foraging

I think I have mentioned before that the neighbourhood where we live is rather good for a spot of hunter gathering. Many of the large Victorian houses are either empty, being done up, semi-derelict or rented to students who aren't bothered who is scavenging in their gardens. This makes it sound a bit of a dive, but it isn't, and in fact I really rather like both the romantic, slightly forgotten vibe and the freedom to roam about helping myself to firewood, blackberries, catkin twigs, Christmas greenery, and, today, a whole wheelbarrow full of fircones. I spotted these beauties on my way home today and after tea we set off to collect as many as we could carry home... we'll dry them out and store them to use for kindling this autumn... the pine oil makes them great for starting fires quickly and aromatically, not to mention how pretty they'll look by the hearth.

sea and shore blanket

This blanket definitely wants to live in north west Norfolk. This is my sea, sky and shore blanket, rows and rows of colours to conjure up dreams of blue salty seas with white horses riding the waves, wide open saltmarshes, wild scudding clouds, wet shingle beaches, bitter chocolate seaweed and pale opal shells.

I began it in February to 'use up' some of the yarn from recent projects... one thing somehow led to another and I must admit to buying quite a bit more wool along the way... but I'm delighted with the end result. Crocheting in rows rather than blocks means that the finished blanket has a much drapier feel than granny squares, and the openness of treble crochet stitches mean it's not too heavy while still being comforting and warm. I love it.

Now then, no crochet addict worth her salt would finish one project without having the next one busy in her head, so here's a work-in-progress pic of what I'm doing next:

This time, it truly is an odds-and-ends project... I have set myself the challenge of buying NO NEW BALLS OF WOOL... so it's a lovely mishmash of blues, greens and browny colours left over from everything else. The small size of these squares (about 2 1/2") means that only about 5g of yarn is needed for each one, so even the tiniest scraps can be used. They're also really speedy to make... each one can be finished, attached to its neighbour and the ends woven in, in less than ten minutes. This is absolutely ideal for me, the most easily bored crocheter in town.

Each square is made up of groups of treble clusters, joined using Lucy's cunning technique, which results in a lovely thick and cosy textile... ideal for chilly car journeys (we have a forty-year-old car) or sitting outside with a cup of tea on a winter's day.

The back looks a bit Sophie Digard, don't you think?

for elizabeth

A little while ago, Elizabeth wrote a sensitive, questioning post about the nature of blogging. She asks the things that we have all probably wondered at one time or another: are our ramblings relevant? Read by anyone? Of interest unless we specialise on one subject or another?

Her post generated some interesting and thoughtful comments, most of which conveyed quite strongly that the answer to all these questions is a definite yes, and that personality, individual spirit and sense of place are the things that draw us into a blog and keep us following.

As I was considering all this, I found myself at work one day, cataloguing a book written and illustrated by a Chinese artist in the 1930s. In the introduction, he questions the value of his perspective and writes these words:

"But life is too short and precious for us to pass through it without leaving a few footprints behind us. A man's experience in a certain place at a certain time must be unique, in some way different from the experience of others. Why should I not leave a few words to mark one period in my brief life? Even a bird's clawprints remain for a little time in the snow."

From The Silent Traveller in Oxford by Chiang Yee

His thoughts certainly seemed to sum up how I feel about this blog. Maybe they will encourage some of you to continue with your own.


There will be more posts to come in the next few days as I process my photographs from Norfolk and share some crochet projects with you. I have been having lots of thoughts, but the weather has been just too lovely to sit inside sharing them with the computer...

cakes and ale

Towards the seedier end of Manchester there used to be a wonderfully named pub called the Land O'Cakes, a concept, I'm sure you'll agree, which merits quite a lot of extremely pleasurable thought. Just recently I have begun to feel like I might have been transported, if not to this actual place, then at least to a neighbouring territory, as I embark on this week's task of producing enough cake for 250 people (for my friend Anne's garden open day: see last year's entry for more details). Last week was all about my youngest son's 18th birthday party, for which more cake had to be produced, along with a LOT of beer... much as I love both cakes and beer, I am beginning to feel that I may have had enough of both for a little while.

The photo above has nothing to do with cakes or ale, but is a very pretty tombstone from Plemstall village chuch near Chester. The photo below, however, is very much about cake... it's a detail from The Elephant and the Bad Baby by Elfrida Vipont and illustrated by Raymond Briggs. You can just see the elephant's trunk as he steals 'a bun for himself and a bun for the bad baby'. I loved reading this book to my children when they were little, and now I'm enjoying reading it to my little granddaughter too.

We're off to lovely Norfolk next week for a break from cakes and children... I will return, relaxed, with photos to show you.

moments of stillness

In moments of stillness ... we find opportunities for reflection, random association and creativity.

So says Alan Hall in this article about this radio programme. In it, he speculates that 'with the encroachment of digital technology into every private corner of our lives comes an erosion of a precious capacity to step aside from the hurly burly'. I think he is right.

