Diary of a Country Bumpkin

Quiet Mousie in Happy Land

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 11:36:00 +0000

Tuesday was my absolute favourite night of the year-The Christmas play, this year-“Happy Christmas in Happy Land,” a charming play written by Quiet Mousies teacher all about a school who are visited by ‘Hector the Inspector,’ an OFSTED Inspector who wants to close the school down.
We have been rehearsing the script in our house for nearly three weeks, my youngest cast as ‘Pork Chop’ and also ‘Mr Slack’ who turns into Santa Claus (you have to be there really.) What amazed me the most was how the children’s personalities have developed and their confidence grown over the last year. His class of twenty children, aged seven to nine years old consummately acted and spoke out loud and clearly to the back of the room and beyond into the car park-a ‘proper’ presentation with oodles of humour and fun woven into a feel good storyline...and there was even a nativity scene in there too.

However the best gag of the show was when Mrs Tick the Teacher was trying to get her husband, Mr Tick out of bed one morning-
Mrs Tick: Henry! Henry! Are you out of bed yet?
Mr Tick: Yes, I’m out of bed, but I don’t really feel like going to school today.
Mrs Tick: But you have to Henry!
Mr Tick : Oh, dear. Why do I have to?
Mrs Tick: Because you’re the headmaster Henry, that’s why!”

Diddley um bum bum.

So until another day
Bye for now

My Teflon Nan

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 23:41:00 +0000

It is amazing how someone knows when he or she is dying.

A few weeks ago, my Nan’s legs were so swollen with oedema she bluntly announced she knew she was dying to me one day when I visited her.
“We have to face facts Debbie. I can’t go on forever and I’ve had enough. My time is up. I want you to take the victorian plate and the three handled mug from in my glass cabinet and take them to the Rural Museum.”

By pure co-incidence, the following week I was going for my second trip to Glastonbury-Nan’s hometown, this time taking my two boys. I have spent most of the last few months collating family history and annotating Nan’s memories of her life as a girl growing up between the wars in Glastonbury. Nan became so animated as she gave me her life’s review, telling her stories and sharing her knowledge of the town.

I smile as I recall the time that my Nan queued for nearly three hours when the Antiques Road show visited Leeds many years ago to show them her artefacts. She was disgusted to learn the plate was only worth twenty-five pounds and the mug just twenty or so. “All that time I queued to hear that load of rubbish! Humph! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about!” I suspect she gave the valuer a flea in his ear too. She never did appear on the Sunday night programme.
Whatever the intrinsic value, the historic appeal was obvious and the Rural Museum seemed thrilled with her donation. It is in the right place I am sure.

After I came back from Glastonbury, there were only a couple of weeks until her 90th Birthday celebrations. The oedema was advancing up her legs but Nan still stubbornly refused the doctor and district nurses attempts to get her into a home or hospital. “I’m not going anywhere until at least after my birthday!”
We invited nearly thirty people to her party at the community centre of the sheltered complex where she lives. Only eleven of her old dears turned up along with hubby, boys and me. Not even the promise of a free tea could persuade some of them to forgive her cantankerous and sometimes tyrannical ways over the years. However, the people who mattered were there and she had a marvellous time.

Unbeknown to her, for our present to her, I had booked a couple to come, sing, and play the piano to her. I requested her favourites-‘Jerusalem,’ or the ‘Glastonbury Hymn’ as some know it and ‘You’ll never walk alone.’ In between, they had a good old singsong to wartime and Gershwin classics and her old friends went home laden with doggy bags.

For Nan, two hours of singing and snoozing exertions proved almost too much. We were due to go to Antigua just three days later.
“How long are you going for?” She asked as I settled her back in her own bungalow afterwards.
“Only a week Nan-we’ll be back before you know it.”
“Oh, thank god.”

I rang her doctor to ask his advice as to whether I should go and checked the insurance details if the worst should happen.
“In my opinion, medically, she is not on her ‘last legs’ yet so I should go. She will have made her own decisions on when she wants to go anywhere and nothing any of us say will change that. My biggest concern is that she won’t go into hospital or a home but she is the most stubborn, difficult lady I have ever known and we can’t make her go.” Tell me about it.

I rang her from Antigua. She sounded frail and a little confused. “Are you home now?” She asked eagerly.
“No darling-just another two days-I’ll soon be there.”
“Only I’ve decided to go into respite care,” she interrupted. “I’m only going in for two weeks but I’ve told them I’m not going anywhere until you get home from holiday.”
What a relief to think she would have some proper care at last. This was what she should have had for over a year now since I gave up being her primary carer. I secretly hoped that maybe once she was in a nursing home she might find she quite enjoyed the care and company. But then again...I remembered her words a few weeks ago that once she went into hospital or a home she knew she would not come out.

The family and I travelled back from the Caribbean on Saturday evening/Sunday and as soon as I plugged my phone in the charger, I found the messages from my uncle to say she was in hospital. Half an hour home and the hospital rang to say she had deteriorated rapidly. They wanted to impress how poorly she was and advised I could visit her anytime. I left hubby and boys to unpack the cases and went straight to the hospital.

Nans eventually recognised me and then immediately proceeded to work through her wishes-Different to a few weeks ago, this time, adding personal details of her funeral arrangements such as where to scatter the ashes.
“For an extra two guineas you can make sure I’m cremated by myself-I don’t want to be burnt with other people-you don’t know whose ashes you’re getting!”
She’s a sharp one my Nan.
“Tell the boys I will be looking down on them and making sure they are ok. I’m so proud of them...and if you need me you just look up and say ‘Mam-what do I do?’ and I’ll help you. I’ll always be there for you.”

I thought she was invincible. Three heart attacks, two strokes, pacemaker fitted, five major operations...She had a will of steel, my Teflon Nan....my Mam.

For a couple of hours she went through room by room, cupboard by cupboard and told me specific instructions on what do with everything...her bedroom furniture, her clothes, her curtains...even her kettle and her tinned food.
“I told you I knew this was the end for me and I needed to sort it all. Does Dr Wright know I’m going? He’s so lovely, he’ll want to know. And the Vicar-you must tell the Vicar.”
I told her “Don’t worry-I’ll take care of everything.”

That is the way it has always been with my Nan and me. This time I did not mind. I knew she needed to have everything in order... before...

Her final words to me were-“Can you stop stroking my hand please. I can’t go anywhere while you’re stroking my hand.”
That made me smile.
“Do you want me to leave?” I asked, not sure whether to leave her or not. What if?...
“Yes please. I came into this world alone and I shall leave alone.”
Some of you may know what she is quoting. I think I may have heard it before. Or maybe it was Nans own saying?

She was not alone when she came into the world. She was with her mother. I wanted to be with my ‘mother.’ Despite everything over the last, however many years, that was what she was to me, and without her my life would have been so very different.
However, she had sorted all her arrangements and wishes. In her head, the contents of her cupboards and her belonging already had new owners. She had ticked all the boxes on the checklist and could get some proper rest now.

I was only home for an hour and a half and the Hospital rang me. They said not to rush back but she was very, very poorly. I did not make it back to the hospital in time-she had already gone by the time I got there. The nursing staff told me that she wanted to be alone. She asked them for some fresh water and by the time they returned, she had gone.

She had it all planned. In control until the end eh? How was it she knew that she was dying?...You hear so many tales of people that leave the world like this, without any worries and everything organised.

Until another day...

xx

The real Glastonbury-THE TOWN

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Fri, 23 May 2008 04:56:00 +0000

So much mythology and legend surrounds Glastonbury. Stories abound and people have flocked, sometimes in their thousands, for over 4000 years. However the reality of real life in Glastonbury is very different. And the town of Glastonbury, as seen through the eyes of a young woman growing up between the First and the Second World Wars was far removed from the esoteric shops and lost souls that we see there today.

I started the Millenium Trail from the Georgian Town Hall, (next to Glastonbury Abbey) and followed thereafter in order the guide suggested-a good way to take in the main highlights and sights which I had heard about over the years as I grew up with my Nan.
The Town Hall has served many purposes over the years-as well as housing a market area, jail and Court Room and even a silk factory for some time.

Nans main recollection of the Town Hall was as a young girl of eleven or twelve years. In approximately 1930 a hall was added to the rear and following the renovations there was a grand re-opening. Twelve boys and girls were selected to sing at the opening. Nan was one of them. Her father was so ill (heart disease) he had to be helped up the stairs by three people. Not only was he proud to hear his daughter sing but he and the whole town wanted to hear the choral version of ‘Jerusalem’ (or Glastonbury Hymn as it was sometimes known.)

William Blake wrote the immortal words many years previously, probably inspired by the apocryphal story that a young Jesus, accompanied by Joseph of Arimithea, went to Glastonbury. However it was Charles Hubert H Parry who wrote the musical score to accompany the words in 1916 when he was asked by the poet laureate, Robert Bridges, to put it to music for a ‘Fight for Right’ campaign meeting in London’s Queen Hall. After that it continued to be tested out with different orchestral and choral versions. During the 1920’s many Women’s Institutes started to close their meetings by singing Blake’s words to Parry’s setting. Parry died in 1918 (incidentally that was the year my Nan was born.) And Edward Elgar added to the scores to create the more powerful version known and loved by so many of us today.
According to my Nan she was one of the chosen ones to be involved and it was the first time that the people of Glastonbury heard the tune when she sang it.

As you look out from the Town Hall you can see St Benedicts Church.
The adjacent school is where Nan attended her secondary school. Back then it was an all girl’s school. The year Nan sat her 11+ no one passed the exam. The following year only one girl passed-a very posh girl called Margaret Parsons who was apparently related to someone in the Clarks (shoe) family.

Back towards town on Benedicts Street is the Mitre Inn.

Nan remembers a new girl, Joy Mills coming to the school. She was plump but very well dressed and had curly dark hair with a fringe. Her parents owned the Mitre Inn.

When I went to Glastonbury I contacted the local press and they were so helpful they even put an appeal in the paper for any one who remembered my Nans family or who remembered life in the town just before the 2nd World War to contact me. I was quite disappointed not to hear from anyone throughout my stay. However the night I got home I had a telephone call from a 90 year old lady-Joy Mills, Nans friend from all those years ago. She still lives on Benedict Street with her husband and for several years took over the Mitre Inn pub after her mum and dad passed away. She is one of the few remaining ‘elders’ in the town-everyone else has now sadly died.
Iris Knight (daughter of Knights famous Knight's Fish Restaurant, the oldest (and best) fish and chip shop in Britain ) was at school with Nan and they shared exactly the same birth date. 18th August 1918. Sadly Iris died a few years ago however the fish and chip shop still exists and I ate the most delicious fish, chips and mushy peas during my stay and definitely plan a return trip with the boys!

Nan can remember shop by shop along the streets in town. I have written them all down and intend to document them along with her memoirs-the Antiquarian Society and Library said they would be very interested for their records.

The market square used to be the centre of town life and many of the buildings date from the time of the Abbey, although the shop frontage has changed over the centuries. The present cross was built in 1845 and replaced a medieval water conduit. Live cattle were sold in front of the butchers shop, where nan's Uncle Wally worked for years.

Nan came out of the dance at the town hall one New Years Eve and danced and celebrated with everyone in the square.

