And presumably this mutation had some competitive advantage over the pre-existing genome, and so dominated to create this new cultivar.

I’ve learned from my delving interest into virology recently that as we get older (65 seems to be the critical age, oh dear), two things start to happen. Firstly, the incidence of DNA mutations which are occurring very frequently throughout our lives in our own cells, become even more common.

But perhaps more importantly, our body’s innate system for identifying such abnormal cells, and destroying them very quickly (which happens without us ever knowing anything about it, through the action of T lymphocytes, as a first step) suddenly starts to work much less efficiently. So much so that by around the age of 70, this natural function of our immune system to detect and eradicate novel mutated and potentially cancerous cells a.s.a.p. at source, has become seriously impaired.

The combination of these two changes explains the typical rise in cancers seen in the elderly. This is a great simplification of a complex field of oncology and immunology, but is something I didn’t appreciate before. I’ve learned that there are some simple things anyone can do to help mitigate this process, and boost our innate T lymphocyte function, but I’ll leave that aside for now.

What I did want to reference, in the context of lights at the end of tunnels, is that many scientists fear that lights at the end of the long tunnel that was the Western world’s response to the Covid19 virus may in fact not herald a brighter dawn, but rather be the lights of an oncoming train.

It’s interesting that several recent discussions highlighting this come at the time that a popular weekly British investment magazine ‘Money Week’ ran a cover story just last week heralding the huge investment opportunities that investment into mRNA technologies like those used in the Pfizer and Moderna “vaccines” against Covid, have pushed into the spotlight.

However, although written by a PhD, sadly the author’s doctorate wasn’t in medicine or science, but rather economics from the LSE.

Almost at the same time as this piece of effusive journalism, our own parliament allowed, in the main chamber for the first time, a lengthy, serious debate on the ongoing issue of increased UK all cause mortality. And for once a very small number of cross party MP’s attended and contributed. For the record, and so long as it remains available online, I’m including a link to this here, for anyone interested in hearing what some British MPs are worried about.

It also follows some disturbing analysis published earlier this month, from a Japanese study looking at the significant rise in the incidence of a range of common cancers in Japan, which seems to correlate with the roll out and use of the Pfizer and Moderna products. (Gibo M, Kojima S, Fujisawa A, et al. (April 08, 2024)  – Increased Age-Adjusted Cancer Mortality After the Third mRNA-Lipid Nanoparticle Vaccine Dose During the COVID-19 Pandemic in Japan.) 

This peer reviewed paper in the Cureus Journal of Medical Science discusses possible causes in some detail and concludes with this summary:

“Conclusions:

Statistically significant increases in age-adjusted mortality rates of all cancer and some specific types of cancer, namely, ovarian cancer, leukemia, prostate, lip/oral/pharyngeal, pancreatic, and breast cancers, were observed in 2022 after two-thirds of the Japanese population had received the third or later dose of SARS-CoV-2 mRNA-LNP vaccine. The particularly marked increases in mortality rates of these ERα-sensitive (oestrogen receptor-sic) cancers may be attributable to several mechanisms of the mRNA-LNP ( Lipid Nano-Particle – sic)  vaccination rather than COVID-19 infection itself or reduced cancer care due to the lockdown. The significance of this possibility warrants further studies.”

Indeed, it would seem to.

I do hope that they and many other concerned doctors and authors are wrong about this. Since it might point to an impending wave of future health issues coming down the line. And because the UK National Health Service already seems to be creaking at the seams (and many, I guess, will have some personal insight into this, as I do).

I also listened this week to a discussion with Australian lawyer and retired barrister Julian Gillespie which provided further insights from yet another country, spared as a result of its geography from the initial “waves” of Covid infection with the widely acknowledged to be more serious first strains of the virus.

