Wild Somerset Child

Rose in winter

2012-02-07T22:44:00.000Z

I walked out one February morning

to pluck a winter rose.

So perfect.

Yet the heart

was frozen

velvety petals

cold

folded on crystal

solid as stone

on that day, in the pale

Saturday sun.

Crimson petals, fragile

as they thaw and fall

wither and blacken.

The memory remains

and breaks my heart.

I catch them in a porcelain dish

to keep forever

to remember this day.

Fifty four years ago - 8th February 1958 - it snowed on our wedding day. Bitter cold as I stood in my long white wedding dress, Raymond holding my hand so tight. We have survived so much together since then, he and I; and now comes change, and something I find difficult to write about. Something was wrong; I could not detect quite what it was; it crept up on us unawares. But now we know. After three months of increasing illness and symptoms I will not divulge, he at last went to the doctor, and two weeks ago was diagnosed with diabetes type two. It was such a shock, to see this dear and strong, clever man so vulnerable. In his 80th year, we could not expect that he could always continue all the building works and heavy tasks that have been his way of life.

Early October, caravanning at Malvern; happy days

We learn that diabetes type two is treatable with tablets, diet (eat less) and exercise. Today he was told to increase the daily dose of pills. And I discover that he has suspected what was wrong since the summer, or perhaps even earlier, and ignored it. Many odd moments suddenly fell into place. Casual comments about wanting to go on a 3-week trip to Europe "because it would be the last long tour he would do." And booking it. Casually looking for a motorhome that we could both drive to share the travelling. Falling asleep and having no energy; and so on. We are not the first couple to discover that one's whole life has been turned upside down, or that we need to make adjustments. We're picking up the pieces. What will be will be.

But as I was picking another 'Othello' rose in my wild front garden this winter's morning, to give to my beloved with early morning tea tomorrow, I noticed that again its heart was frozen. You could see the ice, like crystal, between the folded petals. Dark thoughts. This rose flowers all winter, hanging its heavy head.

And that is how I feel right now: head hanging and heart frozen. I am captured in a time-warp from which I cannot escape. I would not want to do so, but the cause is exercising all of me. If you look closely at the first rose, and double-click the image, you will see the ice. There is one rose left to pick this year on the bush; it is frozen, too, and will never open for it is shrivelled and too immature.

Snow Sunday

2012-02-05T10:38:00.001Z

Snow,

softly falling

in the night.

A white world,

on waking;

and so quiet.

Mist descends

into the valley.

No sound,

but that of

silence.

This is the first time I have felt able to post for a while on this more personal of my blogs. Soon, I hope, things will return to normal (or normal for here) and I will have more to say and share. Please forgive me for ignoring the blogging world; it was not intentional.

The Way Ahead

2012-01-01T21:14:00.007Z

looking into the distance

One way and another, 2011 was my 'annus horribilis', and not a year I really want to remember. Even stranger has been my reaction to New Year's Day. I have my goals, the things I love doing - but could not face my usual walk with notebook in hand, cataloguing my failures of the year before, or my plans for the coming twelve months. Twenty-eleven brought too many hurts, too many problems, too many unexpected changes. New challenges confront me, not my usual list of resolutions; more a case of getting through each day, each night, the treadmill that has become the norm.

typical of the photos I take to sketch later

How boring! So instead of the now daily task of overnight washing and drying, the wondering how I would survive the day, tick off the commissioned writing, stay sane and normal (was I ever normal?), I lay in bed today reading, late of the morning; two mugs of tea. Checked the hens, cleared dishes from yesterday's partial family gathering (our beloved boys), wondered why I could not motivate myself; for once did not want to write the usual 'morning pages' - twelve years of book after book after book, words, words, words.

nearly fell of a five-barred gate to take this - I love the juxta position of bare tree and firs

And dearest R. suggests we drive out with a picnic, this beautiful new year's day; not my usual solo disappearing but with a basket - a feast - of prawns and smoked salmon, chicken and salad, home-made bread and flasks of boiling water for tea. "Take us on the backroads to Ilmington Hill," he says, and I gather up map and camera; and sneak in pen and 'journaling notebook', begun three years ago on just such an escape, and surprise myself as words spill onto the page, even before we have left home. Word whispers materialise, and tiny sketches ready for spit-smudged neocolor.

the silhouette of firs fascinate me; upthrust of branches against a pale sky

still gazing into the distance -
another way ahead

We are back in time to shut in the hens (six eggs again); drink more tea by the fire; I write my New Year's blog for Dobies, and I ask myself for how long I can manage this virtually 24/7 mountain of work, and stay true to us both, and make the time to stitch and create my paper and textile 'Quilt Journey; which is to catalogue my love of life, my passion for place.

'Word Whispers' from today will appear in 'Journaling the Journal' as soon as I have a moment to colour and scan my sketch and type the words.

Beyond Leonardo

2011-12-05T23:33:00.002Z

Spotted in Trafalgar Square - wonderful pattern of tiles

We have just returned from a magical four days break - hosted by dear friends living in Chiswick (London). From the moment we arrived on Friday, we were indulged and cosseted. It was perfect, and just what we needed after six months non-stop churning out feature articles. Don't get me wrong, please; I love what I am doing, thrive on it in fact, do not 'churn' but carefully craft what I write. But - just sometimes - to be able to spend time reading and chatting and exchanging remembrances of years past is a welcome respite. We meet about twice a year, here in our chaotic Cotswold wilderness; or in Chiswick where we do not have to suffer the daily noise of traffic passing our bedroom window. Indeed, there is no traffic sound at all! Bliss.

Leonardo at The National Gallery (London)

Enough of our private and personal exchanges. On Saturday we were taken to the National Gallery and the fantastic exhibition 'Leonardo da Vinci - Painter at the Court of Milan'. Strange to be back in central London, once - over 50 years ago - so familiar to me when, as a student, I visited art galleries and museums, theatres and libraries and never felt the threat of people pressing too close. Yet the cosmopolitan presence all around me did not intimidate but had that buzz of individual participation; every couple or family oblivious to anyone else. Trafalgar Square is now, quite frankly, a mess, but no doubt with a purpose to draw visitors towards whatever they feel to be personally special.

Spectacular - and the late afternoon light was such that I could capture
Nelson's ship-in-a-bottle AND Nelson's Column

Plaque explaining Nelson's ship-in-a-bottle - significant words

Arriving early for 'Leonardo', my camera drew me towards the curious ship-in-a-bottle, and not the rather boring and overshadowed traditional Christmas tree dwarfed by Nelson's Column (the tree: a Norwegian spruce, and a gift every year to the British people from Norway across the North Sea). Equally banal was the Olympics 2012 count-down clock which I might have photographed had it not been one of those 'must-have' images of "been-there, done-that; and here's the photo to prove it!" You experience it the world over, iconic venues destroyed by tick-it-off-the-list tourists. Of course, that's a personal opinion, as was my reaction to 'Leonardo da Vinci - Painter to the Court of Milan'. Even there, I was as much observing the stream of onlookers as recording my own reactions and wonderment.

But, all that I have already written in this post is my considered observation, subsequent to the day; and my final penning - a 'word-whisper' - was written on the spot as I absorbed atmosphere and, truly, the magic of being there. I find the press of people difficult and withdraw into myself; but from that very special gifted day will emerge another sequence in my 'Quilted Journey'. The elements are now there; I must just make time to gather them into my ongoing mixed-media fabric and paper travel journal.

Double-click on the 'word-whisper' image (left) to be able to read it. My thoughts on how I will interpret the exhibition and what it meant to me will appear in due course - my notes at present are contained within one of my journaling sketchbooks.

Meanwhile, we are back home; so grateful for the kindness of friends - and if you read this, dear T & A, it's our turn to entertain you come the New Year, though we cannot offer mimosa and parakeets in a secluded Chiswick garden, nor high street shops, but fresh eggs from our eight hens in the apple orchard, and perhaps a muddy walk (tramp) through the local fields and woods.

Art Exhibition Extraordinaire

2011-11-30T20:53:00.002Z

It was a privilege to be invited to participate in the first village art exhibition; to attend the preliminary meetings, where I always seemed to have plenty to say! And then to walk into the Church the day before set-up day and see where we had been allocated a space. I was thrilled with mine - out with the tape measure to find it was all of 5ft x 5ft, backed on two adjacent sides by white display boards, on a third by the wall of the early 14thC de Mohun Chapel, and the fourth 'the way in'. I wanted to create a little art room, and hit on the idea of it being at the top of a castle tower (Stokesay in Shropshire sprang to mind). Back home, I measured furniture (all made by my dear Raymond over the years - and as he was exhibiting too, it was an extension of the space he had not been given, but that's another story).

Finished mixed-media journals: paper and textiles; old maps - and
many other recycled materials and artifacts

Next day (Friday) came the unearthing of my chosen pieces, the carrying downstairs, the loading into our trailer, the lifting out and carrying up the long path into the Church, the manipulating down the aisle and past the lectern and another exhibitor's booth into my available space. Exhausting (and we knew we had to dismantle it all at the end of the day). It would have been easier had the chapel door alongside been open, but the key was missing!

Working sketchbooks and illustrated journals

Well never mind, I eased our tables into place and then set about arranging the work I wanted to show, and the artifacts I had created for sale - proceeds to be added to the window-repair fund of this ancient Church - village history is fascinating; details appear in my great-aunt's book on medieval architecture. A beloved lady from whom my love of history first sprang (and that, too, is another story!)

Items created for sale: label tag-notebooks, pocket note-holders with
my own 'pressed-flower' printed notelets; bookmarks and blank
travel journals made from altered antique maps fused to textile covers

And so my castle turret became my workspace for the Friday evening preview, and the Saturday show. I did not want it to be something static; I wanted to create the feel that my map-trails, illustrated journals and textile books were ongoing living things (indeed they are) and so positioned myself with my pocket-sized diary and mini-paintbox to continue the miniatures I sketch when away and rarely have time to finish. There was time to chat, about what I did and why.

Working in my 'castle turret' (5ft x 5ft space in the de Mohun Chapel)

Time to share with others my joy in creating; not to show off, but to show that anyone can begin with a single word, a first scribble, and from that what you do can grow, and - as I discovered to my delight - give pleasure to others. It was a wonderful experience, demonstrating something I love doing so much, in snatched moments. Actually my life-line in times of stress (and that is yet a further story).

Close-up of my work table and display of finished travel trails

Work in progress: Malvern Map Trail -
words, sketches, fused napkins and photos
relating to working visits to the stunning
Malvern Showground (with thanks to TCAS)

Let me end with my 'artist statement' which we all had to produce for the show catalogue:
"An Unfinished Journey: My life as an amateur mixed-media art-maker has evolved alongside my work as a published writer on travel, gardening and craft. I have moved through many genres and phases over the years, involving paper, yarn, fabric and stitch, documented in my illustrated journals. I am currently working on a series of decorated map trails and quilted books.
From writing diaries and journals on an almost daily basis since childhood, I have only recently progressed to adding sketches and illustrations; and, for certain items, transferred and stitched photographs, hand-embroidery and patchwork. Articles on some of my mixed-media work have appeared online and in a number of magazines. "

The exhibition was for me one of those unexpected life-changing moments; something that in my declining years I now plan to weave into my daily life in those fleeting moments of snatched creative bliss. Stay with me, I still have a whole world of creativity to explore ...

A little bit of adventure

2011-11-14T08:53:00.000Z

Crossing into Wales

We are back from a week of wandering: a double assignment - assessing a new motorhome and, alongside that, a circular tour from Bristol to Wales and back again through Shropshire, Herefordshire and Somerset. Four campsites in seven nights; a workout of the not-yet-on-the-market m'home (the Bailey Approach 620SE launched at the NEC last month, and loaned to us for the week by the manufacturer), plus route description, photos, where to go and what to do in Carmarthen, Knighton, Hereford and Bath.

This is not a full account of the week - for that will appear in 'Discover Touring' magazine issue no 3 in February 2012, but more a taster for what I will be posting over the weeks ahead in my other blogs. There was something of everything for us in these seven days, and hopefully also, for readers of blog and magazine pages. History, gardening, mapping, art, journaling, and at the end, a link with where I began my life 74 years ago.

Climbing the steep and somewhat muddy path on Knucklas Castle 'mound'

It rained for much of the time, which was good for testing the vehicle, though there was much mud to contend with. We seem to favour campsites in fields near rivers; and even with the rain, managed some photos and brief strolls in watery conditions: the rivers Towy, Teme, Wye, and a tributary of the Somerset Avon. The motorhome was luxurious but most of the trip was spent driving between venues, and report-writing - hardly the holiday we so needed. We managed a morning in Aberglasney - the gardens are restful no matter what the time of year, with a delicious lunch on the covered terrace, despite the rain sweeping in sheets across the valley onto our table! And another day in Knighton, eating again (!) in our favourite tearoom. We climbed to the top of Knucklas Castle hill - spectacular views - and enjoyed the poem trail through the new community orchard; I was minded to whisper my own (never go anywhere without paper and pen); but they are for another time. And so via Presteigne (yet another tea-room), Hereford for an overnight stop, and on to Bath for a publisher's book launch - a scholarly and entertaining book covering three hundred years of the Pump Room Orchestra. We'd been invited because I had supplied some material relating to my father's time there conducting; the year I was born, 1937.

The week was not without its heartache, which had nothing to do with what we did or where we went, but has affected my future outlook on all I attempt to do. I need to think hard and deep as to how I can continue, and without my dear husband's love and continuing support, I would not be writing this now. Life is all about decisions, and this last year has seen me needing to make more than usual; and I am so weary.

I'll never forget this monument to the past, on the top of the Knucklas Castle site. Looking north up the Teme valley towards its source. I can forget weariness and troubles when remembering the climb, and descent, and just being there for a few brief hours.

As the years roll by ...

2011-10-18T21:24:00.000+01:00

The two of us - my Facebook followers will have seen this already, but it was taken on a day we were actually relaxing and doing nothing - which is unusual for us

Today is my birthday and now (aged 74) I move into my 75th year. It's been a lovely day; quiet with time to play (unusual for me). Despite a more than usually strenuous twelve months, I am grateful for so many things: my beloved husband who is so supportive of all I do; our three amazing children and nine very special grandchildren; my extended family, friends and acquaintances; our home and garden; and my health, even if it does wobble from time to time, and I frequently think I am going senile! My hobbies rejuvenate me - words, paper and textiles scrambled into mixed-media creations and my many illustrated journals. I am a poor correspondent and owe letters or emails to so many people; I can only apologise and wish I could make more hours in the day. I know I should do so.

issue two - just published

And I am grateful to all those who still offer me work, without which it would be difficult to survive. Magazine commissions proliferate; sometimes I remember to post them on Facebook - usually I forget. But the one that has consumed most of my time these last months has been the title for which I have been engaged as Travel Editor ('Discover Touring'). That was some task: researching, collecting and editing all the material and images to cover the ten UK tourist regions. Eventually it was done (and my role was but a very small contribution to the whole); the result is an issue of which I am so proud to have been a part. It should be on sale now in WHSmith - I know this is a bit of a hard sell but this is only the second issue and it deserves to be better known. If you are into touring by caravan or motorhome, or even camping, here or abroad, do take a look.

The sun is still shining ...

2011-10-01T08:38:00.000+01:00

motorhomes and caravans continued to arrive all day, yet in no way do we feel 'cramped' - so much space surrounds each outfit - and what a view

It is the most amazing feeling to be somewhere you love being, with work to do and yet somehow not the same pressure; here below the long line of the Malvern Hills (where we were only a week ago, also working) time slows. Usually when we are away in the caravan or motorhome, we cannot ever relax - deadlines loom, the clock ticks, words must be written and photographs taken. It's become second nature to both of us to capture the moment; something we may not need for months to come - text and images that must be pulled from the well of experiences. All must be catalogued and annotated.

Almost ready for delivery - each car is personalised to the requirements of the owner-to-be, from start to finish

Yesterday was different. We visited the Morgan car factory - a 2-hour tour that anyone can take, but this was organised by TCAS as part of the 'Escape to the Hills' weekend. What always fascinates me when on such an outing is looking behind the scenes, the organisation, the attention to detail in so many aspects of a company. This post will not be a 'write-up' of Morgan - a British-owned, family-run firm since 1905, every beautiful car put together by hand, skilled workforce using hand-tools - just a gallery of the snapshots I was able to take as we walked from one dedicated workshop to another. I won't even caption the photos, for I cannot pretend to understand the technical aspects; hopefully such shots as I was able to take will speak for themselves. Words fail me for once - though I could research it if I needed to; most of the time I couldn't hear the tour guide anyway, for I lagged behind aiming for photos that showed the workmanship and not the backs of strangers!

A group of strangers, with one purpose - a tour of the Morgan Car factory

An Edwardian advertising photo, seen in the Morgan Museum (I probably should not have snapped this, but thought it was so beautiful, taken on the common near the factory, and with the highest point in the Hills in the background)

Our day ended with steak and salad by candlelight, sitting outside in the dark, stars above and an owl hooting (amazing, 30th September and so warm) - and I had spent a WHOLE AFTERNOON working on my 'Malvern Map Trail' - a mixed media words and images collage about which I will post as it progresses.

In my element - an old map, crayons, collage components, paints - and time

You'd think it was Summer

2011-09-29T19:30:00.000+01:00

The new building at the heart of the Three Counties Showground

Truly, you would think it was midsummer - the temperature still so warm at 19-18, though the sun has already dropped below the line of the whale-backed Malverns. Yes, we are here again - you could almost say we cannot keep away! But actually, would you believe it, we are semi-working, covering the new Three Counties 'Malvern Caravan Show'. The weather is perfect and there is much planned for our delight over the next three days. A tour of the Morgan Car factory tomorrow (which will take us back to the days of our youth when Raymond sold his beloved 1932 Aston Martin Le Mans sports racing car in order to marry me. That was in 1958; a long while ago).