One of the old Glastonbury Inns, The Crown (mentioned as early as 1535)still remains. Unfortunately a bad fire a hundred years ago burnt down much of the medieval original. Nans Uncle and Aunty owned the pub for several years and Nan was very good pals with their daughter, her cousin Eileen. For some reason when Eileen died, the family never contacted Nan to tell her and the two sides of the family lost touch. However it was believed that the family continued to own the pub until more recent times. I intend on my next visit to brave and go in and enquire to the current landlord-I was a little nervous on my visit as it seemed a little intimidating from the outside. It would be interesting to see whether any of 'that side of the family' are still alive.

The George & Pilgrims Inn was built by Abbot Selwood approx 1465 to accomodate the thousands of visitors who flocked to the town.
Nearly opposite the inn used to be an ironmongers. Nans brother Douglas used to work there filling up the paraffin lamps.

By co-incidence my Granddad was billoted to the house above it during the second world war during his first stay which is when they met. Nan would go past on her bike and wave to him as he hung out of the window. They would shout the words “Three Pips!” at each other, coded message for “I love you.”

St Johns Church was very much the centre of their world. Nan was christened there and her mum and dad's burial services were there before being taken on to the cemetery on Wells Road.

The Glastonbury Thorn in the churchyard flowers at Christmas and Easter time. Every Christmas the vicar cuts some blossom and sends it to the Queen for her Christmas breakfast table.

To the rear of the church is St Johns school, Nans first school. Nan had two older brothers as well as her twin brother. One day the eldest, Jack came home with a note from the school teacher-she needed to see a copy of the twins birth certificates for the records. My Nans mother never did send her a copy despite her repeated requests-she packed the children off to school and they were barely three years old.

Nan recalls going to school with Jack Chislett (and admits she used to fancy him!) He was mayor of Glastonbury a few years ago. His brother, George (who sadly passed away a couple of years ago) had a flower shop on the high street. He was head gardener for the Abbey grounds and was one of the few people who was able to graft Holy Thorn cuttings onto the root of blackthorn.

The war memorial in front of the Church was designed by Bligh Bond and based upon a Saxon Cross he discovered when excavating the abbey. Nan recalls being a brownie and leaving a wreath on the memorial on Armistice Day .

Much of the remainder of the high street remains as it has been for over 200 years.

The post office is the only other memory of any real significance to Nan along the high street. Her beloved dad worked there as a postal clerk. And she later joined as a post person-she covered a good five mile stretch down the high street, down Benedicts Street delivering post along a round route to the Station and back.

At this point I diverted off the millenium trail to Bove Town, which until about 1791was the main medieval road to Wells.
On the left as you go up you see a beautiful cottage, Many of the other houses along this stretch still have internal features that are up to 500 years old.

I was looking for Coombe House, the house where Nan worked as an 'in-between' maid' from the age of just twelve.

I could see very little from the roadside of the house-it was masked by laurel and leyandii trees although I dared to step up a couple of the steps, maybe re-tracing the route she will have taken to the servants entrance. Nans hours of work were 7am until 9pm. She stayed at the house during the week and only went home at weekends. Woe betide her if she was not home on time-her mother would march down and collect her!

The house is now privately owned by two gentlemen, one of whom is the Chairman of Somerset County Council, Alan Gloake. I have had no luck contacting him so far. However I have just been given his telephone number so I will dare to ring and introduce myself. I do know from the website that the gardens open on 3rd August for 1 day only. Me and the boys have already planned our return visit to Glastonbury around this date, although I am rather hoping Mr Gloake may be kind enough to show me around the inside of the house some time!

Next door is a thatched cottage dated 1637. Miss Murial owned it and sold it to the Scott Stokes, a very wealthy family who were related to the Clarks of Somerset. Nan remembers as she worked in Coombe house the children next door ran and played outside in their bare feet, not of course because the family were too poor to afford shoes, but the Clarks family believed that it was more healthy and natural for childrens feet to be allowed to breathe and grow without restrictions.
If you continued past you walk through Wick Hollow and a route to Tor Hill.

Uncle Wally (the butcher) and Aunt Bess lived there and one of her errands was to go and collect cider in a heavy flagon for her dad from the cider press which Wally had.

On the way home Nan would pick violets and primroses and other seasonal flowers from the banks and take small bunches back to her mother.

To be continued...

Part 2-GLASTONBURY 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Fri, 16 May 2008 07:56:00 +0000

As I pulled back the curtains in my lovely B&B the first sight to greet me was the fornication of two doves on the Dove cote. They followed me down to breakfast –their insatiable sexual appetite clearly not sated, they continued their cavorting several more times in front of the breakfast room window with no shame.

My tired feet and I were on a mission to see whether there was more to Glastonbury than esoteric shops crammed with crystals, candles and incense sticks.

I began the day on the Millenium Trail- a series of town trail markers, set in the pavement to guide a path through the town.

The route should have taken approximately one hour and indeed it would have, had I not been distracted by a charming bookseller called Steve. I cannot resist bookshops and there are several in Glastonbury. While handing over a copy of Old Glastonbury and Arthur’s Britain I struck up a conversation and discovered that Steve was in fact a freelance writer, and had worked in publishing for most of his working life.

He has just found himself single again after thirty years of marriage and is leaving to lay down new roots in Western Australia. Someone spiritual came into his shop, touched his arm and told him they were having strong vibes for him about Australia. They left the shop but then came back- being even more insistent that they could picture him with red hill behind him...he had to go there, there was a new and exciting life awaiting him...

Steve, strongly feeling that this was his ‘guide’ sold the shop within two weeks of the meeting and plans to leave in August. He invited me to go with him. I declined his kind offer but instead agreed that the main character in my second book would come to Glastonbury in search of family history and ‘something,’ and meet and fall in love with a fifty two year old bookshop owner!

Back on the trail, I felt in need of some spiritual guidance myself, and was ‘drawn’ to another Steve, this time a tarot reader in Ying Yang who had been recommended to me by the aforesaid namesake.

I sat on my hands and gagged myself as I listened in total amazement to his accuracy on past matters and tried to glean some proof that I am doing the right thing at present and with regard to the future.

I went in feeling sceptical and more than a little wary. Whatever opinion I had on Tarots and spiritualism, I came convinced that Steve had a true gift. He gave me a quiet air of confidence that I should be happy with where I am at and where I am going to and that I am making some good decisions on grasping my chances as they come along. The experience more than achieved what I wanted it to.

A period of reflection followed with Lunch at Laluna-by now I was now on first named terms with the staff and proprietor.

My feet were starting to die on me-the previous day’s exertions and a morning walking the town had taken their toll. I was beginning to wish I had taken advantage of the ShopMobility and hired a motorised wheelchair! By now, the pain was searing like hot knives through my toes yet I knew I had to go on-there was still so much to squeeze into the day.

I decided to take a couple of hours respite in the Library-(research for my book and some family history information.) Then it was on to the Rural Life Museum, which was actually very enlightening and brought to life the side of Glastonbury-‘real’ Glastonbury that my Nan has talked about for so many years.
Finally, in the glorious sunshine I reached my final visit of the day-the Chalice Wells Garden.

I did take a couple of photos of the view from the gardens and a part of the garden well away from the wells. However, the rest of the gardens, it just didn’t feel right to be snapping away so the pictures exist only in my memory. I also took my note pad and pen-I had intended to sit quietly in the warm sunshine and spend a couple of hours scribbling, but the notepad stayed in my bag.

I think you would have to visit for yourself to get a true picture of the beauty and tranquillity of the gardens. However much I gush and pontificate I feel sure I will never convey what the gardens hold. If you click on the link above, it will take you on the virtual tour but it still doesn’t come close to seeing it for yourself.
Except I will tell you this- My feet were hurting so much by the time I got to the gardens that I had to take my shoes off to be able to hobble round. I stopped several times around the gardens to observe the ‘quiet areas of reflection.’
Through into Arthurs Courtyard I saw the much talked about Chalice Well waters and filled two bottles with it-one for me and one for my Nan. I couldn’t resist dabbling my feet over the side of the shallow pool. Apparently, in the 18th and 19th centuries, it used to be much deeper and you could totally immerse yourself.
It was cold, so cold it numbed my feet and allowed my brain receptors to notice another sensation rather than pain.

After a few moments, I stepped out of the water. Back on warm flagstones, my feet tingled. Then they became very hot and the tingling became more of a prickly feeling that radiated up to my ankles. It was the strangest feeling as I realised my feet did not hurt for the first time that day. Suddenly I remembered that the water I had dipped my feet in was the healing well water and I smiled to myself thinking what my hubby and the other cynics would have to say about my ‘little miracle.’ All I can add is that as I put my shoes back on my feet did not hurt, not one little bit and I walked back up the road to the B&B as if I was walking on air...

To be continued...

GLASTONBURY 2008

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Mon, 12 May 2008 08:34:00 +0000

For reasons I won’t go into right now, I have just returned from a mini break to Glastonbury -three nights and four days of no kids, no workaholic hubby, no hairy yellow Labrador to walk. Just me and my chakra in the land of cider, cheese and King Arthur.

I knew I was in for a whacky time as soon as I walked down an alleyway crammed with esoteric shops-there were large red plastic mushrooms with white spots on and broomsticks propped against the walls.
A barefoot man, naked other than a pair of skimpy shorts ran past me, his long main of unruly hair billowing as he ran. His toned, tanned body was reminiscent of someone off the front of a Mills and Boon Novel or maybe her was a porn star called Troy or Colt?

Exmoor Jane, clearly accustomed to some of the weird ways of the town suggested we meet at “The Speaking Tree” at the bottom of Glastonbury High Street. Once I had got the name-“Talking Clock” out of my head and spotted the Psychic Piglet opposite I had no trouble finding it.

Milla arrived, and our trio, looking more as if we were old friends of 20 years, took refuge from the strong mid day Sun in a cafe called Laluna, which was to become my favourite haunt over the next few days.

Three hours later and we still hadn’t paused for breath but I had to go and collect the keys from my B&B. I didn’t want to cut short our fun and leave the girls to continue a deux, so I dragged them the long walk uphill to check out my home for the next three days.

First impressions didn’t disappoint-It was a stunning house set in beautiful tranquil gardens and Glastonbury Tor visible from most aspects. The owner showed us around. I was fortunate to have been allocated the ‘Dovecote Room’ so called because of a large dove house right outside the window that Faith would have been proud of.

The owner suggested we feel free to hop over the wall to climb up to the Tor. Once we had negotiated the upturned buckets and barbed wire, we were running like Laura Ingles in Little House on the Prairie up the side of the hill towards the summit. Ok, maybe we weren't running...Actually all three of us crawled, at times on all fours, up the vertical hillside-we had only one good leg between the three of us! But we were determined to make it, dodgy knees or not.

The wind came from nowhere and virtually blew our wigs off as we reached our final destination at the peak. We gasped as we were overwhelmed by the panoramic views-(actually we were panting to catch our breath. I realised later it was the only time Milla was quiet all day.) We paused to share a few moments of solitude and contemplation and reflect on how the journey must have been for Joseph of Arimathea.