The programme is about the need to daydream, to allow our minds to go nowhere, in peace and privacy, for no particular reason. In it, Canon Lucy Winkett asserts that 'silence is absolutely vital to the flourishing of human sensibility, to the flourishing of ourselves as people'.

I so totally agree with this. I have an insatiable need for silence, and very rarely turn on the TV or radio, or play music around the house (although I think I should so so more often - I definitely find that good music is a powerful energiser, stimulating me to engage with my creativity and the outside world). For me there is nothing more healing than sitting outside in the cool green garden listening to only the sounds of the birds and the trees. It is where I do my daydreaming and it is a daily necessity.


Today by pure chance I found myself totally alone in the house and garden... a rare treat these days... it felt like a gift.

a good read

From Candy and the Golden Eagle by Gwyneth Mamlok, London: Nelson, 1965

I have been fascinated by the Lost Man Booker Prize of 1970 since reading about it a few weeks ago on the Gentle Author's blog. The winner was announced yesterday as J.G. Farrell, whose work I'm ashamed to say I don't know, but when I had a look at the longlist I recognised so many of the authors' names I felt a sudden inclination to read - in a leisurely fashion - through the list myself.

Despite being an avid reader from about the time this list was published, my tastes did not at that stage extend much beyond the adventures of Candy and Peppermint (see above), so many if not most of the titles have passed me by. However, several of the authors later became great favourites - Mary Renault, H.E. Bates, Nina Bawden, Susan Hill, and recently, Ruth Rendell - that I felt a curious mixture of nostalgia and expectation when I read through the list of names, and a great desire to immerse myself in the literary culture of a time which seems to me synonymous with a great intellectual and social freedom, and yet still in touch with a golden age that I remember with misty affection.

In the spirit of my reading practises as a child, I have set myself the challenge of acquiring all these titles either from the public library or secondhand, even though many of them will probably be reissued in desirable and glamorous new editions. If there is one thing I remember about 1970, it was a much greater thriftiness and lack of waste - something I could certainly do with reviving...

The Lost Booker Prize of 1970 longlist:

Brian Aldiss, The Hand Reared Boy
HE Bates, A Little Of What You Fancy?
Nina Bawden, The Birds On The Trees
Melvyn Bragg, A Place In England
Christy Brown, Down All The Days
Len Deighton, Bomber
JG Farrell, Troubles
Elaine Feinstein, The Circle
Shirley Hazzard, The Bay Of Noon
Reginald Hill, A Clubbable Woman
Susan Hill, I'm The King Of The Castle
Francis King, A Domestic Animal
Margaret Laurence, The Fire Dwellers
David Lodge, Out Of The Shelter
Iris Murdoch, A Fairly Honourable Defeat
Shiva Naipaul, Fireflies
Patrick O'Brian, Master and Commander
Joe Orton, Head To Toe
Mary Renault, Fire From Heaven
Ruth Rendell, A Guilty Thing Surprised
Muriel Spark, The Driver's Seat
Patrick White, The Vivisector

the importance of tea

How to be happy when you are miserable. Plant Japanese poppies with cornflowers and mignonette, and bed out the petunias among the sweet peas so that they shall scent each other. See the sweet peas coming up. Drink very good tea out of a thin Worcester cup of a colour between apricot and pink...

Rumer Godden

Once again our early summer weather has regressed to early spring and we are shivering by the fire while chilly wet winds buffet the house and garden. This is the fourth year running that this has happened, but I am hopeful that this time it will be shortlived and we will not suffer yet another cold and rainy summer, but instead the sun will come out and warm our bones again.

I have kept my promise to myself to spend more time in the garden, and it is looking lush and green and beautiful. May is its best time, with lilac, cherry, hawthorn and viburnum blossom, ferns uncurling from the leafy soil and scented bluebells scattered all over our wooded patch. I have spent lots of time weeding and prettifying and planting lovely new things, but the wonder for me is always in the rustle of the trees, the dappled shade on the ivy, the quiet semi-wild corners. I agree utterly with Monty Don's wife Sarah who is supposed to have said that the most beautiful garden in the world is an English hedgerow.

Having said that, we did make some time to visit one of my favourite gardens last weekend, Gresgarth Hall in lovely lovely Lancashire, and I have speckled this post with some of the photos I took. There is always a wonderful plant sale of unusual hardy perennials, and proper afternoon tea and cakes served by church ladies in the mill yard.

Proper tea and gardens: as Rumer Godden knew, these are the truly sustaining things. As you will see if you have a look at my listography, tea features a LOT. Although I haven't had a lot of time or energy for blogging recently, I have mostly been keeping up with my daily lists, which has been a very positive and life-affirming exercise as well as being extremely healing, eye-opening and instructive.

Family life remains full and busy, but in my quiet moments I am dreaming of unbleached linen, red thread, cross stitch, symbols, shapes and meaningful empty space. Hopefully it won't be long before I can show you.