Just the two of us - Raymond's experimental photography; and I got the giggles!

Right now, I cannot believe we are still sitting outside in shirtsleeves; the glow over the hills lights up the skyline, a magnificent silhouette. Tomorrow maybe we'll walk on the hills, or drive over them into Ledbury (another favourite spot). Saturday there's a farmer's market, and new caravans to see (we don't want or need a new one). I plan to work on my map-trail journal if I have time, and then Sunday ... not sure yet. I'm just not used to having so much spare time. It is almost dark, pinpricks of light emerge along the hills; a robin sings in a thorn tree. Acquaintances from the Caravan Writers' Guild have just arrived, and Raymond suggests we force down the bottle of cheap Cava that has been chilling in the fridge. Good idea, for it's too dark now to see the keyboard. Tomorrow is another day.

The baking urge

2011-09-18T22:10:00.001+01:00

My attempt at icing cupcakes

There's something about this time of year that has me dashing to the kitchen to bake something for teatime treats - maybe it's the onset of imminent Autumn, or the fact that dear Raymond needs regular breaks from building (he's blocking up the old doorway into the kitchen right now). Or maybe it's the fact that the kitchen is becoming the room it never was - after all these years it will be a working space and not a corridor with an ever-present easterly wind blowing out the gas every time someone opened the door into the garden.

Too embarrassing to show the state of the place with bags and boxes littering every work-surface, pending new shelves where the door once was - an old print-room typesetter from our former magazine publishing company and print works slotted into a convenient gap because R. still thinks this 4'6" high x 3' wide x 2'6" deep monstrosity has some value, twelve years after we decided to 'retire' (though we never did!) There's still much to do, and the kitchen's flat roof to repair because it leaks when it rains. R. will tackle that next, and probably before the shelves and new work-surface. We still managed to prepare a three-course family meal last night, despite balancing hot pans where no hot pans were meant to be. Saturday evening roast with a grapefruit and orange starter, fresh veg from the garden (five varieties, plus sweetcorn that we cannot grow here), then chocolate profiteroles, pancakes and 'toffee crisp'.

Scanned from my 1950s
cookbook (still in use)

There's nothing new under the sun, as the saying goes. Indeed, cupcakes may be the latest culinary craze, but they featured in the basic cook book I bought when Raymond and I were married, back in 1958 (all I could cook was pork chops and boil an egg!). I still use it - very battered now - for it has basics to which I still refer, like the pancake mixture made yesterday morning in readiness for the grandchildren's arrival.

The cakes had travelled from
Devon to Capel Manor College in
Middlesex for the 'Waooh' launch,
and were delicious

And just why did cupcakes re-enter the baking equation when I haven't made any for years? Read my Dobies of Devon gardening blog and you will discover the catalyst - mouth-watering cakes that were handed around at a press event to celebrate the launch of a new sunflower. 'Waooh' is a wow indeed, as were the little cakes; the plant itself is a branched sunflower perfect for growing a pot.

Excellent for beginner or
experienced cook

Well, having realised that nowadays cupcakes are 'cool', I wanted to try my hand at a modern recipe. I searched for an English cookbook and discovered a really special one. ‘Cupcakes from the Primrose Bakery’, by Martha Swift & Lisa Thomas and published by Kyle Cathie Ltd. It is the work of two young mothers who started baking cupcakes for children’s parties and now run a flourishing business in Primrose Hill and Covent Garden, London. Splendid recipes are given for all types of cupcake: vanilla, lemon, chocolate, caramel and many more, all to a basic simple formula using easy to acquire good quality ingredients. The buttercream icing is equally simple to make, though my swirling over the cakes was less than professional. (I'm more used to glace icing drizzled into place over a madeira sponge baked in a bread tin.)

These silicon baking cases were easy to fill

Clearly I needed easy-to-use cupcake cases for my spooning of the batter into paper cases ended in something of a mess. But kitchenware supplier, Lakeland Ltd, have the perfect answer: pastel-coloured silicon cases: the cakes do not stick and slide out easily once cooked and cooled. Their silicon piping set is ideal for decorating. Both products are dishwasher safe - perfect. To serve, I popped the cakes into pretty pleated paper cases and presented them to the three grandchildren who live only a few miles away, for their verdict. K. ate one on the spot, and popped another into her satchel before dashing off for evening swimming training. The remainder had evidently disappeared before bedtime, so Grandma's cooking couldn't have been too bad! And now my new hens have started laying, I can foresee more baking sessions throughout the coming months. Cakes galore in fact, and with practice, maybe my icing technique will improve - so many flavours to try, I'm wondering which to make next. Click on any of the highlighted text for more information on book and equipment and a direct link to purchase if you wish.

Just Words - Remembering

2011-09-11T08:03:00.000+01:00

I will never forget

the day

the world changed

forever

Such evil, such hatred

So much hurt

and anguish

Even for those of us

who could only

watch, open-mouthed

in disbelief

Never forget

what happened

on that day
The shattering of life
the fortitude of so many

And can the human race

ever replace hatred
and mindless violence

with everlasting love?

asm 11th September 2011

I wrote about this terrible and tragic event in my journal, the day it happened, and am reminded of it every time I see the iconic New York skyline in photos or on TV, bereft of so much more than buildings. In a way, that gaping hole brings home even more sharply the loss of so many people, and the affect it had on countless others all around the world. I wrote about it in the first year of my blog here. Then I baked a friendship cake; today I will whisper words to myself as I make cupcakes to a new recipe. I will never forget, a scene imprinted in my mind forever. Rest in peace.

Friday evening idyll ?? No chance!

2011-08-06T08:43:00.001+01:00

Quiet, on the terrace,

we sit reading.

then

the strident cacophony

of dogs suddenly barking

in next door's garden,

others beyond the orchard;

and yet more distant

poor-pampered beasts

from the village half a mile away.

It irks my ears, actually hurts,

such a yapping and a clammering

as yet more set up their baying

as if they need to drown

the still of the evening

in perpetual attention-seeking noise.

My ears by now disturbed,

attuned to sound

and not the sight of words,

I sense the whirr of pigeons' wings

hear the high hum of an aircraft engine

the slamming of a car door

the mindless thump of 'music'

from the village pub.

"But break, my heart"

for where is silence

and a place for contemplative thought?

Saturday ... "not waving but drowning" ...

2011-07-31T07:46:00.001+01:00

I am wrung out -

words, words, words; never-ending

articles, proposals, reviews,

blogs, diaries, journals,

word-spills, word whispers

and lists, interminable lists

of things that have to be done.

I suddenly stop, come

to a breathing space

and am like a cloth squeezed dry

a limp rag doll

eyes blind, flaxen hair a-straggle,

and all creativity deserts me.

We eat again in the garden,

a warm, still evening,

one of many in this blissful summer

that has all but escaped me;

my wine glass is empty,

our grandson's warring cockerels

are at rest ....

Tomorrow, Oxford.

Them, come Monday,

the treadmill will begin again.

And yet I love what I am doing,

Hauling bucketsful of words

from a well that may have run dry.

I trust it is not so; for without words
we would go hungry, the body and the soul.

She did it!

2011-07-06T11:12:00.037+01:00

Kate’s Epic Swim

5.35pm: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

the little swimmers chant

at the side of the pool –

and K. is off: a gliding start

as if she were a young lithe fish

in her pretty costume;

swimming to save the lives of others.

And what are we thinking,

we who sit quietly by and watch?

Perhaps of when we ourselves

first learned to swim,

to splash or cleave the water;

or let the waves break over us …

pebbles beneath our toes,

… not swimming, but waving …

to our parents on the beach.

But here in the school pool

on a soggy Tuesday,

whilst Kate swims

I sit and write –

already she has swum 30 lengths,

and more … and more.

I all but dream of those distant days,

as K. swims on and on;

mesmerising the watchers.

My head throbs in the soporific heat.

But, once upon a time,

seven years ago,

this determined child

hated water, screamed in fear,

shrieked at the very sight of it;

learned to overcome

what caused her anguish

– learned to swim.

Half an hour – a mile

(has she set herself too fast a pace?)

Perfect front crawl, and tumble-turns,

intake of breath on every third stroke.

122 lengths, pit stop to take on water,

a smile and she’s away again.

128 lengths – 2 miles in 50 minutes

(increased striking rate)

150 …

176 – 1hr.10mins.31seconds – half way.

on, and on

And, as if a glutton for punishment,

she’s wearing a double-skinned swimsuit, designed to create resistance

so that she has to work that much harder to achieve a faster time:

an extra challenge to herself.

3 miles – 1hr.17mins.19 secs (I think)

swim, swim, swim,

When, this time around, will her low point come?

(Looking good, stronger, tonight)

swim, swim, swim, on and on and on,
length after length.

7.25pm – K. still swimming, swimming, swimming …

totally focussed

... on and on and on and on ...

4 miles, 256 of the 352 lengths: ?hr.?mins.?secs

too much chatter around the pool to monitor time –

all the kind people who have come

to support this final leg

to encourage her –

and still she’s there in the water,

in her element, this pretty fish,
this quiet, demure young girl,

hardly a ripple as she passes by.

Length after length

The loneliness of the long-distance swimmer

5 miles – 2hrs.10mins.?secs – strong and smooth

Half-a-mile (32 lengths to go) - a mere doddle now!

In sight of the French coast

Watch out for the ferry there

Oops – is that a jellyfish?

5. 4. 3. 2 – final tumble-turn

1 – she breaks into butterfly, her victory stroke –

7.57pm: We clap and cheer her to the finish.

She’s crossed the Channel in 10hrs.24mins.45secs

Her final challenge to herself?

To complete the 22 miles in under ten-and-a-half hours.

She did it.

Kate swam each of the four 5.5mile legs faster than she anticipated; she smashed her own record by 12 mins on this, her final leg. Outstanding. (And to tell the truth, Grandma was almost in tears!)

Kate's idea is to raise £5,000.00 for competition starting blocks for the school pool, and a life-saving defibrillator for the school and village community. Thankyou to all those who have sent her messages and donations. And her idea of 'Crossing the Channel'? On the ferry one day going to France, she evidently said she could swim across! Well maybe one day she'll do it for real.

where it all took place

Actually, there's a whole lot more to exactly why Kate wanted to do this, and the people who inspired her - it warrants a post of it's own. That story will follow once I've checked my facts, for it is applicable to all swimmers, and the more fit they are, the more susceptible they become. The clue is in my altered 'non-quote', which you might have spotted.

A Blow of Lavender

2011-07-02T08:38:00.004+01:00

I went out to take this shot early this morning, but my camera battery was flat! Then searching my library of photos, I found I had taken the pic I wanted exactly one year ago.

Capture the scent of Summer,

now, in this moment -

the herbs and roses,

lupin and sweet william,

new-cut hay-meadows

soft on the horizon.

Brush your hands

through lavender, or rosemary;

breathe deep, and deeper,

for second time around

I might be deaf, or blind,

oblivious of my blow of lavender.

I whisper to myself,

"Will this Summer be my last?"

And hope it is not so.

I don't know why these words came to me last night, and why the scent of my lavender by the back door should cause me to lapse into such maudlin thoughts. Maybe the past week with its endless problems jump-started it; maybe the feeling that I need time to myself - I will make time, in snatches if need-be, this very morning; I want to make a fabric folder-cum-notebook into which grand-daughter KFM (she of my last two posts) can store all her good-will messages that even complete strangers have so kindly sent her. And then I'll pack a picnic tea and Raymond and I will drive somewhere quiet (some hope) for him to experiment with a new camera, whilst I will word-whisper and paint onto a concertina map, and my world will right itself again.

Whilst I was searching my photo files for lavender photos, Raymond was doing likewise through his - and found one taken some years ago, in a part of my herb garden that now no longer exists - a more compact variety that would be better placed by the back door than the one I actually have.

Even that plan will go awry if the camera does not arrive - we've paid for 'guaranteed Saturday morning delivery', but these days you never know. He's been searching the internet for weeks to find stock of this new model, and it will be wonderful for him to have it for Press Day at the RHS Hampton Court Flower Show, where we are headed early on Monday.

Still-life for a magazine article

As this seems to have turned into a post about lavender, I could not resist including another photo that Raymond took for me when I was writing an article on - what? I've forgotten now, probably on herbs but I do remember going to great lengths to set up the shot in our guest bedroom, and having to create a backdrop so you could not see the usual clutter, or tell the pic was taken where it was. The lavender is true French lavender, brought back for me from Provence by our daughter. There, just writing about lavender has revived me, brought me to my senses. Here's to a productive weekend!

P.S. A plea: I know it is 'not done' to promote one's own blogs - but if you are a lover of books, please visit my newly created book blog: so far, just the introductory post and a site in the making, but the second, about actual books, is written and scheduled for this weekend, as soon as I have found (!) the books I want to mention, and taken pics. I would love it if you wanted to follow my journey, as I'll be bringing you news of new books as well as old, and info about authors and publishers. Another activity for which I am making time.

Three Down and One to Go

2011-06-26T00:25:00.002+01:00

three- quarters into today's stint: struggling yet determined

An update on KFM's fund-raising 'cross-channel' swim. This evening, she completed her third leg; another 5.5 miles (352 lengths in 2 hours 34 minutes and 15 secs, beating her time for the previous two lengths). We were even more proud of her this evening, for by the third and hardest quarter, when she knew she still had so far to swim, she was alone in the pool, swimming up and down, up and down, up and down. She had set herself the challenge of beating her previous times but had set out at too fast a pace, and she was flagging. The only allowable 'pit stop' was to drink water, and off again. We were amazed at her self-discipline to proceed - the loneliness of the long-distance swimmer; close to tears at times, but determination conquered aching limbs. We were also initiated by her mother (our daughter) into the science and maths involved in self-pacing, counting strokes, knowing when to push the speed; and still - with no-one to watch but us and her parents (and swimming tutor who taught her to swim age six) - she broke into butterfly again for the last length. She admitted she had the strategy wrong and will work on it for the final stretch on Tuesday 5th July.

her smile says it all - final 5.5 miles is on Tuesday 5th July

And from Grandma (me) thankyou to everyone who has sent K. a message of support: I printed them out and they are pinned to her 'Go for it K' display board. She is so grateful.

Guts & Stamina

2011-06-21T08:02:00.000+01:00

"The morning began with silence, sitting in the studio;

only the quiet sound of pupils breathing; emptying our minds of thought,

reflecting on why we were there -

for what we might give thanks since we last sat quite still, in silent peace."

perfect action - even when you are swimming 5.5 miles

This was but the start of our day: we were here to support our 12-year old granddaughter (one of our nine grandchildren) in her attempt to raise - on her own - £5,000 for starting blocks for the school swimming pool, and a defibrillator for the local community. The challenge that she set herself was impressive - to swim the equivalent of crossing the English Channel (approx 22 miles), in four sessions. She made it more difficult for herself by wearing a training swimsuit, one that is double-skinned, thus creating drag - more effort required than when she is swimming races.

How many more miles?

KFM planned the publicity, wrote letters to all our extended family, and others who had been at the school, many of whom had raised the funds for the pool to be built. She wanted to give something back, for as a small child - years before she became a pupil here - she had been so terrified of water, screaming even in the bath, that her parents enrolled her for swimming lessons in this very pool. (I have to say here, that KFM is fifth generation of the family to attend this particular school.) She sent flyers to everyone who lives in the village, for it is they who will benefit from the defibrillator.

Phew! She did it - swam the equivalent of one quarter the width of the English Channel

Into the pool at 10.00am to swim within a cordoned off lane; others in and around the pool counted her down: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and with an underwater glide, she began the first quarter of her challenge: 5.5 miles (352 lengths). Whilst watching her swim, I was amazed at not only her grace and agility, but the careful planning, pacing, the hours of training, knowing how to pass through her low point half way through which lasted until about 50 laps to go when her headmaster arrived to check her progress.

Happiness - and red-rimmed eyes from over-tight goggles

Looking white and tired, and having said she felt sick, she perked up, upped the pace; swimming as if she was in her element, a beautiful fish, or a little lithe mermaid. Had she been swimming in training or competition - she trains almost every day, races most weekends - it would have been easier; here she had to pace herself - a solitary young swimmer doing what she loves most to help others.

So far, £1,000 raised

And so as her mother logged the lengths swum, K. approached her first goal - 5.5 miles, in 2hrs 51mins 12secs. I had to admit to holding back tears as she started her last length, for she broke with a flourish into butterfly. Later, I asked her what she had been thinking as she swam. "Nothing really," she said, but the cheques and cash donations proved just how much her effort is - and will be - valued.

Yet that is not all. An hour later, she took part in the school sport's day - 1500 metres, four laps of the track. Lagging behind after all the morning's effort, she gradually picked off the competition, finishing second. You would never know what she had achieved from her quiet and modest demeanour. And on Thursday, she is back in the pool to swim the next 5.5 miles, and again this coming Saturday to swim the third leg; the fourth quarter in two weeks; she'll have been swimming for a total of almost 12 hours.

One hour later - out on the track in the 4-lap 1500 metres (KFM is in the middle)

The fact KFM is our grand-daughter and I am singing her praises is immaterial: I admire anyone who puts themself out for the benefit of others; and all the more remarkable when that person is a child. And is it not sad in this day and age that you cannot identify a child on the internet? Cannot sing praise where praise is due. Indeed, we had to jump through hoops to be allowed to photograph her. Our daughter has provided a pinboard for those who care to send encouraging messages - so I'll be printing any kind comments, and adding them to those she has already.