The views and a single dove fluttering inside were reward enough for our efforts and we talked of Faith and her doves for the second time that day.

After some dodgy directions and what I suspect was the scenic route back to town, by the time we reached the bottom we were parched and ready to attack the tearooms (as well as find a good hairdresser.) All too soon, our delightful day ended and we said our goodbyes, each of us heading our separate ways in search of a bottle of red wine and a Babyliss foot spa.

Glastonbury is a haven for lost souls and unfortunates who probably went there in search of solace and spirituality and instead found drink and drugs. But they are harmless enough with their sad eyes.

However, you will be pleased to know I didn’t join them on the benches outside St John’s Church after I’d eaten my evening meal at the Hawthorns. Instead, it was my good fortune to be heading back to the comfort of the beautiful B&B and the Princess and the Pea bed.

To be continued.....

So until another day
Bye for now

Gardening in your pyjamas.

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Wed, 07 May 2008 07:00:00 +0000

“What on earth are you doing out here at this time of night?” Ian whispered incredulously.
“I couldn’t sleep and I wanted to make sure the slugs weren’t eating the hostas,” Liz whispered back to him and gave him a wry smile.
“But it’s half past two in the morning and you’re gardening in your pyjamas! Come on in, you’ll catch your death and you won’t be fit for anything tomorrow,” he cried in disbelief.
“Just give me five more minutes-I still need to check the delphiniums,” she gave an imperceptible nod.
Ian knew from experience that meant that she wouldn’t be in for at least the next hour.
“Look I’m going in, I’m getting cold.” He thrust his hands down into his dressing gown pockets. “Please, promise me you’ll come in soon.”
“Ok, stop worrying.” Her response was pre-occupied. Liz was wide awake and she found the cool of the summers evening far too alluring to be back in bed thinking about everything she had to do.

Ian rolled his eyes in mild irritation. There was no talking to her. For four nights in the last week she had sneaked back outside after he had gone to bed. She didn’t just love her garden-it was like an obsession.

Outside Liz was lost in thought, running through her mental list of tasks to do. She often used to come outside and garden in her pyjamas. She had invested in a pair of green slip-on gardening shoes after she realised that she was getting chilblains from where the dew soaked through her slippers and made her feet cold and wet. Invariably she didn’t feel any chill because she was working but if she did, she simply slipped a fleece or waterproof over her pyjamas.

Tonight was a beautiful peaceful evening with only a resident hedgehog for company. She did her best thinking in the dead of night and found she could get far more done than in the daytime with the antics of the birds to distract her.

The moon was so bright and clear it illuminated the whole garden outlining a fine silver highlight to the edges of everything and adding an ethereal purple hue to the normally variant shades of grey. On occasions if she found it too dark, she would flick on the outside security lights which were more like bright floodlights. But Liz found them too harsh and had become adept at gardening with only limited vision. It somehow served to heighten her enjoyment by stimulating her other senses as she stroked and inhaled her way around the grounds. It was amazing how her senses had learnt to overcompensate, so much so that she only had to trace her fingers over the flowers in containers to know when a flower was just starting to crisp and needed deadheading.

The layout of the garden was imprinted in her mind and immortalised in a notepad which she referred to most days so that even with her addiction of moving plants, she still knew exactly where every tree, plant, shrub and bulb lived.

After they sold their last house Liz and Ian searched for months for the right new property. Eventually they moved into rented when Liz fell and fell in love with an old Station Masters Cottage which had nearly an acre of land. As luck would have it less than a year later the owners announced that they were planning to sell up and move abroad. Liz and Ian put in an immediate offer which was accepted and just a few weeks later Liz was rewarded with the full ownership of the gardens she had meticulously tended. Her fixation with the gardens eventually became a full time activity so Ian agreed that she should continue her accountancy work freelance, basing herself from home in order that she could reduce her hours and concentrate her efforts on her one true love-gardening.

That was over ten years ago. Since then, every winter during the colder months (when she wasn’t outside,) Liz spent hours working at the kitchen table by the wood burner-sketching and painstakingly planning into her notebook which plants she was going to introduce, what moves would need to be made to accommodate them. She was like a master chess player anticipating the seasons and how the colours might work together to give her illusory perfection. She worked like an artist, sketching onto a blank canvas then mixing the colours and augmenting the paint until she was completely sated.

One of her favourite tasks was to spread the new seed catalogues and brochures over the table-so she could visualise the beds in her minds eye. She could never resist the cleverly marketed catalogues of ‘must have’ plants. Any willpower fast deserted her when faced with a cup of tea, a digestive biscuit and the latest inspirational pages, so she was always rather over enthusiastic when it came to ordering. Every new variety and inspirational colour combination would shout out of the pages to come and join her in her wonderland. But no matter if she over ordered-any ‘surplus‘was inevitably designated a small nook hidden somewhere that no one else would have seen. Liz always managed to squeeze in a little more colour or form and anyway, she could never have too many of anything, especially bulbs.

Some bulbs that she planted had disappeared, never to be seen again-probably eaten by slugs or mice. Or as Liz philosophised, maybe they just didn’t like it here. She had learnt over the years to work with the soil that she had been given in the garden, but not every plant played by the rules.

By far her greatest pleasure was when the delivery van arrived and she would eagerly rip into the packaging to see the parcels of bounty before starting the military operation of planting. It was always a frenetic time but after a few days when everything had settled in its new home Liz would ruthlessly survey her efforts, replanting anything which did not meet with her approval and consign to the compost heap anything which disappointed in the way of quality. Once her work was done, all she could do was give a little support in the way of weeding and watering to encourage the plant to be happy. The rest, she had to sit back and wait for the seasons, and place her trust in Mother Nature to decide which would flourish or fall by the wayside.

Everything had a purpose and was planted for a reason in Liz’s garden. Nothing shallow or superficial kept her favour-it was not enough to have only outward beauty, however dazzling. She couldn’t afford to suffer fools and made everything work to earn its place. It needed another facet-a sublime perfume, to nourish the birds, attract the butterflies or provide a tasty addition to a salad.

Climbers scrambled over the pergola trying to catch her attention as she walked through the Orchard. Here she had embellished the previous owner’s collection with her own varieties of apple trees, a morello cherry and a plum. The far boundary was planted with evergreens to hide the houses beyond and, in front of this is she had dotted several varieties of Viburnum Tinus and Eucalyptus to make a soft screen of deep green and grey contrasting foliage. She wanted to give the orchard a romantic character. Drifts of daffodils and bluebells were beneath the trees in the spring. For now the rambling roses and honeysuckles climbed through some of the apples.

Walking through the area Liz felt excited, initially by the smell that first hit her then she saw the Belle de Crecy, a gallica rose which had timed itself to perfection with a sudden profusion of old fashioned mauve flowers. The magnificence of the full, frilled rosette shaped petals looked as if someone had cut the blooms part way through to form four segments, like an orange. “They were only in bud yesterday.” She remarked to herself, unconscious that she was speaking out loud. The days warm temperatures and her spraying with warm water had rewarded her well.

She caught a glimpse of Rosa Albertine and was for just a second overwhelmed by it’s delicate beauty. She remembered as a child how she used to pick fallen rose petals from the base of the stems and make ‘perfume’ out of it. Within only a few hours the smell was putrid and she would have to make some more. The strong perfume of old fashioned Roses was one of the main aspects of this garden she wanted to re-capture in her garden so she had chosen old fashioned varieties-blousy, cabbage-shaped flowers to furnish it.

The scent from a honeysuckle that was entwined around the apple trees filled her lungs. English Honeysuckle-it was the most arresting of aromas and never failed to halt her in her tracks. She stopped to inhale the intoxicating perfume and leaned against a rickety gate which was the entrance to a shaded grove area. Here, beside a small stream there was still a small secreted corner to fill with plants since she had managed to eradicate all the ground elder. It was planted with hellebores, lily of the valley and bluebells in her mind’s eye-she dreamt of creating a magical ‘woodland’-a themed space which she envisaged being over run with nymphs and elves when no-one was around.
“I’ll need to thin out the shoots of the Clematis,” she thought walking through the willow arbour. “It looks more like a disembowelled mattress.”

The lavender hedges brushing against her pyjamas guided her route along the path towards the cottage garden. The long, spiky flowers of the Buddleja ‘black knight’ suffused by butterflies and bees by day, looked glorious with its dramatic silhouette by moonlight.
She could see the outline of a Fuchsia magellanica ‘Riccartonii.” It was not a particularly remarkable shrub except that it was the only plant in the whole garden which she allowed for purely sentimental reasons. It didn’t do anything other than look pretty and provide a good informal hedge. Long, elegant flowers of red and purple and a cluster of long, red, pollen-tipped stamens hang down from the centre of the bell. When Liz was a child there used to be an enormous one in the bottom of the garden near the pear tree and she used to play hide and seek with her brother. When she left home her mum bought her one in a tub for the balcony of her first floor flat. Over the years she moved the fuchsia into bigger and bigger containers until they bought this house and at last it was able to take up a permanent residence and be allowed to flourish to its full potential, just like the one she used to hide behind. She pinched off a couple of the shoots affectionately-sometimes it grew over enthusiastically and she had to encourage it into a bushier plant.

The cottage garden was probably her favourite area in the summer time because it evoked memories from her childhood and make her feel close to her dear departed mum and Grandpa. As a child she would help ‘Gramps’ lovingly tend his garden and had replicated so many of his choices in her own.

She thought about his little ditties-“if the Oak tree flowers before Ash, you’re in for a splash.” His prophecies always seemed to ring true-there had been little rain that summer since the Oak tree flowered first. She could have made a book of his sayings-she cherished them all. Gramps always said “You can tell from the sun setting at night whether it promises to be good clear day of weather ahead.”
She smiled fondly at his sage words. “It was a red sky last night so it promises to be a shepherd’s delight,” she thought hopefully, praying for good weather the following day.

He used to warn her about the gardener’s arch enemy, the slug. Particularly he warned to check for slugs and snails on the delphiniums-“Now you mark my words Lizzie-Delphiniums make a hugely appealing meal to those ruddy slugs and you should check them every day. But I have a trick because if you pop a tub of beer down into the earth the buggers can’t resist. And at least they die happy!” He used to make her laugh however many times he said it.

Liz felt that sunken tubs of beer in the ground looked unsightly in her garden and she hated using pellets so she decided her only way to control them was to check fastidiously. It was a painstaking job, but she neglected the task at her peril. She collected the offenders in a margarine tub and couldn’t bear to kill them. Instead she preferred to thrown them over next doors wall. She was sure that the farmer wouldn’t mind, although ‘truth be told,’ she had never actually asked him.
She studied the soil in an area where a couple of lilies still had not come up. She didn’t know where they had disappeared to. She took the little marker out of the ground and covered the patch over with soil.

As soon as she saw the clump of delphiniums she knew the slugs had been feasting that evening. Several of the stunning, stately spires had been completely ravaged leaving a small gap of height along the profile of the border. She wished she had listened to Gramps and put the beer traps down now.