Anyone wondering about what they might agree to have injected into their bodies in future would find Julian Gillespie’s clarity of thought and explanation enlightening. He’s spent 3 years getting to grips with the issues, and explores many aspects as clearly as anyone I’ve heard to date. Of particular interest to me was his research into the detail of the common legislation in place since 2000 in Britain, the U.S.A. and Europe to regulate genetically modified organisms, and the required licensing before the use of any such products in these countries. If you fancy watching this interview, it’s probably worth doing so sooner rather than later since such discussions often seem to have a short shelf life, before they mysteriously disappear from the internet. Alternatively you could read his detailed legal arguments in published academic paper form here.

• In essence he outlines that the novel mRNA LNP ‘vaccines’ are indeed by the legislation’s definitions genetically modified organisms.
• That the drug companies knew this.
• That the regulators in all countries in a rush to get the products onto the market chose to ignore these legal requirements – designed for safeguarding people and societies from potential harm.
• And that all politicians and scientific authorities chose not to inform the public about this minor detail, in their rush to get the ‘safe and effective’ jabs into people’s arms.

I fully understand why many just don’t want to know anything else about this subject. But given the long standing general resistance to GMO’s in plant products in the EU and UK, I wonder how many people would have given their ‘informed consent’ to receive the mRNA LNP jabs, if they had known about these ‘minor’ legislative hoops (and the further trial work normally required to pass through them), that were skipped?

It’s just way easier to trust what our doctors and leaders tell us, isn’t it?

Judging by the Money Week article, and also that in December 2023 Pfizer took the massive decision to splurge $43 billion dollars in acquiring an American biotechnology company, Seagen, which specialises in novel cancer therapies, maybe it’s worth a little serious reflection.

Since Big Money is clearly being bet on further dramatic, novel, medical roll-outs, particularly for large numbers of future cancer cases.

Coming, no doubt, to a doctor near you, soon.

To quote from Pfizer’s own press release about this deal:

“Cancer remains a leading cause of death, and one in three people in the U.S. will receive a cancer diagnosis in their lifetime. With one of the largest investments in Pfizer’s history, we are going all in on cancer with the goal of delivering breakthroughs that drastically improve the lives of people with cancer,” said Dr. Albert Bourla, Pfizer Chairman and Chief Executive Officer. “With Seagen’s proprietary, world-leading Antibody-Drug Conjugate (ADC) technology, together with the scale and strength of Pfizer’s capabilities and expertise, we are poised to change the cancer treatment paradigm. We believe Oncology will be a significant growth driver for Pfizer and contribute meaningfully to the achievement of our near- and long-term financial goals.” (My highlighting).

 

Hmmmmm.

So to recap, Japanese scientists seem to have found that the novel mRNA LNP ‘vaccines’ have been associated with a significant rise in cancer case mortality in those who’ve received multiple doses. It also seems that, anecdotally for now, many oncologists are witnessing similar changes around the Western world.

And the biggest of the 2 drug companies involved in producing these mRNA LNP ‘vaccines’ sees a potential financial bonanza in the future from treating new cancer cases.

Cureus? Curious? Lights at the end of a tunnel? What do I make of all this?

I’ll let anyone who’s made it this far ponder where they think ‘the truth’ lies.

Or is that lies?

___

I’ll close with another beautiful Ēriks Ešenvalds song based on another of Sara Teasdale’s poems.

Written long before SPs were even a dream in clever electronic scientists’ minds. Sung here, in the college chapel, by the choir of Trinity College, Cambridge from the compilation album of some of Ešenvalds’s choral works, Northern Lights :

Only In Sleep:

Only in sleep I see their faces,
Children I played with when I was a child,
Louise comes back with her brown hair braided,
Annie with ringlets warm and wild.

Only in sleep Time is forgotten —
What may have come to them, who can know?
Yet we played last night as long ago,
And the doll-house stood at the turn of the stair.

The years had not sharpened their smooth round faces,
I met their eyes and found them mild —
Do they, too, dream of me, I wonder,
And for them am I too a child?