Final lap - she's overtaken the opposition and races for the line, a worthy second

End of a fabulous weekend

2011-05-15T12:43:00.003+01:00

build a simple wooden frame around recycled containers and you have a beautiful raised bed

What was remarkable this year was the number of exhibitors focusing on vegetables to grow in small spaces. For vegetables to feature at all at the Spring Show is unusual - there were additionally many examples of recycling; ideas that could be copied by any gardener.

grafted tomato plants and salads featured as part of the 'Five a Day Feast'

Equally fascinating was Suttons 'Five a Day Feast', demonstrating that all sorts of containers can be used for growing vegetables and salads, be they retro or modern, conventional or whacky. It's the resulting produce that counts; and it was also a joy to see so many children working in the area that featured school gardens.

And so my self-imposed Blogathon ends; quite why I had this mad idea before coming to Malvern I cannot think. Four blogs, 16 posts and 32 photos (I think). It's been fun - had it not been for the CRASH of the blogger system - and I've just noticed that when it was restored, some of the photos upon which I had been working have been truncated. I must sort that.

Gardening in the Round

2011-05-14T21:54:00.000+01:00

a round raised bed with round table in the background

I visit many gardens, and they rarely nowadays seem to have round beds; we view them as through a proscenium arch, but taking the theatrical analogy one step further, how much easier it is to view them in the round. The plants, like actors, can be viewed from all sides, and all angles. So how interesting that at this year's Malvern Spring Gardening Show, so may gardens and exhibits were 'round'; and so cleverly thought out, you could prowl around them and from every angle, caught a glimpse of something new.

round shapes abound in this garden - what joy to leap from giant stepping stone to the next one (they weren't stepping stones of course; I should have been more observant but was in camera mode today

We create our own personal theatre when we garden, think of backdrops and stage sets; sometimes our designs gel, on other occasions they seem out of place; do not merge into the further landscape. 'All the world's a stage', wrote Shakespeare centuries ago, and we in our own garden kingdoms or queendoms, make the world our own.

Blogger is returning to normal, seemingly, though with a new system for uploading photos, which I have had to learn whilst posting on all my four blogs today. Malvern on each one, and each with a different theme; so please clock on the links (left) to see what else I have discovered on my Malvern Trail today. I'm on track with my self-imposed Blogathon.

All the world's a stage

2011-05-12T19:54:00.000+01:00

Such a simple stage-setting, perfect for a gardening show; understated- yet so effective

How much of gardening is theatre? A dream: a stage upon which we paint with plants, colour, texture, architecture; a wish to escape, as in a play. That's for the onlookers. For those involved in 'the garden' as a profession - in whatever capacity - it is our life blood; be we nurserymen, designers, writers, photographers, film-makers or equipment suppliers (and a whole lot else). The 'Malvern Spring Gardening Show' brings all these aspects together like no other - for a start, it has the perfect theatrical setting: the backdrop and magic of the hills. We travel from far and wide, drawn to such events, whether starting our first mini-garden - not sure what to do or how to do it; or with a lifetime of experience behind us, in one capacity or another.

Today (the first day of the Show) was no exception. This and my other blogs will reveal over the coming few days the many aspects that intrigued me. But as my background so long ago was theatre, let me begin there: With four highly respected authors - each a practitioner in his or her own field; coming together to tell us about there most recent books; briefly talking to James Alexander-Sinclair were Neil Lucas, Noel Kingsbury and Jekka McVicar. Time was too short, we had barely reached Act One when the session ended (an open-plan stage, so no proscenium curtain, but the opportunity to buy books and talk to the authors). Or in my case to dash to Jekka's display of herbs.

Hot foot from theatre to Jekka's herb display

P.S. This post is part of my four-day 'Malvern Blogathon' - click on my other blogs to see what else intrigued me today ... I'm writing the posts at this very moment so bear with me, please.

Blogathon - I must be crazy!

2011-05-11T17:14:00.002+01:00

final preparation day: tomorrow will see the showground teeming; people come and go, but the hills are everlasting

Regular long-term readers of this blog will know of my love-affair with Malvern - not just the hills, but the Shows we attend: work and pleasure all rolled into one. We are here once more: this time it's the 'RHS Malvern Spring Gardening Show' and we've arrived a day early, are staying on-site; our caravan is parked within spitting distance (almost) of the Malverns, and right now we are drinking a glass of wine, a pizza is cooking, Raymond is reading an advance copy of the catalogue and I am thinking that four days is not sufficient to see all there is to see. And what will we buy this year? Last year it was an apple tree (and a whole lot else!)

in progress: stages of preparation - by tomorrow morning, this feast for the eyes will be immaculate - you should see the tomatoes!

So, I plan to blog every day of the Show - on all four of my blogs: quite a 'blogathon' in fact. That is if the showground WiFi is cooperative. Each blog post (there should be sixteen in all) will be different; my blogs all interact, so if you want to follow my 'Malvern Trail', please click from one blog to another.

A Day of History

2011-04-30T10:03:00.004+01:00

Preparing for the tea party on the village green - a sharing and caring meal; standing room only by the time everyone had arrived, out of our houses, from village and hamlet, catching up with neighbours and friends we had not seen all winter.

A Loving Cup: as we left, each household was given a commemorative 'royal wedding' terracotta mug, made especially for the occasion by the village pottery. I still have a similar one celebrating the Millennium; much cherished, for that was another day in history - another celebration, another year.

Letting Go

2011-04-15T16:51:00.000+01:00

Something very significant happened to me last weekend - the beginning of a slicing away of my life and possessions. Something so simple, the gift of three marbles to a grandson (one of nine grandchildren) - he reached double figures and not thinking of gifts, swam 5K (three-plus miles) for a Cancer Relief charity.

He showed me a pottery dish he had made at school to hold his marble collection, and I recalled how many times he had lovingly fingered much of the ephemera in our old house that I have collected over the years. Three marbles? Shot-silk miniature glass globes that sat on the cluttered kitchen dresser. I cannot even recall where or why I bought them. I loved them, but it's time to start letting go. Time to stop hoarding.

I wrapped them individually in tissue paper, and put them in a little bag. But my simple gift was as nothing compared to that made for him by his grandfather. Raymond has made (and I do not have a photo) the most exquisite seven-drawer miniature marquetry cabinet to hold D's swimming medals. That was a true gift of love for a little boy, hours in the making; my marbles pale into insignificance.

Long time absent

2011-03-26T09:28:00.000Z

a few blissful hours on our way home from Ludlow yesterday were spent having lunch and walking in the parkland at Croft Castle (near Leominster, Herefordshire)

It feels like forever since I last posted on this blog; as if - for a tiny moment in time - I am emerging from the long end of a dark tunnel and able to write again. Not that I've been idle, or ill, or anything like that. Just in a perpetual circle of tasks, work, tasks, work, and time passed and the posts I planned to write were somehow irrelevant. Yet it's been two months; I can hardly believe it, and we seem to lurch from one major happening to another. But that's in the nature of working freelance, and having an old and crumbling home, and over-large wild garden. There's always something to be done. The positive side is that we do not have to commute - and that's the downside too, in a way; you never stop. Or at least, I don't!

my husband's beautiful photograph of bare birch trees which he took for me whilst I participated in a Photoshop workshop (see below) - taken on the Malvern Hills; he walked and walked to take this for me; I plan to use it in one of my textile pieces

Time solely to myself comes in snatches, like brilliant jewels on a string of days. "Refilling the well," said Julia Cameron in her books on creative writing that I followed so long ago; but had I not, I would not be where I am today; I'm convinced of that. Though 'The Artist's Way' was not the sole catalyst in my journey into the creative world. Good heavens, here I am, not having blogged for two months, and I'm rabbiting on about trivialities, when what I meant to write about was the joy of trees in winter, and how - as the Spring approaches and leaves unfurl - it will be months before I can again take the bare-branch photos I love to use in my textile pieces.

The textile pieces (quilted journal pages) will appear from time to time (when I complete anything) on my journaling blog. And weekly posts appear on the "Gardener's Companion" I am commissioned to write for Dobies of Devon; e-newsletter once a month and blog posts in the intervening weeks (these include all manner of garden-related topics, and my hand-written 'potager diary' which I began a few weeks ago). So maybe you will understand why I have not visited for a long, long while, for which I can only apologise. Oh, and my email system is up the creek; should you wish to make contact, please check my blog profile, which I have updated. (If you've emailed me this year and I haven't responded, it's because I can't access my old emails.) I'll catch up with everyone soon - something I love to do of an evening, if I haven't been staring at a computer screen all day!

A manipulated photo I took of part of the rookery at the Malvern campsite where I was participating in a Photoshop workshop. I learned how to 'remove' the caravan satellite dish that ruined the photo. I've been trying to take pictures of a rookery for years and this was a good one, though the original (not this) is long and narrow and intended for a winter blog header.

Day Out - Blow Out

2011-01-24T21:19:00.000Z

The day began so well; up early at 5.30am whilst still dark for the 3-hour drive to Ludlow to take the motorhome for servicing; my husband driving with me following behind - for we had been asked to leave the vehicle for a few days for some major 'under warranty' work. Rather than drive straight back in the car, we ventured into town - so historic, so many places we love to visit. For us, Ludlow is the gateway to escape, but on this occasion, we would visit the market, the bookshop, the tourist information centre and find somewhere for lunch, before heading home. It was cold and crisp, but just the sort of day-off that allows me to 'refill the well', buy a sketching pen, collect the latest literature on Marcher Country, and eat a leisurely meal together in our latest find - The Olive Tree (pictured above) whilst I write and sketch. A perfect Friday.

A call from the motorhome people, the warranty work means that the vehicle must go back to the manufacturers and so we need to collect it and take it home for the moment. (Had we known, we need not have taken the car!) Not their fault; and I elect to drive on ahead so that I can visit our computer specialist in Tewkesbury on the way home, and also shop for the weekend. Raymond will follow, and proceed onwards ahead of me. How beautiful is the afternoon light as I drive up and over the Bromyard Downs, woods and hilly fields all bathed in the golden light of afternoon, a blue haze in the distance. On through a part of Herefordshire with small cider orchards, somehow reminiscent of northern Normandy in France.

The M5 south from Worcester is busy, but not overly so; my laptop is fixed in less than 5 minutes, I buy treats for supper and provisions for the weekend. Off now towards the Cotswold hills and home, a route I have driven on many an occasion. I have no premonition of what lies ahead. Dusk gradually falls and I start to climb Fish Hill, winding up the steep escarpment. I have the radio on, a sublime Brahms piano concerto, I am thinking .... BANG - the car will not steer around the sharp corner, weaves about from one lane to another; lights behind me in a stream as I regain control, slow down with a clanking noise I cannot diagnose. I switch of the radio, the better to hear what is going on; try to think what I should do as the car still weaves about. The road is now level but narrow and dark with trees on either side; not a safe place to stop. Eventually, three miles further on and emerging from the trees, the road widens; I pull into the side (and what I think is a wheel departs into the hedge). Switch on the emergency flashers, leave on the sidelights; it is -3 degrees C and I am shaking as I step out of the car to discover that the rear offside wheel is still there, but no tyre. The tyre had blown - that must have been what the bang was and the metal sound must have been the wheel trim and wheel grating along the road.

I ring Raymond who luckily has reached home and actually answers the phone. Poor man, he has to set out again in the m'home to rescue me, retracing the miles - 15 at least. A police car draws up and then another, two officers cone off the road yet cannot release the spare wheel. At least they have torches. Our son calls me on my mobile to commission some writing from me ("not a good time to talk!" I tell him). Half an hour later and my beloved husband appears, berating me for doing what he says will be damage of £1.500.00 for driving on a flat tyre. I am more afeared of that than the fact I might have hit some other vehicle, or written off the car; maybe I have, maybe I have twisted the back-axle. There is a tap on my shoulder and an elderly man, more shaky than I am, offers us all hot coffee - he has walked up from his house down in the hollow, in the freezing cold, with a basket of mugs, thermos and biscuits. So kind. The wheel is changed and Raymond instructs me to drive at only 15mph or less. By now, every sound and creak and lurch makes me think our 2007 car will disintegrate! I do not sleep for worrying, and for causing my husband such displeasure. I wish I could convey in images just how my mind is still swirling the colours of dusk and dark trees, blue police lights and the cold, cold roadside and why I made the wrong decision to drive on and not stop instantly on the steep hill on a bend.

That was Friday. One day maybe I will be able to paint what is in my head. But the car is OK, the new tyre cost less than £60.00 and new wheel trim (from a breaker's yard) £10.00 for four - so we have spares for next time. I am now afraid to drive; do not know why the tyre blew. It's like continually re-running a cine-film, as I meditate on how the brain makes decisions, thoughts running through one's head on what one SHOULD do in a given situation, whilst mechanically trying to remember how to drive. In almost fifty years of motoring, nothing like this has ever happened to me, and it was oh, so scary. More scary still that in weighing up a situtation, I opted for the wrong move. And just that little niggle at the back of my mind: was I over-tired (been on the go for 12 hours?) Was I properly concentrating? Was the clang something lying in the road that I did not see? Why was the car - to Raymond - more important than my desire not to stop in a place that would inconvenience others? Well maybe in writing all this down and boring readers to death I have exorcised something; though I won't really know until I next take the wheel, or until I am next driving at speed down a motorway.

(Meanwhile, I apologise that I have not been blog-visiting; so many deadlines and then this - plus the tumbler drying giving up the ghost and the kitchen roof leaking.)

Anniversary - and my almost despicable deed

2011-01-10T12:13:00.002Z

"In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth". Listening to the radio yesterday morning, I realised it's 400 years since the King James bible was first published (1611). These words in Genesis 1:1 still reverberate in my mind, as do so many verses and phrases in the bible, even though I am no longer a religious person (but that's another story). I can remember reading endless psalms in Church as a teenager, when the vicar's sermons were particularly tedious and boring. Much of the beautiful and stirring language has remained with me through the years, particularly stories from the Old Testament.

title page from a recent acquisition

It was my great-grandfather (Henry Guppy, 1861 to 1948) who instilled in me a love of books and words. He became librarian of the John Rylands Library in Manchester in 1899 until his death aged 86. He procured for me books for my birthdays and at Christmas throughout the second world war, when they were hard to come by. Natural history and poetry, mainly, all rather too advanced for my then young years, but still a source of joy even now. I suddenly remembered that his speciality was history of the bible and somewhere I still have a copy of his treatise on the classics scholar, Miles Coverdale, who was instrumental in producing the first complete printed English Bible in the 1500s. But I digress; it was the radio programme that brought HG back to mind, and he would be horrified I am sure to know that I now buy old books to rip apart for collage!

an early 1900s bible, bought for 're-purposing', sitting atop my 'junk-journal' on my writing/art desk; on the top is a candle-holder bought in the gift shop at Tewkesbury Abbey. Book and Candle, it only wants the Bell to symbolise ex-communication.

I cannot resist second-hand bookshops and have been collecting 'remainders' or interesting-looking books for as long as I can remember, but only recently to take apart for collage. On holiday in the Welsh Marches a couple of months ago, I walked into a shop the like of which I have never seen before. It was vast, with rooms and racks of shelves from floor to ceiling, and boxes spilling out all over the floor; difficult to step around them. I rummaged about, and then found this old bible, minus covers, stained and somewhat tattered. A little searching on the floor revealed the covers. £10.00 was rather more than I intended to pay, but it seemed perfect for the new journaling challenge I had set myself. I could not find anyone to pay and was on the point of returning the book to the box where I had found it when I spotted a notice - "please pay at the gift shop down the street". Obviously honest folk in this little Welsh town.

But I felt like a thief and not wanting to be accused of actually being one (having numerous bags about my person into which I could have stuffed it), I marched along the pavement with the book held out in front of me as if I was on the way to the stake. Paid, and delighted, I looked for the first quote that I would use on the journal page. And then I had qualms, felt guilty; should I really rip up a bible? It seemed somehow sacrilegious. Should I in fact be tearing apart books that could be re-purposed again and again if I adopted a different procedure? So this is what I now do: I carefully slice the pages apart and scan them, then crop and print the part I want to use on 45gsm layout paper. In a way, my conscience is clear; I have the book (and the scans) to use again and again. Maybe my great-grandfather need not turn in his grave after all. And don't you love the bible's inscription: "Sarah Price, her book. Aged 11, December 1913". Amen.

New Year : New Blog - an invitation to view

2010-12-30T19:28:00.004Z

In June 2010, I was engaged professionally to write a monthly on-line newsletter for the long-established seed company, Dobies of Devon, for 'keen and dedicated gardeners'. Last month, I was asked to extend what I have been doing and write a weekly blog as well, covering a mix of gardening topics, along with recipes from my Cotswold kitchen, inspirational gardens to visit, book reviews, and much else. I am really excited about all this, for they are such a lovely, friendly company to work with, and this new blog will in no way be a 'hard sell'. Other team members will be contributing as well, so it should be a fascinating mix of topics and information.

The 'Dobies of Devon Gardening Companion' went 'live' for the first time this morning; please click on the link - it would be wonderful if you would leave a comment. The layout isn't perfect yet; it's the first time I've contributed to a team blog, so their may be unintentional hiccups at my end. And if you'd like to learn more about the company itself and what they offer, please click here - you can also access my newsletter ('a helping hand' lower left of screen on the Dobies website).

creating a new bit of garden for two of the grandchildren, nearly seven years ago

I am passionate about so many things, and one is to pass on to future generations the joy of gardening, wildlife, food, history, literature, and creating with ones hands. And, in case you are wondering: no, I haven't been asked to promulgate this new blog; I just truly love what I do and want to share it with others.