Suddenly the screech of the tawny owl in the ash tree to her side startled her and she stumbled grazing her leg. It gave her a good excuse to cry. You would think after five years of participating in the National Gardens Scheme that she would realise her garden would never be perfect. Every year she worked towards it and every year she disappointed herself. But by tomorrow night at this time she hoped all her efforts would be rewarded-the one day of the year when people from all walks of life came and visited her gardens and they shared a common connection-their own pursuit of perfection.
Liz didn’t suppose that any of them ever found the fulfilment which they sought. If they did, there would be no point in carrying on with gardening...

For a second or two it was very still. Then the Blackbird started to sing. The sun was coming up. Soon she would be able to see the colours in full glory-the herbaceous borders showing off their vibrant colours as if they were being judged in a horticultural show. She knew she had better appreciate them while they were there. In just a few short months the evenings would be drawing in and the magnificence of the garden shrunk back to ground level.

She sighed. Time had run away with her once more. She had better go and shower. She might just have time to cut the camomile lawn afterwards if she was quick.

COPYRIGHT-Debbie White May 2008

A Typical Day in the Life of Country Craft Angel

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Fri, 18 Jan 2008 09:38:00 +0000

I suppose if I was a really good wife I would have got out of bed to see Workaholic Hubby off for the train to London at 5.30am. But it was SO warm on his side of the bed after he got out and I was so tired that I couldn’t resist rolling into his space and snuggling in and back to sleep.

I stirred realising Nicky Campbell’s dulcet tones had stopped and I had long overslept. Oh my god! It’s 7am and with hubby gone I have to walk the dog and take Idle Jack down to the bus stop myself as well as the usual other morning routines! I did negotiate with Idle Jack last evening that I would only do one or the other but nothing short of an atomic bomb will get him out of his bed at present. It must be the hormones. I brace myself that I may have to do it all.

I am not at my best in a morning. I don’t mean that in a grumpy way. (although come to think of it I suppose I am rather grumpy these days in a morning.) Sleep depravation is a form of torture I’m sure. To be fair I don’t think it is just the owl or the fox or Puffer Billy lying next to me that wake me all the time. Pain robs me of deep sleep, the really deep slumber where nothing wakes you. I stir all too easily-last night the continual stabbing knives in my left shoulder woke me every time I turned over. I dreamt at one stage that I was trapped in some farm machinery. By my side, flipping 360 degrees was Workaholic Hubby, no doubt mindful of oversleeping or missing the train. I lay there for what seemed for hours, looking at the oversized illuminated digital clock that projects itself in bright red up onto our bedroom ceiling, watching the rythmic flashing on and off, on and off, as the the seconds tick away.

First job is to feed Simba, the extremely hairy yellow Labrador who's shed great clumps of hair round his bed which I must hoover up later. He hoists his great body out of his warm bed as gingerly and reluctantly as me in a morning. It takes me and him an hour or two to get ourselves moving and our bones working to optimum effect because of the pain and stiffness of our arthritis.

The creak of the kitchen door has woken Quiet Mousie despite my attempts not to disturb him. He helps himself to fresh orange and a yogurt and settles to the island with a book and piece of paper which he copies from. He has discovered the joy of reading; books, spellings, writing; word searches, his little mind like a sponge soaks up every minute he can. Well, that is if he can’t go outside and kick a football of course. I flick the kettle on as I will for the umpteenth time before the boys go to school. The trouble is I always let the tea go cold before I drink it. My pain killers in hand and I brace myself for the most challenging task of the morning, rousing Idle Jack.

He’s hidden somewhere underneath the quilt. I know he’s there as I can see his black socked feet sticking out of the end, facing down. He’s covered in the quilt, blanket and several cushions. Quite why he insists on cocooning himself up like this I don’t know, but he has done it for years now. I put the big light on and turn on his radio.
“Wakey Wakey, Cam...come on, time to wake up...We’ve overslept. Have you remembered I need your help this morning as Dad’s in London?” Nothing.
“Come on Cam, I need you up, time to wake up!” No movement. I prod the bed.
“I’ve fed the dog and he’s desperate to go out...are you coming?”
“Mmmm-m-m.” We have life. I pull his covers back, desperately trying to stay patient.
“Come on Son. I can do without this. I’m late as it is and you said you’d walk Simba. Now get up please if you want a lift down to the bus stop.”
“Ok, ok, I’m coming!” How come he’s got the attitude? I stand there mouth open in amazement. He’s still corpse-like.
“Look, I can’t stand here all day waiting for you to get up. Get yourself in the shower and liven yourself up! Split splot!” Well, it worked for Mary Poppins.

I go outside to feed the birds. Mr Robin is chattering away already in the dark. It’s a good job Hubby can’t see me. He goes mad when I go out to the birds in my dressing gown and slippers, especially if it's frosty or raining. “You and those ruddy birds, you’ll catch your death!” He doesn’t realise they will be my company for the day and I need to get the food out for the flocks that will join me after the school run.

The dog follows me wagging his tail expectantly and crossing his legs at the same time. He is desperate for his walk and won’t ‘go’ in the garden so I hurry as best I can to get dressed and yell at Idle Jack that if he is not up in the next two minutes I’m going to pour a cup of water over his head!

I grab the torch and head to the woods. I always used to be frightened of woods and being alone. Now I love it. The sheep have all been moved-I think they must be due to lamb any day now as I see the lights in the farmers shed in the bottom field on permanently day and night. A blackbird witters and flashes right in front of me startling me. I think I startled him more.

As I come back into the house I can hear Idle Jacks deep, croaky and intermittent squeaky voice yelling “Stop turning the berludy light off!” (J K Rowling has a lot to answer for-how many times does Ron Weasly say the ‘B’ word in her Harry Potter books? Or maybe it is me or his dad he got it from?)

Quiet Mousie has him cornered in the shower and is outside the bathroom door flicking the light on and off.
“Right, that’s it!” I yell. “Stop doing that to your brother and go and make your bed and tidy your bedroom!” I scold Quiet Mousie. “I’ve already done it, and brushed my teeth and washed my face” The halo pings above his head. He really is such a sweety, I can’t stay angry at him for long.

At last, after numerous reminders Idle Jack saunters out of the bathroom with his hair gelled into precision spikes.
“Have you picked the towels up?” I remind him, coughing and spluttering at the waft of the Lynx coming through the house.
“I’ll do it later, I’m off to walk the dog now” He says. The towels will still be there tonight.
“Too late, I’ve already walked him!” I state triumphantly. I’m still choking. Heavens, does that stuff really work with the ‘chics?’
“Aw, mum, I told you that I’d walk him! “ His head automatically throws back and his eyes roll upwards as his mouth parts in a loud sigh.
“I can’t walk down the lane. Please take me down, I’ve got PE today and have to carry my sports bag.”
Puppy dog eyes. Hmmm.
“I used to walk over 3 miles to school every day and when I was old enough I cycled...” He can finish the story he’s heard it enough times.

I didn’t live in ‘the sticks’ with a dark country lane measuring 1.2 miles and perverts who knows where...And anyway, by the time he’s made his bed and tidied his room and got his dinner money and things together I always end up having to chivvy him along and he’s never ready on time.
“Just get your breakfast, I’ll see...” He’s won...again.
“Thanks mum.” He knows he can twist me round his little finger.

The phone rings. It’s Workaholic Hubby sounding incredibly chipper, “Hi darling...Oh, me...yes, I’m fine...Just got here...it was a great journey...so much better than in the car. I had a nice coffee and bacon sandwich and got loads of work done....”
Grrrr.
”I’m just ringing to check if you’re up ok and if the boys are being good for you?”
“Oh, yes, we’re all fine, no worries.” I say breezily.
Grrr again.
“The dogs walked and the boys are just having breakfast. I’ve got the tea prepared. You have a good day.”

Twenty minutes after taking Idle Jack down the lane to the bus stop and I’m taking Quiet Mousie and the neighbour’s girl back down the lane to the bus stop.
Then it’s back up to the barn on the hill, and my dog and the birds...
What will I do today?

Maybe some sewing or a bit of crafting...

or writing...almost certainly a lot of dreaming...in between planning the veggies for the garden this year...I need to check how the strips of native hedging have taken. We've put them in between us an the neighbours for a little privacy. And my birds, of course.
But mostly today will be peace and quiet...that is until the boys come in from school and the chaos resumes.

Hmmm...And I’d better hoover up that dog hair too I suppose, or me and Simba will both be in the ‘dog’ house.

So until another day

Bye for now

Tardy Sights and Sounds Homework..

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Sat, 03 Nov 2007 09:56:00 +0000

I have been shamed into blogging. Is it really nearly 2 months since I last blogged? Where does the time go?...
Holidays, getting the boys back to school, doing Craft fairs and parties, making stock for Christmas, orders and some health problems (again) But it is no excuse. I am no busier than anyone else nor do I consider myself ‘more important’ than anyone else not to do it. As the kind of person who is always usually driven to complete a task I am shamed into confessing that I never completed my homework. Does anyone remember the’Smells and Sounds that touch me homework?’ I know it hasn’t escaped a few of you that I never did mine...

As I write my list I am struck by how many of them are reminiscent of my childhood and see that after over forty years I am still happiest with the simple things in life...

SMELLS
The smell of the woodburner as I come into courtyard...makes me feel happy and secure at the promise of a cosy afternoon or evening reading or crafting and listening to music in front of the fire.

A roast dinner...As a young girl every day seemed to be a Sunday dinner day. Most days we ate the 'cheap' cuts of meat; breast of lamb, belly pork, heart or something similar. The meal was always accompanied by two types of potato, tinned green beans or peas and carrots and my Nan’s thick lumpy gravy.
These days the boys favour loin of pork, beef tail, turkey crown and whole chicken and we only usually eat a big dinner on a Sunday. My hubby and boys never fail to comment about the smell that permeates through the house on a Sunday afternoon when we have a something in the oven.

Ripened tomatoes...As a small child I used to visit my other Grandma and Grandad and spent all my time in the garden with Grandad Ken and his collie dog Jip while Nanny Burnett was indoors making the dinner or reading. Grandad Ken had the most wonderful greenhouse and vegetable plot, more like a small allotment....or it seemed to be to a small girl. Sadly I never saw Grandad after I was about ten years old. I recently found out that he died about eight years ago. So sad, I think of times past and wonder if my love of gardening comes from the short but precious times spent with him and the smell of the tomatoes that will forever remind me of him.

Lavender and roses...I have always had a love of ‘vintage flowers’ since the house I lived in with my Nan had a plethlora of colour and fragrance by the back and front doors. As a child I used to pick them and collect the fallen blooms and mix them with water to make ‘perfume.’ The strong aroma of those vintage flowers was so very different to the sticky green gunge that the perfume turned into after a couple of days.

At this time of year I am surrounded by the smells again as I make lavender bags and rosehip and rosebud hearts for Christmas Fairs and parties.

Carbolic Soap...Bathtime on a Sunday evening in front of the fire when Nan would fill the tin bath with hot water first and used to scold me when I complained about it always being hot.

Violets...or rather African violets which remind me of my old piano teacher who was an old tyrant and used to rap me on the knuckles when I got something wrong. But I still have fond memories of her and that part of my life.

Manure, muck, whatever you call it...I love the distinctive smell of any sort of smell that I so firmly associate with the country and a reminder that have fulfilled my dream to live in the country.