A very happy new year to all 'bloggers' and all the best for 2011.

On the eve of Christmas

2010-12-24T11:42:00.000Z

With love and best wishes from me, the 'Wild Somerset Child' (Ann Somerset Miles) and the 'man-about-the-house' (my husband Ray Quinton, whose photo this is) a peaceful Christmas and a Happy New Year - all the best for 2011.

Winter Solstice Story

2010-12-21T10:50:00.000Z

"Ann's Tree" - my gift from Jackie of 'Blissfully Imperfect', because I had the temerity to say her tree-post inspired me to spill a poem (perhaps a better phrase would have been a 'tree-whisper')

It is amazing how blogging draws people together from around the world, generates online friendships that otherwise might not have happened, if it were not for what one posts. So it was with me - not my post, but that of Blissfully Imperfect; I left a somewhat flippant comment - well, it wasn't meant to be flippant, but Jackie's response challenged me to deliver words inspired by her tree-post. And so, as so often happens, you set up a dialogue through emails and sometimes snail mail. I wrote Jackie two tree-whispers, and to my astonishment, and absolute delight, she sent me not only the fabric tree that had so inspired me, but a beautiful hand-made card as well.

And look closely: what had been Tree 4.00 and then 4.1 is now inscribed as "Ann's Tree"! I had to know more, how and why did this series of beautiful fabric creations come into being?

Jackie is a 'process explorer', and recently, as she says in her blog: "several somethings have clicked together to result in my trees: a desire to create on a more daily basis; a need for completion; a growing pile of fabric surface design explorations; a fascination with 3D constructions; a love of minimal form." Right now she is creating her 12th tree and all - except 'mine' started out as white fabric which she "dyed, over-dyed, painted, stamped or batik-ed in layers to get the final look. Sometimes I'm cutting and pasting, sometimes I"m strip-piecing, sometimes I create the fabric specifically for the project, sometimes I stitch in layers and cut back to reveal beneath." 'My tree' is fashioned from Bali and African batik fabrics which is why I think I loved it so; Jackie says she was "drawn to them by their visual texture and colour".

So much skill, such imagination. I study this magical creation, and more words spring to mind, a final tree-whisper, to say 'thankyou'.

Tree 4.1 ("Ann's Tree") is dancing, pirouetting, like leaves blowing in a wind coloured as rainbow

And so "Ann's Tree" - a gift, and for me a celebration of the winter-solstice - sits on my desk, takes on a personality of its own, and has prompted so many poem spills and word-whispers that my notebook overflows with forest scribblings. And all because bloggers the world over trigger a wealth of creativity, and friendship.

P.S. Did anyone see the total eclipse of the moon this morning (7.40am GMT) - evidently the first time for 400 years that this has occurred on the solstice. It was too cloudy here. I went out to shovel snow instead!

Snow Birds

2010-12-18T21:04:00.000Z

You might not think this was taken in colour, so fast fell the snow, until you spot the bird feeding on the bird-table - taken through a somewhat dirty double-glazed window.

We awoke to a light dusting of snow, knowing that more was forecast. Gradually, as the light grew, a few light flakes, like gessoed drizzle. Birds approached the bird-table: robin, chaffinches, tits - great-, coal- and blue-, then a flock of greenfinches. And almost unawares as I de-cluttered our kitchen shelves, a thrush: not one but two, chasing each other off. At first, he - I assume it was a he, ATE snow, sitting low within an evergreen shrub.

Snow-crystals descending in a whirl as, imperceptibly, the dusting became a frozen deluge, a white wonder. And the thrush moved under the shelter of an overhanging box-bush, gorging on the red berries of Cotoneaster horizontalis. Suddenly he is on the bird-table, attacking the suet fat-ball; he feeds for a whole half-hour, defending the territory against all comers. Unusual behaviour, this; and both birds feed, taking turns - differentiated by the slightly different markings on their breast.

The snow continues to fall all day, a soft white blanket, ever-deepening as the hours proceed. Everywhere so perfectly quiet; and best of all, the sound of silence; nothing is moving, only the hungry birds outside our kitchen window, and me, photographing them through the window.

Phasanius colchicus

2010-12-13T22:44:00.001Z

terrible pic - read on, and you'll see why!

look very closely: you can just spot a disappearing tail

This pheasant-tale is but an interlude in all that has been happening here in this old and crumbling house. So much to tell, from the bursting of the 40-year old boiler and it's replacement which took Raymond a whole month for one reason and another (but that's another story). And then my laptop has been 'playing-up'. Cannot get internet access reliably in the evening, which is when I catch up with blogging and bloggers. Without the camaraderie of posts, I feel bereft and lost; and so tonight am sitting late in my office (the new heating's gone off now) wrapped in a fleecy-white dressing gown typing away on the G4. I'll make cocoa in a moment and return to read what I have been missing. The radio is on in the bedroom next door so I know R. is almost asleep.

More frost than snow - as yet

2010-11-29T20:52:00.006Z

I've not been able to access the internet on this laptop for days now, which stops me from reading other people's lovely blogs and leaving comments, or writing my own (I just don't have time during the day; it's an evening activity and one to which I so look forward). Suddenly I can get on-line and up popped one of my earlier posts, with a snowy pic; so I copied it! Lazy I know but by the time I rush upstairs, access my photos in the unheated 'office' - once a child's bedroom, and come back downstairs, the connection may have disappeared.

So all I can say for now is I hope the cold and snow is not causing you problems (UK readers), unseasonal as it it. Minus 9C is not really so cold - we're used to it, so long as the electric blanket does not fail and we can get to the hens to feed and water them. The 'up' side is lack of traffic roaring past the house, which is bliss, and like the old days, when snow-drifts used to block the roads and reach high above the road signs. We would walk our daughter the three miles to school, where luckily she could stay overnight until the lanes were cleared by snow-plough, so we only had to do it the once! That was, let me see, early 1980s.

We haven't had snow here yet, just icy winds from the north-east and frozen locks which R. decided to thaw with a blow-torch! It's forecast for tomorrow. We've chopped up blocks of eucalyptus from the one felled in the summer (still a little green), bits of oak offcuts from the door frames R. is making for our daughter and son-in-law, and a dead apple tree from the orchard; but hopefully we will have the new oil-boiler commissioned on Friday. It's been a month since we started looking for a new one and installation has been tricky as all the pipework R. used in the 70s for the original, now defunct boiler, was of course still imperial and now we are metric and nothing quite 'matched'. He's done a wonderful job and fortunately, until this week, the weather was kind.

It's a good time for working indoors, or catching up on research, hence this pile of books (another replacement pic). Sorry.

Herbs are my passion, but this research isn't all work; I am planning a fabric 'herbarium' and have been doing so for some time.

P.S. I think I need to change the blog heading to something more wintry; the birds have eaten all the elder berries! In fact I took a photo of golden leaves on a silver birch all ready or a late-Autumn heading, but the branches are now bare. Lovely though; I may try them instead.

Downsizing

2010-11-09T21:51:00.004Z

view from our bedroom window

This picture has nothing to do with the promulgated subject of this post; those that I have taken associated with the topic are too boring and you might switch off - you might anyway but I'll take a chance on that. Normally, at the time when I took this photo, I would have been at my desk, writing; but I am 'between years' and re-organising myself, at the same time as (supposedly) downsizing. Whilst I was in the throes of so doing, right outside our window flowed The Hunt (our house is so old and low-set in relation to the present road that the huntsmen can look right in to our upstairs windows).

Baying of the hounds, the followers behind in decrepit cars, muddy land-rovers and even quad bikes with trailers in which rode chaps in ancient tweeds and caps the like of which my grandfather would wear, pretending to be a gentleman farmer, which he wasn't, though he was a gentleman. And all those sprightly men and women, young and old, spic-and-span upon their horses; the women with netted hair below their hard-hats. They congregated outside the pub (The Norman Knight) milling around, dogs barking. I decide to record this moment, for any second they will be up and away. Only vantage point is our bedroom window; I lean out precariously regardless of my feet already slipping on the polished wooden floor. If I fall, I'll break my neck for sure, landing on the flagstones below. Hence, the photo has a) camera shake, b) a telegraph pole that appears at a rakish angle and c) the mist and rain of a typical November day. I close the window against the rain, and continue with downsizing. Later, as dusk falls, the huntsmen return, clattering up the hill to where they have no doubt left their horse-boxes. One young man (is he 'master of foxhounds'?) rides back and forth alongside the village green, hallooing. Have the hounds gone missing? One elderly gent rides past, out-of-breath and red in the face, his horse a slather of sweat.

Such an English scene, never mind what the Hunt had convened for; I could write plenty on that, but end the evening with the sound in my ears of another English tradition: the ringing of church bells - for Tuesday is practice night. It takes my mind back a few years to the Millennium when Raymond and I went along with others from the village to see the final two of eight bells cast (at a bell-foundry in Loughborough), and subsequently transported here and hung in the bell-tower. That was in my pre-digital-camera days, but somewhere I have negatives and prints of the whole process; when - in my downsizing - I find them, I'll post them on this blog. Of course, if I was wearing my journalist hat, I'd have ferreted them from wherever they are stashed, along with my photos of the Church, and even, perhaps, those of our village Millennium celebrations when we turned a farmer's barn into a feast house for a medieval gathering. Ten years ago; it seems but yesterday.

But that's another story, as is 'downsizing'; and the bells are lulling my senses as I turn back the years. I'll leave you with the photo that begins my saga of de-cluttering this old 16th century farmhouse. It's surprising the unfulfilled dreams you uncover when you reach below the surface. Just the two of us now, rattling around in so many rooms, so many nooks and crannies; and all filled with memories that have to be disposed of - or at least the visible evidence of so much of our life here.

beginning downsizing (I'm rather ashamed of this)

Northern Ireland magic

2010-11-03T21:21:00.000Z

a place of pilgrimage - Slemish Mountain, and old volcanic plug where it is said St Patrick herded swine as a boy

Moving on from my last post - a belated 'second serving' of our June week in Ireland with the Caravan Writers' Guild, I come back in spirit to the part of the visit that covered Northern Ireland. Of course, Ireland is one island and whatever I may think personally of the political and religious divisions that divide the country into two parts, my dual-accounting is simply one of expediency, so as not to make any one offering too long.

You might like first to read what I posted in June (just click on the month-link to the left of this post; and also on my two other blogs. I could not then (in June) recount the whole story, for I only had limited time, and that courtesy of the ferry company Stena Line who offer free WiFi to passengers. Since then, other things have been on my mind, and good intentions frequently fall foul of circumstances beyond one's own control.

The 'Whale' stand at the NEC

Fast forward again, as in my last post, to the here-and-now (actually mid-October when I began writing this post at the NEC in Birmingham: the 2010 International Caravan & Motorhome Show). We stopped by the Whale stand to say 'hello' to Patrick Hurst (MD), steadfast Kate (his PA) and the indefatigable Sarah (marketing). Whale specialise in "heating and water systems for recreational vehicles." Technical subjects are not my forte; but I will never forget the hospitality of Patrick and his staff when the Caravan Writers' Guild was given a conducted tour of the Whale factory, in Bangor (just outside Belfast) during our summer visit.

June 2010: a CWG presentation to the Whale staff outside their factory in Bangor, Co.Down

Whale hosted much of our time in Northern Ireland and took such care of our well-being with much delicious food and a hamper of local Irish specialities when we left at the end of the week. We had arrived late at our campsite, having driven from the one south of Dublin to the Camping & Caravanning Club site on the shores of the idyllic Strangford Lough. We were cold and tired (we had stopped off for a motorhome picnic and dawdled the rest of the way). As we pitched, our first sight was of an on-site marquee alongside, with a number of chaps in white coats and black-and-white chequered pirate-style bandanas cooking the magnificent barbecue that was to be our evening meal. That was the first time we met Patrick and some of his staff. It isn't often that you are catered for and served by the MD and fellow directors of a successful firm, but this first evening was to be indicative of the care that was lavished upon us by Whale and their staff.

Whale directors prepare a delicious barbecue for the Caravan Writers' Guild

(It didn't escape our notice as to just how hard all the staff worked - Raymond spent a whole day at their request photographing their exhibition stand at the NEC; the directors and staff hardly sat down for a minute. A long day and a long week.)

seen from the Antrim coast road

Back to my memories and June notes. We covered much milage in Co.Antrim, and were all shepherded around in a very modern and comfortable coach. One of the coach drivers had a fund of anecdotes: do you for instance know why the cows dance in Antrim? (Because they are fed on potale - the spent grain left over after the distillation process when making Irish whiskey! Or so we were told.) We ate well at Bushmills, and I was asked to participate in a whiskey tutorial. In fact we did a lot of drinking one way and another in Ireland visiting two distilleries and three breweries. Those who were not on the whiskey inspected another caravan park which seemed to meet with everyone's approval.

sampling from these bottles of smooth, soporific whiskey was an education and a delight

The drive down the Antrim coast road was spectacular - 100 miles or so along the high coastal north-facing plateau, past the the Giant's Causeway, then winding in and out of the seaward mouths of each of the Glens (nine in all) and so gradually, seemingly, downhill to Belfast, as if the whole plateau was gently sliding into the sea. I had been blase about the Causeway - and anyway it was raining so pics were difficult, but I was captivated by the wild-flowers growing between the huge hexagonal chunks of stones. Sixty million years old and forty thousand stones; though their geological importance did not seem to impress a party of teenage schoolchildren who spent the time leaning against the rocks in a long line sending text messages to each other!

The NT are funny about journalists taking photos on 'their' properties - you almost have to sign your life away! They will supply stock photos, but then you are using images that have appeared over and over again, rather than ones that are unique to whatever you are writing about. We were only allowed to use a camera if we had the permission of any people we photographed; these fellow photographers said they didn't mind. I took lots, but all the others were of plants and geometric shapes, like a three-dimensional patchwork quilt; a bit cold and heavy! And it was raining.

Belfast had its moments: I posted back in June about the new Titanic museum that is due to open in May 2011. That as you will read (click back) was particularly poignant and we were privileged to be given a preview. But I would have liked to visit Belfast City Hall where in 1966 my father (Maurice Miles) was appointed conductor of the Ulster Orchestra. There wasn't time, and instead the coach drove us around the location of 'The Troubles' - the Falls and Shanklin roads. I felt we were intruding; and it was sad to see two small girls hefting lumps of mud at each other. Perhaps animosity is ingrained from long before birth.

murals in Belfast; there's a whole wall of them, and on the sides of many of the houses as well

Raymond and I have actually been back to Northern Ireland since June, in connection with a magazine commission - a feature that is due out next year. (BBC Countryfile magazine, April 2011: 'Discover the Antrim Coast and Glens').

You can fly to Belfast City Airport with FlyBe, on the site of the old dockyards) from many UK regional airports; they operate jets as well as turbo-props

I promise myself I will return yet again, one day, if for nothing else than my 'fix' of Dunseverick Harbour! Pied wagtails tail-flicking on the slipway; golden and seal-grey lichen clinging to the rockfaces; the pull and pluck of the tide. Memories. Sunshine on the hills, the sea, and flooding down the green and fertile glens. Wherever we have been in Ireland (four visits in five years) in mist, sun or the soft gentle rain, we relish the space, the quality of the light, the peace, and the welcoming and friendly people. North, South, East or West, it matters not, for the "spirit of the past lives on and remains all around us”.

Dunseverick Harbour, on the north coast of Antrim

a rather indifferent photo I took in 2005 in one of the Glens when I was out 'motte-hunting'. Double-click on the pic so as to enlarge it, and right in the middle you should see the mound upon which Doonan Castle sits (at least I think that's it's name)

Time to leave this magical country. The aircraft climbs away into the setting sun, over Belfast docks and the slipway where the fated Titanic was launched in 1911 from the Harland & Wolff shipyard, one hundred years ago. I peer into the growing dusk, hoping to catch a last glimpse of the uplands and coastal road, but the pilot has turned south, the sun has gone and it is too dark. I can almost feel the tug of the land and the pounding sea willing us back, but know it is purely my imagination.

'Forty Shades of Green'

2010-10-21T14:22:00.003+01:00

our ferry which bore us in comfort from Holyhead to Dublin port

Memories: all in the mind. The summer months since we returned from Ireland have been so busy that my promised 'Irish Journal' has been on the back-burner, until meeting again some of the people from the Caravan Writers' Guild with whom we shared that marvellous journey prompted me to continue. In essence, I was back with our motor home, boarding the Stena Line ferry (so quick and easy, so smooth a crossing, free WiFi; and so simple the disembarkation when we arrived in Dublin port). Approaching the Irish coast, I am looking again for THAT GREEN - a green peculiar to Ireland that I remembered from previous holidays - but it's evening and instead I am captivated by the misty blues, greys and purples of the Wicklow Mountains, silhoutted against the pearl of an early evening sky.

our fellow journalists are a friendly crowd and soon made us feel welcome (for this was our first CWG trip) - soon we were all sitting down to a bring-and-share supper - but another time, we must remember to take a folding table as well as chairs

That week in June had been jam-packed with activities and places to visit; some organised, others of our own choosing. I'll not forget the superb campsite and the hospitality of Edward & Nuala Allen at their award-winning Moat Farm, nor the camaraderie of fellow journalists, welcoming us as soon as we arrived. Nor meeting the marketing director of the Irish Caravan & Camping Council, Norah Heraty, and talking to her about those 'forty shades of green' that I had determined would be the title of a piece I had been asked to write about the tour. It subsequently appeared in the CWG magazine, 'In Touch'.

And I'll never forget being given the opportunity to visit an organic Irish smallholding specially arranged for me because I had expressed an interest in gardens; discovering what makes a place alive - the people and what they do.

early on a damp morning with clouds scudding across the backdrop of the Wicklows (I posted about this organic smallholding on my 'gardening' blog, post dated 14th June, 2010)

Then touring Dublin in the rain and drinking my first Guinness at the Dublin brewery, tramping through the wholesale market, riding on a tour bus, and shopping for fabric because I wanted something of Eire in the journal I was constructing; our three days in Eire went by in a whirl of discovery.

drinking Guinness at roof-top level - a pub in the sky at the brewery (the 'Gravity Bar' from which can can enjoy a 360-degree view of the Dublin skyline)

We headed north, over the border, for Strangford Lough, Belfast and Antrim for the second part of the visit (which will be outlined in my next post) but returned south to Eire for our last night in preparation for catching the return ferry from Dublin port back to Holyhead. By then we were on our own and I planned to write about the Boyne river and the battle of 1690 which still holds such implications for Ireland in the present day. For some reason, I forgot to take a photo of the actual site - we had stopped for a motorhome picnic - or perhaps it was because by then we were experiencing a little more of the soft, gentle Irish rain. So instead, I am including another photo taken in the Wicklow Mountains which hold their own magic and are beautiful rain or shine.

Blessington Lakes with the Wicklows in the background

Mind-mapping, remembering, is so different to reality; processing my notes so often puts a different perspective on what we have done and where we have been. Talking again to Norah only last week at the 2010 International Caravan & Motorhome Show in Birmingham, we realised just why we must go back. For out of the blue, she says she is sending me a book on Irish gardens (it's evidently in French, but no matter). I can't wait; we check our guide to Irish camping parks - I am planning already! To be let loose in gardens beyond these shores will be blissful enough, in Irish gardens I can see that words will flow; I'll be snap-happy, whilst creating poem-spills.

Raymond says he wants to visit County Donegal; I likewise, but also the Achill Islands (Co.Mayo), for I recently discovered my great, great grandfather was posted there as a coastguard sometime in the 1800s. Nora asks if we would cover Westport house and gardens; she has marked it in the book, which has now arrived. I discover there is a caravan site within the park; and it's not that far from the Achills. I'll have to persuade Raymond that Co.Mayo rather then Co.Donegal should be our next Irish destination! Now when shall I book the ferry?

Birthday Girl !

2010-10-18T21:47:00.000+01:00

Today I am 73 years young, amazed to have survived another year after many a trauma and yet so much hidden happiness and joy. The tiny champagne candles say it all - they signify the last three years; the previous 70 receding day-by-day into the mists of time. It has been such a gentle celebration, from the early morning mug of tea brought me when I was scarce awake to this evening's candlelit three-course meal prepared for me by my dear, long-suffering husband. Champagne to toast still being around (actually a cheap Spanish Cava) and finishing our supper with sweet muscat grapes from the greenhouse - the vine survived the time in 1999 when I set the greenhouse on fire. I seem quite good at the pyrotechnics! (see last post).

A trip into town to post letters allowed me to treat myself to a quantity of antique canvas-backed maps (practically as old as I am!) from which to make concertina travel journals. At such a knock-down price, I could not resist them; have in fact been buying the odd one or two for months; but today I was told they were all to be thrown out and would I like the lot ?? You bet; twenty have been added to my stash. I can hardly bear to re-purpose them, for they tell such a tale of social history, how places have altered and grown .. I will not spoil my birthday by bemoaning creeping suburbia, the loss of landscape, or the sanitising of the countryside.

The sun shone; leaves scuttered across the road, swirling in the chilling wind. I think on how lucky I am to still be alive, after two previous health scares; and contemplate even more on all the pictures I will shoot with the lovely new camera Raymond has given me, "so you can take photographs of a professional standard." It won't be the fault of the camera if I don't. I learn how to switch it on (!); am terrified of damaging it. Realise it will be brilliant, once I have mastered its intricacies and made it do what I want it to do. Which is far more arty than Raymond would like, but I will try to live up to his expectations. As the light fades I take my first photo - more grapes (ones suitable for making wine); I've set the camera on auto and (which is brilliant) it somehow stops the fruit and leaves from being blown every which-way: my usual problem, for you would think we live here in an aeronautical wind-tunnel. The moment I decide to take pics, up springs half a gale!

And so to the end of a perfect day, with flowers from my daughter's garden, emails and an e-card from one son, a phone-call from Iceland from the other, and 'happy birthday' sung to me down the telephone by three of our grandchildren. As I enter my 74th year, I make a birthday resolution - one which I hope I am sufficiently strong-willed to keep. This time next year, I'll tell you if I have succeeded.

And so to bed ... and I send love and best wishes to all my blogging friends and acquaintances, indeed to bloggers everywhere; for blogs have added immeasurably to my life and I do not know where I would be without such friendship.

Setting the house on fire!

2010-10-09T22:23:00.001+01:00

walnuts in their pungent green casing, picked from our tree

There are all kinds of shenanigans occurring in this household at present; noises in the night, properties toppled over, strange rustlings and whisperings - unaccountable dreams just before waking. I do not know whether to put it down to overwork or the fact that a whole summer seems to have passed me by; tasks negelected or overlooked. Today could have been disastrous - it's not the first time we have almost set the house on fire. Just an ordinary Saturday morning; Raymond cooking weekend breakfast, me feeding the hens. I walk back up the garden with a bucketful of pungent walnuts (a typical October day, with a grey Cotswold cloud-cap overhead, mist in the trees, the grass wet and new weed seed germinating everywhere). I am greeted by an acrid fog, clouds of smoke, which my husband seems not to have noticed.

Can he not smell or see? He is grilling bacon, but it isn't that which is burning - for some unaccountable reason last night, I placed a plastic seed tray containing scraps for the hens ON TOP OF THE WALL-MOUNTED GRILL! R. did not notice it was there (why should he?); the plastic is melting and dripping down through the burners into the grill pan; the kitchen is filled with smoke. "Turn off the grill," I yell. We wait for the seed tray to solidify so we can peel it away from the metal. R. takes the grill apart ... he does not berate me for my stupidity in putting the tray where I did, high up where you could not see it. Two hours later, we sit down to a very late breakfast.

There was method in my madness of course; the need in this old house to put anything edible out of reach, be it scraps or candles or the bag of flour I left on the sideboard. It happens in phases, these episodes, a nightmare when it does. I will not spell out the culprits, but if I suggest you read - if you know it not already - the 'Pied Piper of Hamelin', all will be revealed. R. stands with a gun in the kitchen .... and I, by now completely phased (for I have not told the half of all the trauma), sit by the fire in the dark with a glass of wine and crack open and eat our own walnuts, fresh from the tree.

The Silk Worm Diaries - chapter two:

2010-10-04T21:37:00.027+01:00

No cheating or peeking, or fast-forwarding! Read on (as Mr Bennett said in Jane Austen's 'Pride & Prejudice'), and then see my final entry written this evening (Monday 4th October, 2010)

Monday 27th September, 2010 (20.15): I put the babies to bed, swathed in my best American muslin (sorry, Kristi, all I could find in a potential worm-wandering emergency). Will they be OK? Believe me, living in a farming community, once breeding my own ducks, geese and hens, I am not sentimental about animals; but a challenge is a challenge and I am now responsible for these tiny creatures. And I want some silk!

Tuesday 28th September, 2010 (8.00 am): I draw the curtain (remove the muslin) from the 'oaks' and take the lid off the box containing the 'eris' - for I am not sure if they have sufficient air. Do the larvae sleep at night? For there's not much evidence of leaves having been eaten. There's a quantity of worm pooh in both boxes so at least they are still alive. I am convinced the eris have doubled in size since I bought them on Sunday, but that may be wishful thinking and they are still depressingly miniscule. Maybe I should photograph them each day for comparison.

Wednesday 29th September, 2010 (17.52): All is well, but then four of the Oaks went walkabout. One on the muslin; it would not release it's hold, took me 15mins to encourage it back to the hawthorn leaves. Then two more walked around the edge of the box and another squeezed its way down the glass jar and almost into the water, even though I'd padded that out with kitchen towel to guard against drowning. So now the end of the hawthorn twigs are encased in damp paper and the bunch laid in the box with a mesh pizza tray on the top. They've grown in size and seem to be very active during the day. The Eris are growing, too; must have doubled in size. Still in the little microwave box that the Oaks came in, but now not all bunched together. I'll have to find them a larger box in the next couple of days.

Thursday 30th September, 2010: It's box-cleaning day, and I am still obsessed by the pooh count! For that tells me whether they are eating - and supposedly growing - or not; don't read on if you are squeamish. The Oaks' pooh is as elephant dung compared with that of the Eris, "just as sweet and dry as tobacco dust" as the English poet Edward Thomas wrote during World War One not that long before being killed in action at the Battle of Arras. I don't know what brought this poem to mind but tobacco dust is an apt description of Eri pooh, at the size they are now - still so tiny, but alive. (ET was not of course referring to silkworm pooh when he wrote those words, but likening the state of the soil to tobacco dust - soil fit for sowing.)

Friday 1st October, 2010: the Oaks are feeding like crazy, their bodies swelling and looking formidable. Are they doing well? I know so little about the rearing of silk worms but am reminded for some unaccountable reason of visits to the health clinic with my first child. Each week weighed and figures entered on a chart. 'He's not gained much weight this week,' the nurse would say, or 'well look at his weight increase ...' I would worry, until I twigged that he did not appear to have gained weight if he had poohed his nappy before attending the clinic, and he did if he hadn't, if you see what I mean. Well this first fine son is now approaching 50, senior training captain for a UK airline, and has three thriving children of his own. So why did I worry - and why do I worry now, for all seems to be well with the young larvae.

Saturday 2nd October, 2010: I come down stairs to make our early morning cup of tea; the kitchen is cold; it's grey outside and remains so all day. Endless rain. The Oaks are torpid, nothing like they were yesterday. They seem to have shrunk.

Sunday 3rd October, 2010: I am beginning to wonder what has happened; I cut fresh hawthorn leaves for the Oaks (the tiny Eris are still not exactly active but are scything through privet leaves in a 'wrong-end-of-a-telescope' fashion). I'm not concerned about them; they are younger and their life-cycle is not the same as the Oaks. These seem lifeless, but some hours later, as the sky lightens, there is a little movement. Not much. I read all I can find on the internet but it hardly registers. Fresh food every day is perhaps significant: I've been giving new offerings every other day but the hawthorn is decidedly Autumnal; maybe insufficient food value. I read that as they grow (their size seems to have diminished), they should have twigs placed in a jar of water to keep the leaves succulent, as I did at the start of the week. I read about their skin-moult and wonder when and how often how this occurs, and how - skin splitting and a new larger larva crawling out? Or what?

Monday 4th October, 2010: We have to leave very early for an exhibition. I move the silk worm containers back onto the window cill, hoping the increasing light during the day will enliven the larvae. They appear lifeless and I am ashamed, for has my mismanagement caused their seeming decline, or perhaps their death? On the way home, whilst shopping in the supermarket, I buy a new home for the Oaks, just in case I am wrong about their apparent demise. "Not another container!" says Raymond as I emerge with a lidded bucket, sufficiently deep to hold a jar and upright twigs. "It was only 65 pence," I retaliate, "and it for the silk worms." Which seemed to satisfy him.

a potential new silk-worm home

Back in the house, sunshine is streaming through the kitchen window - they will have been cooked, I think, for sunlight is not good for them. Some were lying on the floor of their box; other hanging shrivelled within the hawthorn leaves. I gently prod one and it sort of twitches; I'm not sure if it is dead or not. Are they ALL dead? I fill a jar with water and insert fresh leaves through holes pierced in a cap of foil (to prevent drowning should some show any sign of life). Maybe they ARE in one of their five skin-shedding stages - in which case they should not be disturbed. I gently lift each twig holding a lifeless caterpillar to lay it into fresh growth in the new tub. And then I notice one lying on its side with flakes of dry skin curling away from it (see pic at the top of this post). There is a faint movement. Maybe they do not shed their skin whole, as snakes do; maybe they are OK after all. The morning will tell.

As for the Eris - well their size remains about the same, but I notice that some have changed colour and are now miniature editions of the magnificently large ones seen at Malvern. I feel happier, and look up the vendor's website only to find that some hybrid larvae are still available; ones more beautiful even after their emergence from the cocoon stage than the baby Eris I am counting on for white silk - but the hybrids will provide me with silk in varying shades. (Sigh as I visualise tiny fabric keepsakes incorporating handmade silk paper.) Maybe I will telephone in the morning; ostensibly to discover at what temperature the larvae should be reared, but also, perhaps, to make another purchase. Three 'incubators' .....

The Silk Worm Diaries - chapter one:

2010-09-27T18:32:00.001+01:00

silk worms of the Chinese Oak silk moth

Begun this day, Monday 27th September; each chapter will appear as a weekly installment. The catalyst is my crazy spur-of-the-moment decision made yesterday at the Malvern Autumn Show to make my own silk-paper to incorporate into tiny fabric keepsakes. For the prologue to this project, please refer to my journaling blog - yesterday's post on purchases (final paragraph). From that you will see how one thing led to another and I am now the proud owner of twenty silkworms; not exactly a silk-worm farmer (yet) and if I ever arrive at the silk production stage, it will be a miracle.

you can just see the tiny 'Eri' silk worms in the lower box

Well, they survived the night in their plastic boxes within the confines off the motorhome cab. This morning they appeared totally comatose and I could not tell if they were alive or dead. They certainly weren't moving, nor eating the leaves that had been supplied with them; privet for the beautiful Samia ricini (Eri silk moth) and hawthorn for the less exotic-looking Antheraea pernyi (Chinese Oak silk moth).

the Eri silk moth (can be fed on privet) - more beautiful than this in real life

and the Chines Oak silk moth which can be fed on hawthorn, amongst other UK hedgerow plants

Back home, after feeding Raymond (husbands come first), and then the hens, I prepare a new home for the older and larger Oak moth - from now on I'll refer to it as that. I plod down the garden in the rain to cut hawthorn twigs, ploughing through a forest of wet nettles and goose-grass that deposit their clinging burrs onto my jersey. The clipped twigs are inserted into a jar of water, plugged with kitchen towel so the caterpillars (worms) do not fall in and drown themselves. Over this I place a defunct liquidiser jug and stand the whole contraption on the window cill. I transfer the torpid creatures onto the new leaves. They are supposed to eat themselves into cocoon stage within six weeks; I hope the hawthorn leaves in our hedgerow have not all dropped by then or I will have wasted my investment.

Just hope these 'oak' worms don't escape!

The Eri caterpillars are so tiny and look completely shrivelled. They go into a larger plastic sandwich box with fresh privet snipped from under a dripping willow that deposited water down my neck. That box too is placed on the window cill. The mustn't get too hot; little chance of that; our kitchen is always icy cold, even in the depths of summer. Half an hour after moving the thread-like creatures into their new home, half of them have migrated onto the fresh privet stalks. There are supposed to be 20 but I can only count 14; I don't intend to investigate. The 'oaks' have either found an appetite or prefer their semi-unconfined surroundings for they look as if they intend to go walkabout (which the man assured me they would not, unless they are hungry). Maybe they don't like my hawthorn; they stick their faces into the air and sway from side to side, as if mesmerised, but do not seem to be eating. I think I had better swathe their feeding jug in fleece or muslin overnight for there's no knowing where they might end up in this rambling house if they decide to migrate. I only have ten of these; can count eight ???

I'll be adding to this diary regularly, detailing how things progress; and hopefully - eventually - reporting the production of my first silk. Meanwhile, I guess the internet will reveal more on the care of silk worms. I just hope I am more successful than I was aged seven with my classroom mulberry/lettuce gobbling silkworms in 1944! It's two hours since the worms had their new home and time to prepare our own supper, but hurrah - they're all eating theirs: the 'Oaks' dispersed amongst the foliage, the 'Eris' clumped together as a crowd, one whole privet leaf consumed. And with all these mouths to feed, we dare not go away again!

Such a day

2010-09-25T21:09:00.000+01:00

Sunny, a chill Autumn day; but sunshine over the Malverns and such a joy to be here. Over the years, I have come to regard this place, this Showground, as somewhere that truly tugs at my heart. Why? It has to be the people; all who are involved. And exhibitors who have become to me so many fond acquaintances.

Yet there is always something new: the Good Life Kitchen Garden Stage designed by Mark Diacono of Otter Farm; the UK's only climate change farm and home to orchards of olives, peaches, almonds, szechuan pepper, apricots and a vineyard. I sat through one of his presentations, absolutely mesmerised, for not only did he impart so much horticultural knowledge, whilst throwing together a home-grown nectarine salsa, he even managed to outflank the ever-loquacious Joe Swift. Such multi-tasking warranted more stage time to him and less to the antics of BBC presenters. Were we at a pantomime or an RHS Show? I'll have to obtain a copy of MD's new book, 'A Taste of the Unexpected', and delve more deeply into topics that are becoming increasingly relevant to those of us who like to grow our own edible crops.

I'm agonising over whether to continue my 'gardening' blog - created in May because there seemed to be many Malvern-orientated bloggers out there. Some of us met at the Spring Gardening Show and I spotted quite a few alongside the stage today; some lack of communication I guess ... so I am thinking this one through. I had planned to garden-blog about 'Red Love' - announced last night that I would do so; but think I'll showcase this delicious new apple right here. It's a tenuous link into which I will not delve right now, but to cut an involved story down to it's fruit roots. 'Red Love' is a new red-fleshed apple, tart but sweet, with flowers the colour of deep crab-able crimson and a heritage story to go with it. Exclusive to Suttons but bred by Swiss nurseryman Markus Kobelt, whom I met at the UK launch a couple of weeks ago in Kent.