Cinammon and Christmas spices....this is another smell which drifts through our barn at the moment as every day I am making Garlands and Decorations for Christmas Stock.

Cinammon is such a sweet and sickly smell. But I love it. Anise, Nutmeg, Ginger, Cloves; such aromas remind me of Mulled Wine, Mince Pies, Christmas Pudding and Cake and all things Christmas....my favourite time of the year.

SOUNDS
Rain on the barn roof...Hubby calls me a hermit that I can craft on the island in the daytime with no radio or tv blaring away in the background. Instead I prefer to listen to the sounds of the countryside and there is nothing more relaxing than listening to the rain smattering onto the barn roof.
Birds chirping. All birds touch me. I get so much pleasure from ‘my birds’ and now know all of their songs. As I walk the mew of the buzzard makes me look up to see him gliding majestically overhead. I can tell when the woodpecker makes a flying visit past our garden, or when the blue tits are hungry and looking for food, or when Mr Robin is warding off any other robin who might be daring to steal some of the meal worms that I have put out for him. Or when the wagtail is chirruping. Or when spring has arrived and the first sounds of the swallows chattering away overhead tells me ‘they are back...’ And surely no better sound on a summers evening than to sit and listen to the blackbirds beautiful melody.
Crickets...warmth and association of faraway lands and holidays with pine trees and balmy nights.

Dog snoring...The dogs snoring always makes me laugh...to be so contented...Pity the hubby’s snoring does not have the same effect....
Piano music...I love almost all solo piano pieces and find I am unable to resist listening to a piece that is well played without being lulled into listening intently and hypnotised by the artist.

Piano music...like the franetic 'Flight of the Bumble Bee' by Nicolai Rimsky-Korsakoff can energise me and motivate me to do something I may well not want to do like housework. I can master the housework even if I can never master the ‘Vivace’ pieces with my arthritic fingers.
Listening (or playing) something like the beautiful Le Onde or Beethovens Moonlight Sonata has the ability to stop me in my tracks and entrance me to listen to the serene beautiful lilting. Braveheart-Love of a Princess or the magical Prelude No 2 played by someone wonderful like Dustin O'Halloran can move me to tears.

Please listen to this-it really is one of the most beautiful pieces of music I have ever heard. Such a talented composer and artist still not really recognised as great.

Laughter...Is infectious. Especially my Boys laughing. But in fact anyone laughing will touch me, and to hear myself laugh.

Right, I can tick another task off my 'things to do list'

So until another day

Bye for now

Quiet Mousie learns a hard lesson...in Greek...

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 09:25:00 +0000

“Go on darling..you will be fine, just say it nice and loud..” I encouraged Quiet Mousie as we sat at the table following our lunch in Stavros’ Greek taverna. Positioned along the quayside of the harbour and with the most welcoming and charming of owners, one Stavros and his son Nicos, it had soon become our regular lunchtime eatery and welcome respite from the mid day sun each day.

I caught the eye of one of the young waiters that we had befriended over the first five days of our holiday who quickly came across beaming at us. I looked at Quiet Mousie and smiled, giving him eager eyes “Go on then...” The waiter looked on amused.

“To logariasmo, parakalo...”whispered Quiet Mousie. The Greeks face lit up “Ahhh...” he said, and he beckoned to my youngest to follow him. Quiet Mousie is a timid soul at the best of times, so unlike his big brother. He looked a little hesitant. “It will be ok...go with him...you will be fine. I think he must be going to see Nicos and get the bill with you...”I assured him.

Me, Hubby and the eldest sat at the table cooing over him. Bless him. How proud we all were of him. The Greeks love you to make an effort speaking their wonderful language and my boys had delighted them all holiday, practising the language and ordering their food in pidgeon Greek. They always say “Kali Mera” (good morning,) “Kali Spera” (good afternoon) and displayed good manners, “Epheristo” (Thankyou.)

To ask for the bill is a very difficult sentence for a six year old. But Quiet Mousie had done it after five days of enviously listening to his big brother and the responses he got from the locals.

After he had been gone for more than a minute or two, we smiled and thought that the waiter had taken him into the kitchens to choose some ice-cream as they often do.

Two or three minutes passed and we presumed that he must be eating it in the kitchen.

After five minutes we started laughing between ourselves at the table and imagining him chatting away in the kitchen’s to the owners wife whilst eating his ice-cream.

Nearly 10 minutes later and knowing how shy Quiet Mousie is I sent the eldest to look for him. I had visions of him in a kitchen with the owners and not understanding a word they were saying!

Idle Jack came back “I can’t see him anywhere mum...”

About twelve minutes. Panic. Be rational. He’s fine. He’ll just be with Stavros or Nicos.

We waited another couple of minutes. I looked around. No sign of anyone. My heart starting to race a little now. “Where do you think he is?” I asked the hubby. With that the young waiter came back, alone.

“Signomi?” (Excuse me) I attracted his attention.“Poo eene o yos?” (where is my son?)
He looked around the taverna and shrugged.

Real panic now. We all stood up ready to dash through the alleyways looking for him. Maybe he was lost at the rear of the taverna somewhere?

We were just about to throw some money on the table and Nicos the owners son, walked in holding a bereft Quiet Mousie by the hand. He was sobbing and crying and slipped the hand of the Greek and flung himself into my arms, yelling at me and sobbing “Where were you mummy?”
“Oh my god, what happened baby?” I looked at Nicos and the waiter who both shrugged together this time.
Quiet Mousie was unconsolable. He sobbed and clung to me. I asked them to get him some water.
“Where did you get to?” I asked him. And he sobbed the story to me....

“That waiter ...he...he...took me to ...sob....the ...toilet....and he shut the ....door....sob...on...me...” More tears as the whole story came out of how he stayed in the toilet for nearly fifteen minutes bewildered as to why he had been put in there and the door closed behind him.

Initially I was angry.
Then I realised. The waiter had misheard him. Quiet Mousie had softly asked “To logariasmo, parakalo...”
The waiter had misheard him and thought he ask “To toiletto, parakalo...”

Poor Quiet Mousie.
It took him nearly two hours to calm down. And he continued to fret every time we ate out.
"Please Mummy, please don't make me speak any more Greek this holiday," he begged me.

No hard feelings with Nicos...

So until another day

Bye for now

Simply Greece

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Thu, 06 Sep 2007 11:03:00 +0000

There is something wonderfully seductive about the Greek way of life and it’s simplicity. Ever since my first trip to Crete as an eighteen year old girl I have, for over twenty years had a love affair with Greece-not the ancient history, art and architecture or mythical Greece, but it is the people of Greece and their outlook on life that capture my heart.

When the only place left on the Manos Website for a late getaway was a 1 star apartment in a tiny unspoilt island called Meganissi, satellite island to Lefkas we jumped to book it. We go to Greece to ‘lose ourselves’ and forget the worries and strains of daily life. I think out of twenty three years there has only been one year when we I haven’t visited Greece; the temptation to spend a week or two without a phone ringing or not knowing what the news headlines are always proves too much.
Meganissi is one of the Ionian islands but unlike it’s sisters, Kephalonia, Corfu, Lefkas etc time really does seem to have stood still. We reached it by ferry from Nidri, on the island of Lefkas, and were immediately struck by the contrast between the bustle of that busy resort and the quiet solitude of the picturesque harbour and fishing village of Vathy that we sailed into. We all felt the immediate sense of peace and calmness, the harbour entrance is flanked by chapels which apparently are there to bless all those arriving and leaving and to give boats safe passage. It must be one of the few last remaining truly authentic and unspoilt Greek Islands.

The Greeks are of course all great philosophers and love nothing more than to talk and put the world to rights. And as we stepped off the ferry the blue tables and chairs of the first taverna that we saw were already full of the local men sitting with expressos and ouzo discussing politics and world events while they whirled ‘worry beads’ and flicked them around their wrists.

Meganissi is an island, the antipethese of the larger commercial Greek Islands like Corfu or Crete; as we stepped off the ferry it was like taking a step back in time-unspoilt, charming and full of unadulterated natural beauty. The island is a miniature Greek Island, measuring just 20 sq kilometres and has a population of only approx 1400 people. There are only three villages, barely more than hamlets and with little tourist development. In each, a labyrinth of tiny lanes and alleyways like ‘kantounia’ form a maze of whitewashed stone houses and courtyards full of tin-potted plants to the top of the hillside. It is this that evokes the bygone eras, especially with so few cars on the island. .

How I wish I'd had more time to paint or sketch the small and spartan, clean little houses which are the stamp of the rural life of the village's inhabitants. Those remaining inhabitants of the island are farmers and fishermen, whilst those who have left were expert boatmen and sea captains.

The main trade is still fishing rather than tourism and the fishermen go off for several months at a time on trips leaving the women sitting and tatting lace and shawls under the shade of the vines. For those left there are still olives to harvest, sheep and goats to milk and chickens to feed. In bygone years the villages were the centres of activity. Everybody would join in with the olive harvest to make oil to sell and corn was grown and milled in one of the many windmills to make flour. Nowadays, olive oil continues to be made on the island but in smaller quantities and is produced by machine instead of donkeys. Flour is no longer made so all that remains of the windmills are the round stone built towers that balance on hilltops and capes, bereft of their sails and looking forlorn.

A recently made road skirts the coast of the island making some of the little bays more accessible and gives a hint of development which may come in the future. However, for now it remains unspoilt, the most secluded bays can still only be reached by boat. The wildlife and habitat of the island is best observed on foot, although my boys found it too hot to do much walking. Paths and tracks twist across the island amongst the olive groves and maquis and the smell of pine emanates throughout. We hired a car for the week which helped with the mountainous tracks which give way to sheer hanging cliffs and the most spectacular views.

The beaches were typically Greek, although in Meganissi you often had the shingle and pebble stretches all to yourselves, even the week we were there which was ‘peak season.’ Sun loungers would have been a luxury and not in the vocabulary of this island so unfortunately the reed mats and towels didn’t provide cushion enough to be able to lie down and sun bathe for too long. But the discomfort was worth it to see the distorted faces the Workaholic Hubby pulled when trying to make a quick dash in and out of the sea!

The electricity was a typical Greek experience in that it went off several times a day sometimes leaving no power for half a day at a time. We soon stopped plugging in the kettle so as not to overload the circuit and chose instead to stick to retsina and Mythos beers in the end. And it was a little problematic when for the last two and a half days of the holiday there was no water AT ALL to our apartment. Apparently the island had a shortage of water (Deliveries of water by tankers have to ‘shared out’ amongst the islands) Because our apartment was up the hillside the water pump was not powerful enough to pump the water up the hill it was so steep. But Workaholic Hubby managed going up and down the 30 or so steps to the sea, collecting buckets of sea water for the toilet, and our regular Taverna “The Rose Garden” kindly allowed us to use their shower blocks.

Nothing spoiled our enjoyment of this lovely island. It was as they say in Greece “Easy, easy...no worries...”