I'll be writing more about this remarkable introduction in a forthcoming magazine feature on the Malvern Autumn Show, so will reserve more words for that. Meanwhile, my own Autumm journaling harvest is progressing in the motorhome cab, although the heating appears to have packed up so the duvet seems preferable to artistic endeavour!

Back at Malvern

2010-09-24T16:31:00.006+01:00

Autumn squash and the epitome of a garden harvest

According to my classification of what I blog about, this post should by rights appear on my gardening blog. But that is in such a state of disarray, is languishing (or rather sulking) for lack of attention, and I am ashamed of it. So for the moment I'll continue to revisit Malvern under my wild child umbrella. It's the RHS Autumn Show (Sat 25th and Sun 26th) - billed as both 'a celebration of nature's harvest' and the 'autumn food and gardening show'. We arrived on site early this afternoon with motorhome and a bitterly cold northerly wind. At the Spring Show it rained and was also cold (it was the Spring Show that prompted me to start a gardening blog); today no rain but grey skies which are not conducive to good photography! WiFi press pass obtained and an advance copy of the show catalogue which I will read cover to cover this evening, the better to know where I am headed tomorrow, I make straight for the 'Good life Pavilion'. There's so much to cover.

It was good to bump into friends and acquaintances, particularly Claire Potter and Paul Hervey-Brookes, who are so much a part of my Malvern experience. Claire is not exhibiting at this show (and it's a long way from Brighton), but Paul is, and has created the most beautiful 'Living Landscape' focal point in the pavilion, alongside a number of other edible gardens. More tomorrow when I've studied the catalogue and talked to some of the designers.

the concept behind Paul's living landscape is subtle and fascinating - my photo does not do it justice

Right now I need a cup of tea with toasted teacakes, and some 'journal spilling' on papers I prepared at home late last night; autumnal colours all ready for pasting in my own vegetable and fruit harvest and adding words which will also spill out as the evening advances.

Taken in the motorhome cab (my away-from-home studio) - and this should be posted on my journaling blog, but isn't. I'd better attend to that, as well! Take a look, if you will - I have now done so, courtesy of a good generator to power lights and laptop.

Playing around again

2010-09-22T08:35:00.002+01:00

Just back from a short press trip to Dorset with the Caravan Writers' Guild. I open my blog and decide I just do not like the changes I had made to its style so have played around again; it's still not right - the heading is boring; I shall have to work on that, and on some of the colours. I only hope I have not made it too hard to read (my apologies if I have; please hang in there whilst I experiment; I can't manage the clever stuff). Apart from the Guild activities - barbecues and the like with fellow journalists - Raymond and I visited some fascinating places in connection with forthcoming articles; I making notes and writing words whilst Ray took some most beautiful photos which I will share when he has kindly passed them to me. Because, although I took my camera, I was not as well organised as I should have been. Day one, as soon as we arrived, I took the ducks shown above at a farm park we visited for lunch. Day two, I forgot my camera - left it in the caravan. Day three I took it but had forgotten to charge the battery! Day four, I had it with me but left it in the car when I went for a long solitary walk upon Holt Heath; I had wanted to photograph a wide band of flint pebbles that I discovered in an old quarry (I scribbled notes instead).

I haven't yet downloaded the pics I took on Monday which was a day off (miraculous) and I spent most of the time journaling in the caravan with no pressure for once to do anything. Yesterday was spent travelling home and then preparing to depart again for the Malvern Autumm 'Food & Gardening' Show. We've been away every week this month and long for some time at home without deadlines. Then I'll be able to catch up I hope with all that has been neglected this long and busy summer. Meanwhile, all I can say is 'hello' - for what are words without pics to illustrate where one has been or what one has done? Although actually most of what I am taking at the moment are textural - the bark of a tree or patterns on a stone wall, from which to create image transfers onto fabric as backgrounds for other work.

I cannot believe this !

2010-09-10T19:43:00.002+01:00

This will be a short post, for we have only just arrived back from a working trip to Kent and are exhausted after driving with the caravan on the M25; took us four hours to get home and only three to drive down there on Tuesday - but then that was between one and four o'clock in the morning! But that is not the purpose of this post, to bemoan the traffic, but to say a most enormous THANKYOU to all who have stuck with me since I began this 'wild somerset child' blog back in January 2009.

For I switched on the computer and discovered that I now have 100 'followers' to this wild blog. I am so very grateful to all who read and leave me comments from time to time. You keep me focussed when I am having a 'grey' day, which has happened all too often of late. I remember my first hesitant post and wondered whether anyone would ever read it, and whether anyone would get in touch. And you have, from so many corners of the world.

I wondered what photo would best show my feelings - should it be one taken whilst in Kent? Some flowers? Trees? Birds? And then I remembered the cheeky little chappy I snapped in the trial garden of Suttons Seeds at Hadlow College, taken on Wednesday after we had attended the most wonderful press presentation of new varieties to be launched next year. The words on his little body just seem to say it all - from the seed sown by my first post, my blog has grown and I have gained such friendship. Thankyou to you all.

And for those who aren't particularly enamoured of baby scarecrows, here's a shot I took from the top of the tower at Igtham Mote only yesterday. I love this medieval manor house (dates back to 1320) though it was a tad too busy for my liking and I had to go and sit quietly in the courtyard, which revitalised me, though the wooden seat was distinctly damp! Raymond was taking 'proper' photos for the travel article we were engaged upon, whilst I spent most of my time snapping tree bark and stone walls to turn into fabric backgrounds for my little textile books. Eventually, whatever I create will appear on my journaling blog. For now, I reflect on the true nature of friendship, and wonder whether there is any possibility of my reaching as many years as I now have followers. Somehow I think not - I still have over a quarter of a century to go. My thoughts turn to tomorrow's date and particularly dear bloggers in America.

taken from the turreted tower, after climbing the spiral staircase

Oh what have I done! ???

2010-08-28T22:25:00.003+01:00

It's been nearly two months since I posted on my 'Wild Somerset Child' blog - sorry for our enforced absence. But I was beginning to think that the template I used when I started blogging was very 'old hat'. So I played around a bit with new templates and don't particularly like all the ones with which I have experimented this evening; and now can't get back to where I was!

We've been working non-stop, though I have been playing at journaling of one sort and another in odd moments; not posting, not communicating, and now when I do .... my mind is a total blank. And the only photo I can find to post is one we took as a 'signature' for some of the magazine features we produce where a 'portrait' is needed. This was taken with a cable release in the middle of a wood on a photoshoot for an article set in south Cambridgeshire. The two of us (Raymond and I) had to appear together; moments before Raymond pressed the shutter release, I got the giggles; I hope Ray has moved that image into the trash.

Hey ho! We've been traveling and traveling and are off again almost immediately to Northern Ireland, then in the next few weeks to Kent, Dorset and Malvern, after which I hope to settle down to housework (actually not that) and also sorting out whatever I have done to this blog.

Thankyou meanwhile to all who have hung in with me when there was nothing new to read about, and thankyou, too, to all new readers who have come on board despite the two-month's lapse in posts.

Hope to be back with you all soon.

Herbal therapy

2010-07-05T08:17:00.001+01:00

lavender and honeysuckle by our back door

When I feel stressed, I turn to herbs - just a whiff of hot lavender as I brush past it by our back door is sufficient (usually) to bring me to my senses. It doesn't always work, so I have other strategies to calm myself. Working in the garden with hands in the soil inevitably slows my racing brain, as does writing in my journal or diary, or 'composing' blank verse on scraps of paper. Frequently these snippets spring into being when I am preparing supper, but food is always a comfort; it depends on the level of stress - preparing food, not so much eating it. I have burned many a dish when I get carried away!

My third form of mental therapy is to create in fabric or paper; which is regarded by my dear husband as play, so I sneak in odd moments but find this frustrating. From time to time I manage a complete day and have been revived this last weekend by a marvellous workshop I attended, which in itself involved herbs and my garden (see my account in one of my other blogs, Journaling the Journal); I hug to myself this stolen day of pure pleasure, for what I learned will sustain me through weeks to come.

This last six months has been particularly stressful for one reason and another. Working freelance is always hit and miss; you are either short of work and panic that you cannot meet the council tax or whatever, or are so overloaded that it is hard to fit in all there is to do; and then I worry about the state of the house and garden which never receives the attention from me that it - and Raymond - deserves.

Last week was one of recuperation: meeting friends in Oxford for lunch and a visit to the Ashmolean museum to look at the textiles gallery, the workshop on Saturday and tidying up of work odds and ends before the next six-month tranch of articles and canvassing for 2011. So my herbal therapy yesterday was calculated to satisfy both mind and body: I collected together many of my garden pots and filled them to overflowing with herbs, designed to attract bees and butterflies and other beneficial insects. By rights, this part of the post should be in my gardening blog, but that got off to a poor start, rushed into being just before Malvern, and has yet to achieve its potential! (If you like gardens, gardening and plants, do please take a peek; it will improve ....). My three blogs are deliberately intended to interlink; you never know what you will find on each one; that 'wild child' is wilful and will not be constrained!

some of the herbs awaiting positioning on pots around the garden

I played with herbal image transfers last night and am actually ready to put the pages of my 'Summer Days' fabric concertina book together now. My final strategy for the second half of this year is to so organise my workspace that I can work on various projects simultaneously, and to do a little of something every day, before stress levels build again. Right now I feel calm and collected, and for that I am so thankful. I am grateful, too, for blogger friends who keep me focussed and, although I may not comment as often as I would wish or should, what a wonderful way to keep in touch. Blogging is another form of therapy.

Back at Malvern

2010-06-17T14:55:00.005+01:00

Retained from the Malvern Spring Garden Show - the symbolic

25th Anniversary Garden

Home from our Irish visit (over 1,000 miles by car and coach - and sea), we had a one-day turn-around and hit the road again early this morning, headed once more for the Malvern Showground. This time it's for the 'Three Counties Show' - the "best of British food, farming and rural life" and now one of the largest agricultural shows in the country, particularly since the demise of 'The Royal'. All Malvern shows are business generators, helping to boost the rural economy, within the three counties of Worcestershire, Gloucestershire and Herefordshire, though visitors are drawn from far and wide. Evidently the annual regional impact of Showground activity amounts to a staggering £35m.

Build-up to the Show

I've managed to obtain a preview copy of the Show Catalogue - the Show doesn't actually start until tomrrow (Friday) and runs until Sunday. Raymond is out and about taking pics of the final build-up whilst I sit in the quiet press room with wi-fi facility. If I remember to bring all my gear with me, I will endeavour to update you on the main attractions, for with fine weather forecast for all three days, I can see we will be enjoying ourselves, as well as working.

Better still of course - if you are sufficiently local - is to come along and see for yourself. Opening hours each day are from 8.00am until 6.00pm. There are gardens to view even though the show is not devoted to gardening: the 25th Anniversary Garden has been retained, but also the Morgan-sponsored garden (Morgan being local to Malvern). I am sure Raymond still hankers after his own sportscar - the one he owned when we both met, 53 years ago this summer; it was a 1932 Aston Martin Le Mans, and he swapped it for me! Or at least he sold it so we could afford to get married.

Also retained from the Spring - the Morgan Garden

Tomorrow, we anticipate a long day; so much to see and do: regional food and drink, parades in the main arena, hot air balloons, Red Devils parachuting; the farming village; country sports and pursuits; country living, including 'Ambridge' for BBC Archers fans - which takes me back to student days when we were taught 'broacasting' by the original Carol Tregorren (1954-1957); arts and crafts; medieval village; and innumerable breeds of livestock.

Awaiting visitors, with the stunning backdrop of the Malvern Hills

And as 'Goodwood' will be here again selling their delicious mouthwatering burgers, guess where I will be heading for lunch tomorrow ?!! (see post of 8th May, 2010).

I could not close without posting this lovely shot of alliums that Raymond took for me in the 25th Anniversary Garden (see top pic also), because a) he rarely takes such shots without me asking him, and b) it's unusual that he knew what they were!

Still in Ireland

2010-06-13T19:33:00.003+01:00

Hello from a very green and alternately sunny and wet Ireland. We have just driven from the north (Belfast) to the south (Dublin) through heavy rain and are enjoying a welcome cup of tea in our new campsite with access to WiFi and work over for the week though much still to do. We have been introduced to so many fascinating places and people and I plan to post more about our visit in due course. For the moment I just want to say 'thankyou' to the many generous organisations who sponsored the event, which was hosted by the Caravan Writers' Guild.

From the Wicklow Mountains to the Giant's Causeway, we were feted and fed and were privileged to be given access to places that are otherwise not open to the public. One such I want to share with all readers is that which we visited yesterday: the Titanic Experience. Set within the former shipyard of shipbuilders, Harland & Wolff - where of course the Titanic was built - most is in fact accessible, though additionally we were shown into the very room where the fated ship was designed.

The picture at the start of this posting (taken from an old poster) shows the sheer size of the Titanic; the shot immediately above is of the dry dock where the ship was fitted out and made ready for the launch. Just visible on the left is the old Pump House which controlled the flow of water in and out of the dry dock. It now houses the shop and a restaurant where we were served delicious soup and freshly made sandwiches.

This is the very spot from whence the Titanic was launched down the slipway into Belfast Lough in 1912. My notes are packed away (I'm sitting in the cab of the motorhome to lap-tap this) so please forgive the lack of information. The whole shipyard area is undergoing a reformation with a new visitor centre which will be opened in 2012, one-hundred years from the ship's maiden voyage and subsequent sad demise with such a terrible loss of life. Were it not for that iceberg, today's dockyard regeneration might never have been.

I found the experience poignant and moving and took some unusual photos which will appear within my 'Irish Rhapsody' travel journal - for an update on that, please move over to my journaling blog which I will update shortly (the WiFi here is none too good and it's taking ages to upload photos.) I must thank many friends for emails to which I cannot reply - so sorry, but my laptop is set up to receive but not to send. In fact it has taken so long to write this post that we are now enjoying an 'apple aperitif', and it's time to prepare a motorhome supper.

Wonders of Modern Technology

2010-06-06T15:29:00.002+01:00

I am in limbo for a couple of hours; afloat on the Irish Sea between Holyhead and Dublin, and able to blog courtesy of free WiFi on the 'Stena Adventurer'. The sea is as calm as the proverbial millpond; the sun has broken through the haze and we are looking forward to our 'Irish Rhapsody'.

The map above should have been posted on my Journaling blog, for I created it for the title page of the travel journal I am making whilst we are in Ireland with the Caravan Writers' Guild. The map was printed on tracing paper and stitched over a scan of an old sheet of music. I won't go into the technicalities of how it will be integrated into the page - that's for Journaling the Journal; but it will be similar to the last post on journaling at Malvern. I'll post about Ireland again whenever I have WiFi access. Right now I am waiting to catch my first glimpse of the Irish coast and Dublin's 'fair city'.

It wasn't all eating!

2010-05-13T07:34:00.001+01:00

time for coffee - and the most enormous coffee eclair

When you are tired, cold and have been working 'on the job' non-stop for four days, a little time off is perhaps deserved. Ours came unexpectedly after Malvern, for our motorhome was booked in for a service in Ludlow. Rather than travel back over the River Severn, and on eastwards to our home in the Cotswolds, and then take the three hour journey north west to Ludlow the very next morning, we drove straight from the Showground to the little campsite we had found on an earlier visit; that took us only just over an hour and we had Sunday afternoon to relax, after having had a delicious lunch in the Conservatory Barn Cafe at the Ludlow Food Centre.

goat's cheese quiche laced with spinach, and a delicious salad

That (lunch, and food shopping) was my treat to Raymond for struggling in the cold and rain of Malvern to take all the photos I needed (he took around 500) for the articles that were to follow, the first of which is already dispatched. I write the second today.

Up bright and early therefore on the Monday, we had delivered the motorhome by 8.30am, caught a bus into the town centre and were enjoying breakfast in the sandwich bar / cafe that we had also discovered on a previous visit. Then we had the morning to kill, so to the museum to escape the chilly wind; to a bookshop-cum-artshop for supplies; to my favourite little shop for unusual paper napkins for art-journaling; and to the market for the fabric stall that always sells bargains. This time, I found furnishing fabric for book covers and a roll of tartan voile for only £5.00! (So all my fabric book covers are likely to be lined with this for quite a while.) We had collected the van by 3.00pm and were home by 6.00, feeling remarkably relaxed and rested, driving through such loveliness as to make the heart truly sing.

Malvern Day Three

2010-05-08T13:49:00.009+01:00

eating is just as important as buying seeds and gardening sundries

Another 'Goodwood' moment: long-term readers of this, my 'wild' blog, may recall our visits to Goodwood to prepare features on the estate's farm and its produce. So it was with some surprise - and delight - when wandering around the Malvern Show this morning that we spotted the livery of the Goodwood Burger Bar.

not Goodwood - but MALVERN

Essential that we sampled what I had previously written about, so a burger - which I normally do not like - it had to be for lunch. Even the baps were delicious, and as for the succulent beef, reared in the pastures on rolling downland near the Sussex coast, well that was truly something. Fueled with the comfort of food inside me, we are ready for a further foray around the shopping area of the showground. It's still cold, and still raining - yet our spirits are as high as ever. I'll post again this evening, my gardening news for the third day, once more on my new gardening blog. (And 'hello' to Rosie - 'a rambling rose' - who has asked me to say 'hello' to Malvern for her; the town where she grew up. Rosie, the rain is sweeping in from the north, with low cloud brushing the hilltops as I write; it's still quite beautiful and awe-inspiring.)

Malvern Day Two

2010-05-07T19:17:00.016+01:00

Day two of the Malvern Spring Gardening Show - I had to take this photo of the backdrop of the hills (always theatrical), the visitors without which the Show would not exist, and one of the show gardens peeking through those walking past (spot the Morgan car in the background, who sponsored this garden - Morgan cars are manufactured in Great Malvern)

It's been a cold, wet and shivery day - unless you kept moving, which is not difficult if the stalls you want to visit are at opposite ends of the showground. I've managed to obtain continuous WiFi coverage and thus can post in a less frenetic fashion. What is difficult to do, is to provide all the links I would like to do as they lodge in my office back at home. (But it is an enormous thrill to be able to have internet access in the middle of a grass field, with the hills ahead of me - the motorhome cab makes a perfect studio.)

Her Royal Highness, the Princess Royal (Princess Anne) arriving at the Malvern Showground today

It is the 25th anniversary of the Malvern Spring Gardening Show - and back in 1986, Her Royal Highness, Princess Anne, opened the original permanent buildings. And today she came back. I've been on other press-calls when HRH was guest at some particular launch and was impressed at the time she gave to everyone she met. She is incredibly hard-working, and on this occasion (today) walked around the show-ground for nearly two hours (it was all very informal, though clearly well-managed), before driving herself to whatever was her next engagement. But I digress, this is a post about a 'garden show' and so, if you wish to continue, please click the link to my new gardening blog.

Malvern Spring Show

2010-05-06T17:47:00.009+01:00

the Malvern Hills (just a part of the chain) on a brighter day than it is today

We're back here in the lee of the beautiful hills - I'm sitting in the cab of the motor-home as I type this, and hoping that my one-hour WiFi token will allow me to post what I write. It's been a really hectic two days (one on the final set-up day, and then today which is Day One of the Show).

A delightful spot in designer Deb's garden - I need to check her details and will put link to them when I am not against the clock for internet time

I will now try to post this, and if it works, will write a 'day one' report on my new gardening blog (and thankyou to those who have already posted a comment on that.)

I must be mad !

2010-05-04T14:02:00.005+01:00

I should be packing for Malvern; I should be putting the final touches to a couple of magazine features; I should be cooking the lunch - and what do I do? I create a new blog !!!! When do I think I will find the time; what prompts these spur-of-the-moment actions; whatever possessed me?

Well it's done, or at least begun. Rushed and not yet tweaked or pruned; but like planting a seed, it will grow if cared for and nurtured. I thrive on challenges and hope you will share this, my latest adventure.

Something of nothing

2010-04-25T07:51:00.024+01:00

random photo no 1: at Dover's Hill a week ago; I loved the image of this part of the hill apparently crowned with trees. Raymond photographs me standing way down at the bottom (a long climb back up).

To my horror, I see it is very nearly a month since I last posted. I know I said I would be taking a break but did not think it would be for so long - and now time is compressing and there are not enough days to complete the list of tasks that have to be accomplished before I absent myself again. And oh, how I miss these quiet mornings when I sit in bed, mug of tea in hand and look out over the distant wood, which this morning is vaguely misty after the first rain we have had for weeks.

random photo no 2: at Malvern photographing a part of the Perry Pears collection.

I love this 'my time' when I can catch up with my favourite blogs, laptop on my knee, my husband working through yet another crossword (sometimes asking me the answer to a botanical clue). So it felt like old times to log in just now and start writing. Raymond said I was pacing around like a caged lion and asked me what the matter was. "Nothing," I replied - I was just collecting the laptop - which I had remembered to re-charge last night - and my camera for I have photos to post not yet downloaded, and the card-reader to download them.

random photo no 3: I can't resist the patterns made by bare tree branches - here's one of the perry pears just coming into flower.

Indeed, many has been the time over the last four weeks that I have on my daily travels taken photos and thought, "I will blog about that," but by the evening I was too tired and anyway try to limit the number of hours I stare into a computer screen. So the moment passes. Even my diary only lists what I have managed to do the previous day; not my usual 'morning pages'. Moments have been captured in my silly sort of poetry, but even that takes time to type in, convert to pdf and then to jpg in order to post it.

random photo no 4: build-up taken on Friday of one of the show gardens at Malvern which particularly intrigued me; fascinating to see how these gardens come together.

There have been no quiet morning moments - just a falling out of bed to continue the long list of happenings: work, meetings, emails arranging meetings, traveling, magazine photography; family visits and the garden which bit by bit is being transformed for this years photoshoots. We are late with our veg but - excuse - the soil was just too cold and nothing was growing. There have been odd instances when I have been able to stitch and slather a little paint. One day, I sat at my new machine and could not remember how to switch it on! But my little practice sampler is complete and I am working on another (posted the rough mock-up in my other blog on Tuesday 4th March) - all the little pages are progressing.

random photo no 5: scan of my quilting sampler, using rejects of image transfers so as I could check the stitches I would use - it's rather faint and blurry (would have been better had I photographed it, but at least you can't see the poor workmanship!

So rather than rabbit on about this and that, I will post a few pics at random between paragraphs and hope my dear followers will understand. Next week will see us at Malvern covering the Spring Gardening Show, and that is always magic, and more so this year for I do not know where the trail will lead and about what I will write, until we arrive and set up our 'studio'.

random photo no 6: Muchelney Abbey where we were two weeks ago, working on an article on the Somerset Levels for a caravanning magazine.

Truly this post has been 'something of nothing', but I have been thinking of you all and know I have been missing so many blogging treats in my absence. Blogging again this morning has been the equivalent for me of a pianist's five-finger exercises, limbering up, getting oneself in gear for the day ahead. In a half hour I will be in 'the office', computer switched on - an article deadline approaches and the long hours of this soft Sunday stretch ahead. My fingers will touch the keys, I will stare at a blank screen, write my first sentence, more words (2,000) will follow ... and I must remember that at the end of the afternoon I need to prepare us an evening meal. I'll be back with more posts but not sure when.

Seventy million shades

2010-03-27T07:31:00.022Z

such a find - I had to share it

Whilst researching an article on 'Colour Theory in the Garden' early in 2006, I immersed myself in books and colour charts for weeks, so much so that it obviously 'coloured' my entire life that winter. The article was published, I moved on, as one does - I always have a body of work on the go - until last week when I unearthed some words I obviously felt moved to write at the time, scribbled on a piece of paper. Such a jumble, a stream of consciousness, written without a single alteration. Typing it up and reading it again four years later, I recalled how at the time my head seemed to explode with colour for weeks on end. Does it make sense? No! But it was a part of me, then, in an intense period of study when I learned that the human eye can recognise 70 million different colours. (Skip the next bit if you want to.)

The finding of that four-year-old poem coincided with the purchase this last Thursday of some silk sari ribbon (pictured above) from Crafty Notions at the 'Sewing for Pleasure' show at the National Exhibition Centre in Birmingham - an annual pilgramage for me where I stock up with all manner of enticing materials and supplies. I did not know what these beautiful ribbons of silk were called and neither did I know they could be purchased in the UK, so spotting them on a stall was an incredible piece of luck. I had squirreled away such few pieces as I had acquired, wrappings around gifts from my dear creative friend Kristin Steiner, now living in North Carolina. I snip tiny pieces of her gifted ribbons and incorporate them into fabric keepsakes. Now I have my own stash of colour magic.

Such irridescence, kingfisher wings, exotic butterflies, birds of paradise and peacock tails: all manner of loveliness waiting to adorn my journals or be trapped in stitch on fabric pages. The finding of my poem and a source of the ribbon happened within a day of each other; they seemed to complement each other, hence this post. Normally I would post about things creative on my other blog, but bright, shining colour at this time of year gives such a lift to the spirit, brings joy to minds dulled from weeks of endless pastel cold, that I wanted to share it with all my blog followers.

To whom of course I owe such a debt for sustaining me through a difficult winter. I must have my laptop fixed or rather set up in such a way that I can email out of an evening,and say 'thankyou' individually. Meanwhile, thankyou again. I may be absent from blogging for a few weeks; I have a rigourous schedule and time is running out for all the necessary preparation. Which does not mean I will not be thinking of you all. I will, and will catch up on my return.

P.S. This has turned into a blog of links! Links are useful - if you want to check them out, but somehow interrupt the flow of what the post about. In future I think I will put a link list at the end of a posting - what do you think?

Spring at Last !

2010-03-21T08:07:00.010Z

'Daffs in a Pot' - watercolour, March 2000

It is officially Spring, and never has a season been more welcome, after the prolonged harsh weather and an over-cold house with only a modicum of heating. The wind has turned to the south-west; a rain-washed morning. We have survived and have already begun the Spring-cleaning of the garden. Many of my beloved herbs succumbed to the low temperatures, but the soil is beautifully friable after weeks of frost. Growth is late, tree buds just showing that swelling of the sepals that is the forerunner of green leaves to come. Crocus shine in 'the plum patch', the blue stars of chionodoxa are just emerging and suddenly too my miniature daffodils poke their sunlit blooms through their winter leafmold blanket.

This will be a short post; it's heads down here at Ivy House, non-stop work and projects that can now be attempted: flinging open of doors and windows; a sorting of 'the office' and workspace; Raymond back in his workshop, and me scribbling, or rather keyboarding - and making time to sew.

The pic above was one I attempted at a watercolour class I attended ten years ago. The tutor was a lovely lady who always wanted us to 'paint large' - I found this really hard as I tend to create small, in miniature. We had to take in a pot of bulbs for one class, so I dug the little daffs out of the garden, stuck them in a pot, and they fell over in the car on my way to class, which didn't improve them, or my mood, and I never finished the painting. It was one of those days; I am sure we all have them when nothing seems to go according to plan.

But not all days are a downside: the poem that follows is part of a much longer one I wrote in 1970 - thirty years ago; to me it still so perfectly expresses my feelings of today, I decided to share it.

Finally, huge thankyou to all those who have been leaving me messages or sending me emails. I do so appreciate your kind comments. Always full of good intentions, I flag them for a reply, and there they sit in my in-box, languishing. I will try to do better.

Sunday Escape

2010-03-07T17:07:00.031Z

It has been a day of surprises. Raymond wakes me with a hot mug of tea. "How are you feeling?" he asks and without thinking (still bleary eyed from sleep) I answer, "not brilliant."

"Well, that's a shame," he says, "because I thought you would like to go out for the day."

Pause.

"I'll take you out to lunch."

Another pause.

Now these spur-of-the-moment happenings do not occur that often. We are always busy with work or one project or another, it's too costly, and R. hates going out at the weekend. Something must be on his mind. I ponder as to what my response should be: I don't want to hurt his feelings; I don't feel well; I had hoped to spend the day continuing my fabric keepsake (as already detailed in my journaling blog). It doesn't take long to ascertain why my dear husband is feeling edgy. A car has been parked on the pavement right outside the house all night. R. feels besieged. This is happening more and more frequently; the feeling of being ambushed in our own home by thoughtless people.

My mind reached back to a time many years ago when I came home from shopping on a Saturday afternoon. It was mid-summer and very hot; I was looking forward to weeding the garden and cooking R. a steak barbecue with home-grown salad. No chance: "Get your things together, and the tent, we're going away."

"Why?" I asked, bewildered.

"Because those d--n moto-X motorbikes have been churning up and down the hillside all afternoon and are driving me mad." - or words to that effect. Oh!

"Where to?" I ask.

"As far away as possible. Cornwall."

"CORNWALL !!!" (We live right in the middle of England.)

I throw together bedding and a little food, overnight things and find the tent. We do not drive down, but fly to Lands End, to a small grass airfield overlooking the sea. We camp next to the aircraft, eat a poor meal and I do my best not to complain. I miss the steak supper, but had a wonderful long walk the next morning down a valley alongside a bubbling stream to a secret cove where I collected pebbles and sat on the rocky beach and wrote quiet thoughts. Writing always calms me.

So, today, I knew that it would be sensible to humour R, even though I would rather have stayed in bed! "No rush," he said, "we'll make a gentle day of it; you choose the route, bring your camera." He wanted to check his new lens anyway (another motive for going out ?? - it is, after all, the big annual camera exhibition tomorrow in Birmingham!) - I am putting thoughts into his mind which is such a silly thing to do; by now I just knew he wanted a break and thought it would do me good, too. I grab my 'journal spilling' notebook and my neocolor crayons. Dear R. even said he didn't mind if I scribbled all the way. I didn't. I was too busy map-reading him cross-country down single-track country lanes to keep away from main roads which he detests; but we paused frequently at suitable stopping points. R took photos, I journal-spilled (see my other blog later in the week when I have scanned what I did).

And so the lovely day unfolded.

Lunch at the 'Corner Cupboard' in Winchcombe was sublime and we walked that off on the highest part of the Cotswolds, about 1,000ft amsl; just long enough to keep from freezing - it is still so bitterly cold;

on Cleeve Common, and I am so cold, I disappear amongst the gorse bushes and gather golden gorse flowers to stay out of the south-easterly wind - they usually smell of coconut and I thought I would add them to my pot-pourri dish once I have dried them

I've had enough and stroll back to the car parked way below; everywhere still looks so wintery and it's cold, cold, cold

Much later, Ray takes this photo for me of a solitary rookery in an oak tree - I spotted it on the way out this morning, but the sun was in the wrong direction then for a photograph, so R. took it for me on the way back. I finish my rookery poem.

We make our way home via a circuitous route to sit by the fire and recount our Sunday escape. A gentle day indeed and so close to home - no rushing to the farthest point west this time to 'get away'.

Unearthing the Past

2010-03-03T18:15:00.052Z

I am not sure whether this will be a long or short post - it depends on how I manage to weave together what I want to impart, and whether I become carried away in the attempt.

Let me begin with the photograph pictured above: it was taken 72 years ago, early in 1938, and depicts me in my mother's arms, my maternal grandparents on the left, my father and mother and me in the middle, and on the right my great grandmother and my beloved great grandfather, Thomas Henry Guppy (1861 to 1948) and librarian of the John Rylands Library in Manchester from 1899 until his death. It was he who instilled in me a love of books and words and somehow throughout the second world war when new books were unobtainable, he always found me something special for my birthday. Books I treasured and still have.

This unearthing of the past has happened by accident. All spare time in the last month has been spent unravelling this house, searching everywhere for our passports. Not only those but Raymond's driving licence, our birth certificates and our marriage certificate. Not for any specific reason other than renewal; I suddenly noticed they were not where I always keep them. Coupled to that, I had been re-configuring my workspace to accommodate a new sewing machine, which involved making the decision to part with many of my technical books. The workroom took all of January; then came the discovery of my having 'mislaid' the vital documentation. You may think it strange that I cannot locate what I know is carefully put away somewhere; but picture this scenario: a very old house in which we have lived for 40 years; rooms leading into rooms, an accumulation of furniture and properties, boxes and boxes and yet more boxes of books and fabrics, projects from two houses and our former factory sold in 1999, all crammed together and stashed away within the house's three storeys.

our house, taken in 1969 - the little boy on the left is our younger son; it is his 47th birthday today (3rd March)

Another month has gone by, turning out drawers, boxes - most of our remembered - and unremembered - past. And the more I searched, the more panicky I became, until my brain froze and I felt oh so very OLD, and so stupid. Meanwhile I had to focus on work, and somehow completed my immediate batch of five commissioned articles, transferring myself both in thought, or literally, from Goodwood (Chichester), to the Malvern Hills and the music of Edward Elgar, to Aberglasney (Wales), and through gardens in the mind, writing about space-saving climbing vegetables and the edible patchwork quilts that we call 'potagers'. This last completed on Monday. I breathed a huge sigh of relief - don't get me wrong - I love what I do; it was just somewhat compressed this last three weeks.

I tackled the passport office, meeting a stumbling block when required to provide details of the EXACT dates of birth of both our sets of parents. For heaven's sake, they would be over a hundred years old now, if they were still alive! The officials were relatively helpful but did not seem able to understand that a) we had not committed to memory those dates from the 1800s, and b) that we could not instantly if at all lay our hands on our paperwork.

I don't know why, perhaps because I have now stopped, but I feel exhausted; not a part of this world, as if my thought processes are ebbing away; I now cannot find ANYTHING. But I know that given just a little time, I will be up and running and raring to go on whatever is next thrown at me. Just give me space.

My post tonight might have ended here, had it not been for a phone call early this morning from my daughter, inviting me to join her and 11-year-old grand-daughter K. on a girly day out in Oxford (she had a day off school). Three girls together, chattering away on the drive to the park-and-ride, on the bus into the city and throughout the three hours we had together. It was sunny, crisp and cold and we walked with great purpose, talking all the while. Bookshop, art store, stationers, chocolate shop, tea purveyor ... and a students' bistro for lunch.

I did not have a camera with me, I wish I had, but we sat at scrubbed pine tables eating potato wedges (scooped out baked potatoes in their skins, sprinkled with cayenne pepper, topped with grilled cheese), presented to us on wooden trenchers, with fresh leaf salad and sour cream cheese, mexican tortilla chips and salsa / guacamole dips. Mugs of hot tea and fruit juice for K. And still we chattered. It has been years since I shared such a day; and apart from the delicious lunch, I treated myself to a sketch book and notebook. I had a specific purpose for what I bought. The sketch book comprised pages of recycled tobacco-coloured paper, perfect for a forthcoming visit to Ireland; I know from previous trials how well it showcases photos, hand-written text in black or sepia, and sketches in 'neocolor' over-painted with fluid matte medium.

the second little notebook which I bought today in Oxford

The other book (shown above) leaped at me off the stationer's shelf: I had not bought anything like this before; somehow it seems too striking, too much of a statement. I will fill it with my poems. For years, I wrote in very ordinary notebooks, at first those I should have used for my prep at school, then anything small enough to slip into my pocket. Of late, I have scribbled on scraps of paper; and thus I lost much of my word-journey, for like our passports, where are these scraps? Some have appeared on this blog, others could be anywhere, but now I have no excuse. Such a tactile notebook, cream surface of the cover and raised black lettering: scribbles and doodles; pen on paper. My brain has not died, just been overwhelmed these past weeks ... and now comes Spring: snowdrops, crocus and daffodils, hazel catkins and birdsong; a thrush in the apple tree, frost on the grass, paper and pen, and words.

some of my former notebooks filled with my poetry, from young girlhood onwards

I have sinned ...