There were few other children except the locals for my boys to play with and no entertainment or organised activities. In fact there really was very little else to do on Meganissi other than soaking up the relaxing atmosphere of the picturesque villages and harbours, sitting in the shade of the simple tavernas, and ‘people watching.’ But my boys managed to charm the Greeks who adore children anyway with their attempts at speaking Greek. Over 20 years ago I had a baptism of fire backpacking across the Pelopenese and through ‘bandit country’ when no one for miles could speak English. Over the years I can now speak enough Greek to order food, book rooms, find my way around and converse in basic terms and whilst I am far from fluent, they appreciate so much any effort to speak their beautiful language. We manage, as we shrug and scowl and find pidgeon Greek and English between us to reach an understanding. I have tried to influence the boys to make an effort and this has been repaid by the joy on the Greeks faces as the boys try to get their teeth around the tricky words.

Another day I shall tell you the tale of my youngest, ‘Quiet Mousie’ and the trouble he landed himself in when trying to speak Greek in a restaurant. And also of an encounter ‘Workaholic Hubby’ had with Panos, “The only Gay Greek in the Village” and owner of our apartments...

So until another day

Bye for now

Quiet Mousie, the Entrepeneur...REAL Country Living and Runner Beans...

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Thu, 23 Aug 2007 08:30:00 +0000

Few things in life can be so satisfying as harvesting (and better still, eating) your own freshly picked, home grown garden produce totally free of chemicals.

So it is a rewarding sight indeed at this time of year to see the bed filled to the brim with goodies that we have painstakingly nurtured from nothing earlier this year. We need to be patient now. It will be some months before we can pick the leeks, calabrese, purple sprouted broccoli, green pointed cabbage and sprouts. In between we have sown lettuce, radishes and rocket, quick growing and ripe for the picking when the leaves are small and tender. The slower growers need to develop thick sturdy bases ready for the winter winds that will surely rock them and test their robustness in their exposed position on the top of our hill.

Several years ago we lived at the old ‘Station House’ and had an enormous vegetable patch, more like an allotment. I cannot think of much that we didn’t have crammed into every row and the greenhouse full of exotics like chillies, aubergines and melons. When we moved house I had to ‘give in’ to the demands of full time market gardening due to my poor health. The optimistic beds we created gradually got smaller and smaller until just a few tubs of salad plants and runner beans remained.

Ah, that old stalwart... the runner bean...

For years they have been the staple of our summer diet. We didn’t particularly like runner beans when we started growing them. Their introduction was an attempt on my part to involve ‘Idle Jack,’ my eldest in the garden by capturing his imagination planting ‘giant beanstalks.’ But unlike his namesake he never even saw the first tendrils creep their way to the top of the cane before he had lost interest. For that small boy runner beans could not compete with Action Man or Power Rangers. But not so with his younger brother.

This summer I have a willing helper in the garden in ‘Quiet Mousie.’ His weekly trips to ‘Forest School’ and helping in the school garden have inspired him to show me how ‘green fingered’ he is. Forest School had also helped his fear of ‘mini beasts’ which had until this year somewhat hindered his efforts in the garden department. But his hands probe and tug at the soil now regardless of what lies beneath the soil. His favourite activity is helping me weed and water the raised beds and containers. His interest in nature and the garden is tireless and he now knows all about soil acidity and growing conditions and seed germination; his little brain like a sponge absorbing all I have to tell him and storing it in the recesses of his mind until one day he digs the first foundations of his own vegetable patch.
However one area that I won’t be able to impart my knowledge is how to avoid a ‘glut’ of runner beans. I have never mastered ‘succession planting’ with this old favourite and find over the years that however much you try and stagger the growing and planting out, the scarlet grape-like flowers and long green fingers all seem to grow at exactly the same time. By the end of the weeks we have usually given away more than we eat and are sick of the sight of runner beans.

For four weeks now Quiet Mousie has been out early in the morning with the colander picking them for me. He knows just the right size to pick them-when they are long and slender and just before they turn into thick cricket bats with fibrous strings! Still the canes creak under the weight of the beans that continue to proliferate the more we pick.
Earlier this week he sat and divided the beans into piles for a friend and our neighbours. Still there were pounds of them left. What to do with them? We already had ours for dinner. The freezer compartments are full with bags of prepared and blanched beans to see us through the autumn months. Me and Quiet Mousie laughed at how twelve small bean plants could have created the pound after pound of beans.
“I’ve got an idea mum, we could sell them at the bus shelter” He enthused.
“Hmmm, there may be something in that” I thought remembering how Primrose had sold bags of cherries last year by leaving fresh bags each day inside the shelter with an ‘honesty box.’

There is a surprising amount of people who go to the bus stop, mainly because the post box is position right next to it along with a telephone box. I hasten to add that as a bus shelter it is purely ornamental and has been redundant since about 1998 other than a gathering point for locals seeing the children on and off of the school buses that run past the edge of the village. However every evening the Shropshire Star Van lobs a large bundle of papers into the shelter as he hurtles past. We have no newspaper delivery in our remote part of the countryside, but anyone who wants a paper can come to the shelter and pick one up and keep abreast of local events.

Quiet Mousie carefully weighed and bagged up surplus runner beans and took three bagfuls to the bus shelter yesterday morning. It was deserted other than the doormice who have a home in there and a family of returning swallows who build two nests a year. We left a jar that was clearly labelled “THANK YOU-ORGANIC, HOME GROWN RUNNER BEANS-50P” He carefully positioned the bags and the jar so that they were alongside the ‘Egg Ladies’ boxes of eggs and twine wrapped bundles of Rhubarb.
As we drove to the post office later in the morning we checked to see whether any of the beans had sold. And as we came back from the Doctors in the afternoon we looked in again. The bags were still there.
“I hope they sell and don’t go all soft” He said looking disheartened. Then he beamed and added brightly “Still, it is early, maybe people haven’t gone out yet shopping yet?”

Late afternoon and me and the boys went to see our friend and take her runner beans. As we went past the shelter Quiet Mousie got out of the car to check whether the beans had even been moved. But they were still there. Idle Jack laughed.
“No wonder no-ones bought them...I hate runner beans! Uurrghh!” he said.
I threw him a look that told him to zip it and looked at the little one who was looking sadly out of the window. I texted Daddy, the Workaholic Hubby and tipped him off, suggesting that if the bags were still there when he got in later in the evening he might ‘buy them' and preserve our little ones feelings.

Our friend was delighted with the beans and by co-incidence showed me a jar of Runner Bean Chutney that she had in her fridge made by her Auntie Marian. We tasted it with sausage rolls and ham and it was delicious, although not to the boys taste.

As we drove back from her house a 4 x 4 was parked at the bus stop, as a man picked up his evening paper. So we pulled into the village and I sent quiet Mousie back to check for the umpteenth time on the bags of beans. He hid behind the trees until the car had moved off. He must have been gone a minutes or two and I was just about to get out and look for him when he came running over the grass verge with his face aglow, a huge smile beaming across his face and gushing,
“Mum, mum, You won’t believe this, but I’ve sold them! They have ALL gone. All three bags! That man in the car just took the last bag. And look at what I’ve got,” he directed at his older brother.
He uncurled his fingers carefully and there inside were two 50p pieces and what looked like the contents of someones trouser pocket in small coin denominations. We added it up. Short by 2p. They had obviously not expected to find such bounty at the bus stop. But I forgave them for the joy they gave to my little boy.

He clutched the money in his hand until he got home and counted it again. He went to bed talking of picking more beans in the morning and making some more money before we go on holiday at the weekend. Well Messrs Sainsbury and Marks and Spencer started somewhere didn’t they?...And I am sure when we checked on him as we retired for bed the smile was still fixed on his face as he slept...

I was wrong when I said there is nothing so good as harvesting your own produce...To a six year old selling it is SO much better...and seeing that smile on his face...priceless...

So until another day

Bye for now

PS-Below is Aunt Marians Recipe.

AUNT MARIAN’S RUNNER BEAN CHUTNEY
2lbs sliced beans- soaked overnight in water; drain; cook with salt and bicarbonate of soda. Strain and chop.
1 ½ lbs chopped onions
1 ½ pints vinegar
1 ¾ lbs demerara sugar
½ tablespoon turmeric
2 ½ tablespoons cornflour
½ teaspoon dried mustard
Salt to taste

METHOD
Cook onions in large pan in vinegar until fairly soft. Add sugar and chopped beans.
Mix turmeric, cornflour, mustard and salt into a smooth paste with a little vinegar. Then add to rest of ingredients in pan.
Simmer 15-20 minutes stirring often.
Pour into clean, warm jars, cover and label.
ENJOY!!

Nightime, or is it morning ramblings?...

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 03:48:00 +0000

I looked for the 'can't sleep' forum for 10 minutes at 4 o’clock this morning. I could have done it at 2.30am. Anyway it's not there so I left a comment on a ‘can’t sleep’ post and have sat down at PC again armed with tea and toast, to blog and see if that helps.

It feels a bit like a confession...I don't have time to blog at present and feel bad for not 'keeping in touch’ on purple coo as much as I should and reading everyone's blogs-6 weeks holidays and all that...hey ho, I always wished I could find more hours in the day. Maybe this is the answer?

I could no longer listen to the clock tick tick ticking in my head or stand the bedding being rythmically lifted up and down, up and down syncronised to the gentle "Pphhwww's" of the 'puffer Billy’ lying next to me.

Of course it’s his fault I am awake. The Workaholic Hubby has a VERY IMPORTANT meeting in London and has to be on the train. His last words as we went to sleep last night were "Please darling, whatever you do...kick me out of bed in the morning..."
And so it has been that since 2.30am I have worried about oversleeping...and getting all my orders finished before we go on holiday next week (we got to Greece on the 25th for a week.)

Then in my head, the great bikini v swimsuit debate...I'm only 40 for heavens sake...but despite being blessed with a boy like figure and only weighing nine and a half stone I still have a jelly belly. Two 9lb+ babys and a penchant for Maltesers and Galaxy chocolate. No chance to go swimming every day with the boys off school...and all the orders to do...and all the lists to make to remember everything before we go away.
Anyway swimsuits won't hide the cellulite on my flabby thighs.

It's Nans birthday on Saturday. I have kept the receipts because whatever I buy her won't be right. This birthday I have bought her a tracksuit. Not a Nike/chav type of track suit. She is 89 on Saturday and despite having survived a major operation and spending a week in ITU earlier this year, she won’t be running far with her squeeky zimmer. So it is a Bon Marche 'special'-plum coloured pants made from a soft feel chenille/crimpelene mix with an elasticated waistband and a co-ordinating cream and plum striped top, 'roomy fit' but not like a tent. I have cut the label out already as she doesn't like those sticking in her skin. But I bet she doesn't like the stripes...will say they make her look big...

Good job I have bought her a hand crafted cushion from one of my 'Made in Shropshire'colleagues. That will be the boys gift to her. I hope she can read the wording with her catarracts. I suspect she will complain about the buttons sticking in her back.

She rang me yesterday to tell me my Dad was coming over today from Hull.
“That will be nice for you,” I said.
“Yes, but I hope he doesn’t stop long, I don’t want to miss my programmes...I like my programmes in the afternoons...”
She doesn’t know but he’ll be leaving her at lunchtime. He’s meeting me for the 2nd time in 20 years... and his grandson's for the first time.