2010-02-08T21:47:00.044Z

Which way? I cannot see the wood for the trees ....

Today, Raymond and I celebrate our 52nd wedding anniversary. We have both had a hectic working day; and delighted in together preparing our evening meal. We talked and talked, of our wedding day in 1958 - icy cold with snow in the wind - of the guests we invited, the embarrassment when we decided to marry of going from church to church within the near environs of the London districts in which we both lived to find one we 'liked the look of'; to then explain to the incumbent priest that we wanted to import our own vicar (my godfather), our own organist (my uncle) and our own choir, fellow musicians from the Royal Academy of Music, where Raymond and I met in 1957 as students; he studying the clarinet and I the teaching of theatre and speech and drama. (And I was only studying there because my father was professor of conducting.) We met, Raymond and I, though it wasn't love at first sight on my part; we married, we had (and have) three beloved children and nine grandchildren, set up our own publishing business; and the rest, as they say, is history.

I digress from the title of my blog: how have I sinned? I was reading the latest copy of 'Artful Blogging' and the advice given to intending bloggers: thou shalt and though shalt not. In my case, "advise your followers when you will be absent from posting for a while." I have sinned because I did not say that I would not post from 1st January until now, more than five weeks later.

My apologies. Had I known what was to happen in the last five weeks, I would have said. But I didn't know - how can you explain in advance that in the coming weeks you will need to survive winter temperatures the like of which we have not experienced since 1963; of the need to earn even in so-called retirement because our life-savings - all we have ever worked for since we set up our own business in 1967 - now earn but a few paltry pounds a month. The lock on the door fails so we cannot turn the key, we shiver outside in the cold, wrestling with it for ten minutes, are about to smash our way in; the boiler throws a wobbly and disintegrates, flooding the floor; the clothes dryer shreds a bearing; all need replacing. Bottles of olive oil cloud and all but solidify on the kitchen shelf; we only have heating from the wood-burning stove in the living room, and the load of logs I bought was not seasoned as advertised, but green, green, green- sycamore and chestnut (not oak) and will not burn.

So I spend hours canvassing articles, researching those that are commissioned, have to meet deadlines - five features in two weeks right now. This is not a sob story, for I really love the retirement career we have carved for ourselves over the last ten years; what I cannot admit to (though now you will know what frightens me) is that the mind may be willing but the body faints. No longer can I manage the all-night writing sessions of years past; yet I must remain as professional as I ever was; age is no excuse. Something had to give - I am afraid it was blogging; I signed in of an evening, read my favourites but lacked the energy to even respond or upload photos. Thus have I sinned.

But reading blogs has sustained me throughout my absence; thankyou so much to my three followers who have supported me because you took the trouble to email in my absence (you know who you are); thankyou to those who have become recent followers - if you have an email I will make contact; thankyou to all those who have been reading my past posts even though you may have wondered if I had dropped off the planet; and I am sorry that I have lost others along the way, that is galling. I can understand.

My love to you all. I am as wild a child as ever; just not as young as I once thought I was. But, as I read only recently in the poignant 'To Travel Hopefully' by Christopher Rush: "A man must keep moving in his mind and soul, otherwise he goes dead." For man, read woman. I tap away arthritically on my laptop; Raymond is watching the tv Parliament channel; illuminating, but so soporific that his eyes close. Snow is forecast again this week, the north-east wind blows bitter into every nook and cranny of this old house. But in the orchard, hazel catkins suddenly elongate, yellow and limp with pollen; within the 'plum patch' - snowdrops emerge and the first faint whisper of amethyst crocus tinge the grass overnight. Our 53rd year begins, and we have more projects on hand than ever before. Where there's a will ......

a faint breath of Spring; though it is grey, the sun does not shine and the pale crocus petals remain unfurled.

P.S. A warning received from my blogging friend, Helen (formerly Cocoa & Blankets); beware comments in Chinese; a hoax and malicious virus through which she has lost all. You can follow her new blog at 'A Time to Dance', the first post as lovely as were all her former ones.

Happy New Year, Happy New Decade

2010-01-01T08:16:00.007Z

We wake to a still, bright morning, with such a raft of new challenges for both of us here at Ivy House. We will do our best to meet them; they are not 'New Year Resolutions' which I seem incapable of keeping, but long-term necessities.

Greetings to all who are likewise challenged in 2010, no matter what the call, or circumstances.

And thankyou to everyone who left such lovely comments on my Christmas posting - I have many blogs to read through but the week has been punctuated with lovely visits from our children and their respective families. More to come! We celebrate the New Year over this weekend with some of them; we have saved a large chunk of the cake to share with them, and will even have to erect a temporary dining table to accommodate all twelve of us.

Waiting for tomorrow

2009-12-24T17:58:00.016Z

Usually, on Christmas Eve, I am frantically rushing from one last minute activity to another, but this year have thought it more appropriate to calm down. Which doesn't mean I am ready for tomorrow; not a bit of it: vegetables and roast joint to prepare just for the two of us, mince pies still to make, presents to wrap. I am thinking how strange it feels without small children scrambling noisily around us. But then our beloved three are now aged 48, 46 and 38! so it's been a long time since that pleasurable anticipation of the bustle of Christmas Day has invaded the quiet of the evning before. Now that the grandchildren are growing up as well (nine of them, aged 16 down to 5), it is even difficult to get all three families together simultaneously in one place. Yes we shall see them all during the coming week; the young ones will play carols for us on a variety of instruments, and sing; and update us on all their news and achievements. We will eat and be merry, exchange simple gifts, and be glad that we have all survived another year.

our Christmas cake, which I only finished icing an hour ago - hope it sets in time for tea!

Greetings to all Bloggers - and a heartfelt thankyou to all who follow my two blogs, and who leave me such precious comments. With love and best wishes from an elderly granny sitting by the fire knitting herself a warm hat, but still the same irrepressible 'wild child' she has always been.

An alternative Christmas

2009-12-20T17:52:00.011Z

With less than a week to go to Christmas Day, we gave up searching for a reasonably priced traditional tree and settled instead for what we already had. So out from the cold I brought a lollipop holly, a sweet-bay tree (lauris nobilis) and a Christmas box (sarcococca hookeriana humilis) - all evergreens that were flourishing in pots on my mini-terrace under the cider-apple tree. The Christmas box has sweetly scented but insignificant white flowers which are just about to open in the warmth of the lounge. Decorations have been kept simple, just some red and gold baubles. We have tucked this 'arrangement' into a corner by the sideboard. No fairy lights, but we have lit three candles on a high window cill; the roadside window lacks wooden shutters (we would never reach up to shut them) and so passers-by can see into the candlelight-room as dusk approaches. That is, if anyone walks past - it's extremely cold here in the high Cotswolds, with an easterly wind; down to -9C last night (15.8F).

And now an enormous 'thankyou' to everyone who left me such kind messages after my unexpected hospital stay. I really did appreciate them, and apologise for not responding personally to each one. I am absolutely fine, such a silly scare; but it's odd how timing can so affect the aftermath. Even after a fortnight back home, I still haven't caught up with myself; it felt as if I had lost a week of work and have much to do before I can take a break over the festive fortnight that we try to keep free for family and friends; and for me personally, catching up on all the blog posts I have missed - and for some creative journaling in paper and fabric.

Returning to normality

2009-12-04T07:21:00.011Z

A day like no other. Backtrack to Monday 30th November 7.30am; it happened like this:

Sitting in ‘the office’ in my dressing gown, sipping tea and typing magazine copy, I experienced the most indescribable pain, as if my heart was a squashy tennis ball and a clawed hand was repeatedly squeezing it. I thought it would diminish and worked on through it – I had a deadline to meet. But it didn’t, so after two hours, I rang my doctor.

“Go straight to A&E (accident and emergency),” she said. Which I did – Raymond drove me in, quicker than waiting for an ambulance. I walked into Casualty and the moment I mentioned ‘doctor’ and ‘chest pain’ I was whisked into the initial assessment area, wired up, danced attendance upon, and generally treated with such kindness and courtesy that I felt near to tears. An ECG and blood samples were taken and a vicious curved needle put into my arm through which they could feed drugs if I needed them urgently.

Once it became apparent that I did not need resuscitation, I was moved to the MAU (Medical Assessment Unit). I was seen by three doctors and assigned my own nurse. I was continually updated as to what was going on – by now I felt complete fraud but they insisted that they wanted to get to the bottom of the pain as it could be the onset of angina (a final treadmill session would reveal this). Tests were ongoing and I was wired up to a monitor which meant I couldn’t get out of bed; tricky when I needed the toilet – my nurse unplugged me and I had to walk across the ward, leads trailing, and make sure they didn’t drop into the loo!

Not a brilliant night, trying not to fall off the trolley-bed with an under sheet that kept ruckling and two cotton rugs that continually slipped off me; and it was unbearably hot. What I found amazing, as I was obviously not ill, was that I was able to listen and watch, keep an ongoing diary of my stay. The care and attention was without fault. I was actually looking forward to the treadmill, never having been on one before and I came through with flying colours: pacing slow, fast then faster, wearing nothing but pants and wires attached all over my chest, back and left breast, whilst the monitor results were being assessed by a sweet elderly gentleman technician and a dishy, tall young doctor. I was asked if I had any pain (none, except my right hip ached from the arthritis, but this lessened as the speed increased and I walked faster). I was asked if I wanted to stop; no, I was challenging myself. I did a half mile in five minutes. It was over and all was in perfect working order; indeed, I felt really fit. A final assessment by the consultant, and I was cleared to go home. The NHS at its best.

My husband was wonderful, too, collecting books, papers and laptop from home, seeing I had tasty food, sitting with me to counteract the boredom of enforced rest. Once back at home, there were lovely surprises waiting in the mail; about these I will blog in due course - visit 'Journaling the Journal' in the next couple of days. In two hours I go for a doctor's check-up. Scare over.

Celebrate

2009-11-25T20:04:00.005Z

I have been thinking today of all my blogger acquaintances in the USA, and all the blogs I follow. This is for you.

"Light a candle

Kindle a Flame

CELEBRATE

Eat and enjoy

a festive meal

With family

or friends

THANKSGIVING

Sharing

Togetherness

Peace and Love"

Thankyou for all the pleasure you bring me, and for sharing your lives. May your day tomorrow be joyful.

Blowing My Own Trumpet

2009-11-22T17:02:00.046Z

a fabric angel with trumpet and banner, cut from printed muslin and applied to a scrap of furnishing fabric

Sometimes such serendipity occurs in my life that I have to stop and take a deep breath - just in case such a moment does not come my way again. What with the de-cluttering (to make room for more clutter! - to create space for personal uninterrupted art); making a fabric keepsake and actually completing it, on time; and the long dark evenings when I can plan the changes needed in the garden to meet my 2010 deadlines: there is hardly time to take stock let alone breathe.

Serendipity this time crept up on me unawares. Ten years after 'retiring' our joint publishing business - and deciding one month later to pursue a new, freelance, writing career, I am thrilled to have three articles appearing in different magazines in one month; all just published in December issues. As any writer will I am sure confirm, it's not easy, launching yourself as a writer: you have to be creative and simultaneously 'sell yourself', wear two hats. It was only as each magazine dropped into the letter box that I realised the significance: three in one month.

I loved working on them all, and Ray took all the accompanying photos: 'Ludlow & The Shropshire Hills - a Taste of the Good Life' for 'Practical Caravan' magazine; a short review of the edible garden competition at Malvern in 'Kitchen Garden' and a four-page review in 'Grow it!' of all the aspects of productive vegetable growing which so caught my fancy at the same RHS Malvern Autumn Show (a celebration of nature's harvest).

the first page of my four-page review on the the RHS Malvern Autumm Show which has just been published in the December issue of 'Grow it!' magazine. Click on the image to see it at a larger size.

Housework, Gardening, Travel, Writing and Art-Making often collide, with each clamouring for attention, not to mention family, and my dear husband without whom my life would stumble. I so often watch Raymond painstakingly making immaculate dovetails in the exquisite furniture he makes in his own spare time, and trust that somehow I likewise can harmonise my own activities. Then there just might be more moments of serendipity. "The trumpet shall sound!" - again - but right now I have the excitement of combining art and writing: a ten-month project making a hand-made garden journal and subsequently writing an article to encourage readers to create their own. Follow its story in my other blog, Journaling the Journal; it begins in my post of Saturday 21st November.

Throwing away the past

2009-11-16T07:54:00.023Z

It was Friday 13th - I had decided to take a day off work which was just as well for it turned out to be a hellish day. Why? Why should the 13th falling on a Friday be considered unlucky? From whence has such a superstition arisen? (I 'Googled' it later; enough details to form a whole post on its own). It has never caused me a problem before, though I usually mentally cross my fingers, just in case!

Anyway, this particular Friday, just gone, was certainly different. For a start I announced that I would spend three days 'throwing out the past', starting with the contents of the chest of drawers that holds my clothes. Drawers stuffed so full I can never find the shirt I want or the trousers (pants). This is because I will not throw things away, will not discard.

At this point, R. decides that throwing out is a GOOD IDEA and opts for the boiler room, which houses two central-heating boilers: one enormous - you can just squeeze past it - in which we recycle wood obtained for next to nothing from the junk yard, the other an oil-fired back-up. The room is so small there is hardly room to move but nevertheless it is also full of junk. Well not actually junk, but all manner of useful forgotten properties.

a load of wood like this can be obtained for a fiver

Row no. 1 - R. is throwing 'my' stuff into the skip! How dare he decide what I want or don't want. It's raining and I berate him; 'my stiff' is getting wet! So he dumps everything else onto the hall floor all covered in boiler ash, where we are sure to fall over it. Another sorting job, as if one was not enough. Most of it IS junk; I retrieve what isn't - a heater, empty egg boxes in which to sell my surplus hens' eggs, a log basket in which I could / will store onions, one walking boot (where is the other?); the rest is binned or put out for recycling (wellies that leak, bin them; a mountain of old newspapers).

I go back upstairs to sort clothes. 'Sorting' in our household usually means looking at things, then re-arranging and stashing away somewhere else. Why is it so hard to discard the past? I steel myself this time. I will no longer keep thread-bare T-shirts just because thy are comfortable, or trousers size 10 that haven't fitted for years, or shoes that pinch my arthritic toes. I finish with a pile on the floor for the recycling / charity shop, and a pile on the bed which I divide into 'best' (hardly ever worn), 'everyday' and 'garden/building' - the largest pile and distinctly scruffy.

Now I have to sort the hanging rail on the upper landing - dresses, coats and jackets I will never wear again but so hard to say goodbye to; it feels as if I am throwing my life away.

The jacket doesn't fit now, but I made it and can't decide what to do with it - though I do still use snippets of left-over fabric; can't bear to part with fabric either!

Row no 2 - I can't recall what that was about. I made scones for R's tea; he sat reading whilst I journaled (I have begun a new fabric book and ideas are bursting forth). Peace returned, for who could argue over cream tea by the fireside? By the end of the weekend, the recycling bin was full, clothes are now neatly folded and put away, and the car waits with a load of stuff to take to the charity shop. I have dusted and washed and cleaned and am BORED STIFF. (Oh, and the next Friday 13th will be in August 2010 and May 2011, then on three occasions in 2012).

Though I say it myself, the scones, cream and home-made strawberry jam were good. Books in the background were positioned to hide more 'to-be-sorted' clutter. It's never-ending - result of living in one place for so long (40 years) and hoarding.

Where have all the poppies gone?

2009-11-10T17:40:00.020Z

I will be poppy-less on Armistice Day. The poppy lady did not call this year, selling the bright red remembrance of wars long past, and ones still claiming lives. Nor when I went into town this morning were the usual flower sellers there; no tin into which to place a donation, a personal 'thankyou'. Something is very wrong here.

I trawled my photo files for poppies to post; the first I found, amethyst-tinged and silky, paled into insignificance - and yet it is an 'Opium Poppy' far from the fields of Afghanistan where trauma must run rife amongst the brave soldiers.

And then I found this photo taken last year in France - fields of poppies though not in Flanders Fields. They seemed curiously orange, and so I looked at more shots in the 'Poppy' folder and found one of my Shirley poppies blowing in the garden a few years back. So red, the brightest of them.

And whilst I was searching, it brought to mind a poem I wrote in anger last week, hearing of the death of six soldiers in a single day, out there near what I guess may be eastern opium poppy fields (correct me, please, if I am wrong). I was going to post that poem on the day I wrote it, but it coincided with an horrific and unnecessary killing in the USA; I thought it would be insensitive of me to post about my anger on such a day.

And so I offer it now; for tomorrow, at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, we remember, stand in silence for two whole minutes and give thanks for all who sacrifice their lives for a more stable and peaceful world.

(One should never write in anger, and these words show that emotion overtook skill. I apologise.)

I realised that all my poppy photos were actually taken to create a collage, transferred to fabric and stitched, with the shapes of the seedheads standing proud. Alas, these too are the double version of the 'Opium Poppy', grown in our garden not for drugs but to utilise in works of art, the seedheads dried for decoration. Every object seems to have multiple uses, and words a double meaning.