Idle Jack asked me last night “Do you think we’ll like your Dad Mum?”
“Remember he isn't just my dad, he's your Grandad" I replied, "and yes I think so. I do...” I answered.
He is a very likeable chap. My dad. Maybe I will become a ‘Daddy’s girl’ after all like some of my friends who that special bond with their dads... ‘Daddy’s Princess’...Maybe I am a bit old in the tooth for that. But it is nice to have him back in my life after all these years. All these wasted years...

Oh, how to tell Nan we are going away again. She complained last week when I came back from the caravan that I seemed to have been away most of the six weeks holidays. That's the idea. I am not her primary carer any more.
Maybe I should just go away and not mention it...she doesn't need to know. I could pretend I was at the Post Office when she tells me she rang...
She will only complain that I shouldn’t be leaving her when she’s so ill. And she won't make it to her next birthday. And that I need to protect the boys from the sun...and me getting skin cancer now I am ‘getting on a bit’...and gypsy’s abducting the boys...It’s the same every holiday. At least I am not going to Portugal.

Every day I think about little Maddie. Every day Quiet Mousie asks “Have they found little Maddie yet Mummy?” He must watch me watching the news. They won’t be out of our sight this holiday.

I haven’t got to Greece yet...Bags to make...Gingham Bags, Dinosaur bags, Fairy Bags, Pink Flower and Heart Bags, Boat Bags... ‘All personalised with a name/wording of your choice’... ‘an essential for the child starting school or nursery in September...’
Every year children start school in September and I say I am going to be better organised...Every year I don’t quite anticipate the demand for my little handcrafted items...but people like their children to have their own ‘special bag’ with their name on. Hand crafted in Shropshire and not 'Made in China.'

It is approaching 5am and the dog hasn’t lifted an eyelid to me. “Mad woman...” he dreams.

At least I didn’t sleep in.

Until another day

Bye for now

HARRY POTTER MEETS PURPLE COO

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Sun, 29 Jul 2007 12:21:00 +0000

“So what did you enjoy most about your trip to Northumberland?” I asked the boys as we set off on the long journey home after our short break away.
“For me it was either meeting the blogging ladies or Alnwick Castle” said Idle Jack.
“I liked either the Castle or the purple ladies” interrupted Quiet Mousie, my youngest. “Thank you for taking us mummy, it was the best day of my life,” an uncharacteristic gush from him.
“Yes, thanks mum, it was brill” agreed Idle Jack, “When can we go again?”

Not a bad turn around for a sulky, petulant teenager who, 72 hours earlier had been huffing and puffing in the car next to me,
“Why do we have to go all this way to meet a bunch of strangers...it’s weird!”
Unusually for the little one, he jumped on side with his brother, “What if they’re horrid and they ruin our holiday?”
“Look boys, I wouldn’t be going to Northumberland if it wasn’t for these strangers.” I had reassured them. “I have heard so many wonderful things about what a great place it is from @theMill's blog. And you know what mummy’s like-I get nervous about meeting strangers myself, so I wouldn’t make us all go somewhere if I thought it was going to be horrid.”
They were clearly going to take some persuading.
“And anyway, whatever happens you will be going to the Harry Potter Castle.”
Silence. Those two magic words. Harry Potter. Bright eyes, eager looks.
JK Rowling has hypnotised every child in the land. And I had exploited this obsession to full effect in order to convince them that Northumberland was the place for a short visit this six weeks holiday.

We set off at 6am to try and avoid Manchester and rush hour traffic. By 10am our stomachs were already leaping into our mouths over the fair ride dips of the old Military road which runs adjacent to Hadrians Wall. First stop enticed us into the Roman Army Museum and next I sat drinking flask coffee as the boys battled, purchased swords in hand as Barbarians V Romans in the grounds of Vindolanda.

We were fortunate to stay in a luxurious hotel in Hexham. However I wished throughout the trip that we had opted for a B&B or @the Mills Spitalford Cottage for the duration so we may have been closer to the bloggers and the main attractions of our stay.

It was a significant trip. No-one realised, least of all the boys the significance. Two years ago me and the boys went by ourselves to York, the Yorkshire Dales and East Coast. On that trip I could barely drive at times for tears stinging my eyes as I tortured myself listening to Dido and Whitney Houston. Me and their dad were separated at the time. I wasn’t prepared to see another six weeks holiday ruined for them, so I mustered the courage to take them away by myself and try and give them the best holiday I could. In fact it was a thoroughly miserable holiday without their daddy...we all three spent much of it crying and cut it short in the end. Although I don't know why really because at that time all we had to go back to was an empty house...

This holiday, Daddy couldn’t get any more time off work. Or maybe he didn’t relish the prospect of meeting the bloggers quite as much as me...But in any event I decided weeks ago that it was time to push the boundaries of my courage and drive by myself with the boys to this place I had always wanted to visit. I had an incentive this time, meeting a bunch of strangers and hubby safely at home. And so I ignored the flashbacks along the journey to that dark time two years ago. Workaholic Hubby texted and rang us along our journey, following the adventure.

The trip was worth it for me-it proved my strength of character with the confidence and sense of achievement it gave me. It gave me a ‘peace’ and a closure on certain things especially with the timings...a kind of ‘Orange Man’ Blog meets Diary of a Country Bumpkin Blog. Those who have followed my story will understand what I am talking about. It was something I wondered if I could ever manage a few months ago when I felt so ‘lost.’

It was worth it to see the delight on the boys faces when they saw the majestic Alnwick Castle and followed the Battleaxe to Broomsticks Tour and Dragons Quest. Idle Jack now wants to start Archery classes after a short archery session and several shots on ‘bulls eye’ in the grounds. Quiet Mousie was mesmerised by a magician called Brian.

It was worth it to see the stunning countryside-a cross between the spectacle of the the South Shropshire Hills where I live, and the more rugged, wild landscape of the North Yorkshire Dales I used to frequent. At times the countryside took our breath away and the clouds and showering weather only served to accentuate the landscape and the colours of the hills.

It was worth it to see the bright, beaming face and twinkling eyes of @the Mills daughter as she greeted us at the door of their beautiful home. I didn’t see my boys much that afternoon-they went off with the daughter and the dogs, bouncing on trampolines and playing in the beautiful gardens. Then when it rained they re-inacted scenes from Harry Potter while watching Harry Potter Videos with the wands we had purchased from the Castle Shop. Because of the rain we never did get to the most beautiful beach in the world. We talked about it a lot over the two days but it still remains an enigma which I will have to follow up on next years trip to the Northumberland Coast....

It was worth it to see Crystal Jigsaws panoramic views and corner of Northumberland where she gets her ‘inner peace.’ It was worth it for the kiss and hug I got from Amy, Crystals daughter. She is as boisterous and lively as their little puppy, Sparky, and her smile lights up the room. All afternoon she called me ‘lady’ in between hijacking my boys who I only saw when they wanted food.
It was worth it for the ‘strange’ experience I encountered when I went into one of Crystals bedrooms and my heart started palpating. There was definitely ‘something’ I felt there and so did the others.

It was worth to see @theMill again and meet Exmoor Jane who both came to join us at Crystals for the afternoon.

And it was worth it to be welcomed home to the barn by the Workaholic Hubby who was standing in the courtyard in the rain to greet us and unload the car as we fell out of it, drunk with fatigue, late on Friday evening.

What about the bloggers, I hear you all ask. Well, I always knew they were going to be warm and bright and funny and interesting. I always knew I would feel safe, comfortable and at ease in the company of Crystal, @the Mill and Exmoorjane. My only real surprise was seeing @the Mill is as attractive as she is! I had built an impression of someone wise and somehow pictured her with a purple rinse- I couldn’t have been more wrong!

What made me smile the most as I drove home from Crystals is how far I have come in the short time since meeting the Welsh/Shropshire PurpleCooers just a couple of months ago when I was nervous but excited. I must be almost blase at meeting the purple coo blogging brigade-this time I didn’t have any butterflies or trepidation...It was just as if I was looking forward to seeing old friends....I could have stayed a week and we would still have been pushed for time with so much to talk about and so much in common...

So, as my band of friends and Christmas Card list gets even bigger I think how lucky I am and the only thing I wonder is...

...where shall I visit next?...

Until another day

Bye for now

COUNTRY CRAFT ANGEL SIGNS OUT FOR THE WEEK..

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Tue, 24 Jul 2007 05:39:00 +0000

Where is the time going? My Nan always told me that after you turned 21 your life just flies past. Now I am nearly twice that age does that mean life moves at twice the speed?

It is already nearly the end of July and another six weeks holidays are upon us. Quiet Mousie's holidays came two days early as he was poorly at the end of last week with bad throat and glands and a raging temperature.

Luckily I had pushed on well with most of my orders-so I was able to sit alongside my little limpet while doing the finishes touches to the order I had in from Muddy Boots,merchandise for her shop which I designed/created and hope sells well for her...

‘Idle Jack,’ I am pleased to say, made it through the whole term without a day off sick, which is a first! Now he has broken up he can get up when he pleases, slob around in his PJ’s and announce as he does most days that “I’m having a lazy day today mum...” Still I can’t complain, my best number one son turned 14 yesterday. That is another fourteen years which have passed in the blink of an eye.

We celebrated by going to see Harry Potter-Order of the Phoenix. I do believe Ms Rowling has us all hypnotised. It was most enjoyable and when his copy of the new ‘Deathly Hallows’ book came through the post yesterday, I did rather wish I had it sent to me so I could ‘speed read’ it first before giving it to Idle Jack!

We have rather a Harry Potter theme week planned as we set off tomorrow on our first ever trip to Northumberland in pursuit of Alnwick Castle, aka Hogwarts, and of course some of the Northumberland Purplecoo brigade.

Since I joined the Blogging community I have heard so much about Northumberland, a place I have never visited. A couple of weeks ago on a whim I announced to the workaholic hubby that I would love to go. He has all his holiday entitlement booked for this year, so can’t get away. So instead I am going by myself with the boys and he is going to stay home and work and look after the dog! So me and the boys for just 3-4 days will go on our very own adventure...

My holidays as a child were spent on the East coast-Withernsea, Bridlington, Filey, Scarborough. I always thought it rather grim with the cold North Sea and perpetual rain until I realised in more recent years that Nan could never afford to go at ‘peak times’ so we must have always been there ‘out of season!’ Still, it never stopped me enjoying my times in a caravan-I still remember the smell of the calor gas and the sound of the rain drumming and the seagulls tip tapping on the roof of the van.

No, a bit of rain won’t dampen my spirits if it decides to continue on our trip to Northumberland...it will be raining back home, no doubt...So we may as well be away having a change of scenery and in pursuit of joining 'Dumbledores Army' in the North East...

So until we return

Bye for now

MY FIVE 'PICK ME UPS'

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Thu, 05 Jul 2007 11:21:00 +0000

I am sure that for those of you who are following my journey of self discovery in the Orange Man Blog, it may appear that I am someone who has had more than their fair share of knocks. So you may therefore find it hard to believe that until recently I wasn’t someone who ‘got down’ very often.

Over the years I have always been a positive person, one of the ‘half full’ rather than ‘half empty’ brigade and some might even say an eternal optimist. Maybe it has just been my finely tuned survival instinct however I have always been one to see the good in things and people and always believed that things happen for a reason.

Anyway, since I have had more dark times lately I have had to find coping strategies and so I list below my 5:-

1 Count my blessings and think of people who are less fortunate than myself.

This is why I love Cait O’Connor’s blog so much and I always count my blessings. Whatever tough time I got from my Nan’s domineering and controlling character, she took me in and brought me up rather than letting me go into a children’s home. My life would have been very different.

It is never hard to think of someone you know, or who is in the news who is worse off than you.
For example with my illness, I occasionally have periods of prolonged pain and that tends to wear me down. I try to be grateful and give small blessings because at least I can still walk. And at least I won’t die from it; At least I am fortunate enough to not work now and so (in theory) I should be able to live my life at a steady pace; At least it is not one of my children suffering...

2 Busy myself.
This in more recent years has proved my salvation, particularly through my business. I use DISTRACTION to maximum effect! I busy myself and my head so much that I don’t allow myself to dwell on negative things. I am by nature the mistress of overthinking! So it has also proved a useful strategy and worked well for me for resting my brain and allowing me time to heal.

3 Take some time out and be kind to myself.
It has taken me nearly 40 years and I still have some was to go to perfect the true art of relaxation. But if I am feeling a little fragile I can now sometimes allow myself the luxury/permission to ‘chill out’ read a book, do my nails, have a massage, eat junk food, indulge myself in whatever I feel like doing.
And it also still never fails to make me smile and feel like a naughty girl for being so rebellious, daring to sit at the PC or read or something 'self indulgent' when there are chores to be done! I still have a way to go with this, but I am getting there...

4 Surround myself with the people I love.
My 'bestest' friends are usually just the tonic! I have a close circle of 5-6 main ones and they all give me something different; one gives me ‘tea and sympathy,’ one is really practical and rational and provides welcome advice to my emotional thinking; one is mature and wise and calming; one is a riot and makes me laugh; and the other is so self consumed and talks about herself all the time it helps me forget my problems!
Also having fun with the boys or a bottle of wine by the chiminea with my husband is good too.

5 If all else fails...Music....

Mean and moody Gorecki or relaxing Ludovico Einaudi, or housework to Take That!. I can sometimes sing myself out of the doldrums! Or occasionally if I am very blue I will allow myself to wallow until I hit the bottom. Eventually there comes a point when you hit the bottom and the only way to go is up...I have to do that to myself sometimes-think about something SO much that I sicken myself of it!! Then I can shout inside my head “STTOPPPP!” I have found that I can block the negative thoughts from my mind then whenever they creep in by distracting myself and thinking of something different.

Thanks for tagging me Annak-I am very conscious that so many people are already supporting me with The Orange Man Blog and I didn’t want them to get ‘fed up’ of me always blogging/being on the site! However this blog has also 'cheered me' to see that at least, of late, I have discovered some ‘pick me ups’ and coping strategies that DO WORK FOR ME....

So until another day

Bye for now

MIDSUMMER MADNESS AT COWARTS

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Fri, 22 Jun 2007 10:14:00 +0000

Last night was the event that the whole blogland community has been waiting for, having been billed as the biggest gathering of Witches, Mice and PurpleCooers. I was honoured to be specially commissioned to report on the auspicious occasion of marking the Midsummer event and two month anniversary since the creation of the Purple Coo site by The Headmistress and Matron of the Skool. Every member of this substantial team pulled together to make this a night to remember. The organisation was executed to military precision which may have been helped by the input from several squaddies who have become rather close to this community..

When I first arrived at the venue I did encounter some resistence on the gate by the main entrance when I was towered overby a formidable woman of mammoth proportions, apparently known as Madame Grogonne. She proceeded to stop and interrogate everyone and appeared to take delight in ‘frisking’ everyone as they went past. She quite ruffled my Chicken Licken feathers.

Once I had convinced her of my reporters authenticity I witnessed two young ladies who were propped up by the wall. How they managed to get past the Madame I am not sure! Although it may have been that the one with a name labelaround her neck-‘Toady’, could have jumped the wall as she was crumpled up in a heap by the side of her drinking companion,Jaynebeth. The pair of them were working their way through the contents of a box containing several bottles. On closer investigation it appeared that this contained sloe gin, sloe pocine, bramble wine and elderflower champagne, a lethal combination which could explain their inebriated state. And I don't think this had been helped by Bodran's tree resin wine, a seemingly innocent but potent tincture. After spending rather more time than I perhaps should have I excused myself as Toady who had been drinking all day,started slurrily singing “Show me the way to go home...” .
I had to remind myself that I was invited to the venue on business, not pleasure but I fear my drink must have been spiked as the rest of the evening now seems to be rather a blur...

Of course as is always the highlight of any such occasion the clothes were the main focus of the evening. I can (just about) remember the attendees stepping off their broomsticks and bicycles onto the green carpet, stunningly manicured lawns, painstakingly tended by one Country Mousie, with help (or hindrance) from Tattie Weasel. Judging by some of the glittery and splangly numbers it was clear so see that everyone had gone to a huge effort for the extravaganza and the crowds simply gasped at the magnificance of some of the visions and creations...

The Headmistress was one of the first to arrive-it can only be said that it defies belief how anyone can get those warts to look so realistic...A stunning specimen.
It is hard to judge who the crowds favourite was; One of the most remarkable of the evening was Nanny Ogg, a woman of most generous proportions and a bulbous face who was dressed in black and looked every bit the star of the show.
However probably the one to steal the limelight from her was a nubile lady known only as ‘Faith’ who chose the ‘au naturel’ look and made a simple and fitting fashion statement most suitable for such an occasion.

The house was decorated with Purple fairy lights all over which Zoe had spent all day hanging and these twinkling purple hues set off to perfection, the backdrop of the dark grey austere building. As I entered the main building I was immediately ‘drawn’ to a door way on the left which was shrouded in mist. I popped my head around the door and blinked into a darkened room with a purpleswirling smoke billowing around. There, I was greeted by a stunning looking woman with silver hair and swathed in black velvet and chiffon-it was Mystic Crystal. Being a top investigative journalist it is usually my duty to be impartial and cynical about supernatural and fortune telling matters. However Mystic Crystal predicted that everyone would have a wonderful evening and suffer thick heads in the morning and I believe this was so likely to be accurate that I have no doubt as to her magical powers.

Entering the main hall I could hear the DJ-DJ ‘Jazzy’ Cait and her dulcit tones above the Rapping Nolan Sisters. When the MC Bucks Fizz started playing Suffolk Mum and Devonlife fair flew onto the dancefloor and started dancing round their handbags. ChrisH and JEP were already there with AnnaK and some of the others. They were quickly moved in on by a dancing cat. Yes, I said a ‘dancing cat’-a rather ‘cool’ looking dude called Dudley who could breakdance to Leo Sayer.

Sitting in a corner was the Country Craft Angel who was busy sitting like Cinderella most of the evening sewing up I’m a PurpleCoo Bag Lady Bags. In between though, she kept being dragged to do Karaoke by ‘Bill’ and they delighted everyone with their rendition of “You’re the one that I want..” and Country Craft Angel said she always wanted to be like Olivia Newton John.

Alternative activities had cleverly been organised bu SnailbeachShepherdess for those who preferred to be outdoors; there was a Purple Sheep Shearing Contest, although quite what her and Mountaineer were rubbing into the Australians...hem, hem...It seems it wasn’t the only ‘suspect goings on...I was told by Patsy, who was manning the Pimms tent not to go round the back of the tent as Blossom was showing a squaddie how to master ‘ painting by numbers’ and from where I was standing he looked enthralled.

And so to the spread. No, not centre spread, although after a few drinks, Faith was starting to pin her ribbons on anyone who was interested!

The food was a feast for the eyes...It could have stepped out of a BBC Good Food Magazine. The food had been toiled over and showed standards to shame Masterchef, such was the talent demonstrated by the PurpleCoo members.
There were the most wonderful Purple Ice Cream Sundaes by Muddy Boots which were flying off the tables. Presili Mags had made the most enormous Chocolate Cherry Trifle and had apparently had to improvise and make it in the paddling pool it was so large. Centre of the table was the most magnificent Smoked Salmon which was prepared by Bradan and looked exquisite. And a wonderful Syllabub from Fennie.
I was unable to resist a piece of Camilla’s Chocolate cake which was delicious, and washed down with her punch which I was told was non alcoholic, but again it was another drink which I fear was heavily spiked.

The alchol flowed freely, in fact rather too freely. The 700 bottles of Champagne that Elizabethd had so carefully organised to be shipped from France was tipped into the Coowarts pond and ladled out by the mugful into the mouths of the thirsty revellers.

As the evening drew to a close and all the food had disappeared from the plates and the pond was dry of Champagne the party revellers started to leave, probably before they were asked to help tidy up. Exmoor Jane was under the tables gathering empty boxes as she said they would come in very useful for the move.

And I was left with a sense of...of...belonging....yes, that’s why it was so good. I will leave it to another who can articulate better than me quite what this Community mean to each other. But suffice to say that I feel sure the Midsummer Parties will become a regular event at Coowarts....And I hope for one that I will be part of it all again next year...

So until next time, this is Chicken Licken, Top Reporter and Investigative Journalist signing off....and going to soak up this alcohol with some of Pondsides Pancakes and Maple Syrup...

PURPLECOO MERCHANDISE

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Thu, 14 Jun 2007 13:18:00 +0000

It seems a long time ago now that we were over on the ‘other side’ and I was vowing never to blog again because of the bad taste the whole experience with CL had left.

However here I am blogging my little heart out in My Orange Man Blog. And now I take another step in getting my life back on track by actually blogging something NEW (instead of re-gurgitated stuff) in my Diary of a Country Bumpkin Blog! You never know Chicken Licken may come out of retirement at some point. Maybe as the Orange Man Blog develops and I can put some issues to ‘rest, ’ the two will meet...

And it is all testament to Purple Coo and all those who are part of this wonderful, warm, funny compassionate site.. I am so glad to be part of it, and continue to marvel at how we have all touched each others lives in so many ways. Thank you all for your interest and support and giving me the confidence to continue...

Now, before I get all sentimental and carried away, there is work to be done!! As always I am task driven and highly motivated once I get an idea in my head. I can’t remember now how it all came about-I think Mousie started it when she ordered a bag for the Heiress and people saw what I created. In any event there was a suggestion that maybe I could come up with something ‘purple, ’... and so was born the Purple Coo Bag ideas. Before I knew it one thing led to another and my creative juices were flowing. The next idea was for carrier bag tidies and fun wording, “Old Bags,”; then I thought of cow fun fabric; someone asked about a ‘Shopper Bag’...

And so, having received lots of lovely comments and positive feedback we have a whole range of Purple Coo items, available to order. I am of course very grateful for any orders I receive, although it was never my intention to ‘exploit’ blogging for my little craft business. I was looking for a new direction with my business a few months ago and even considered changing my business name to Country Craft Angel, so I think some of the positive responses have helped me see which way I would like to go now. Because of my ill health I will never be business woman of the year-this is more like a hobby; something to keep my brain alive, my hands working and meeting nice people. My prices therefore here are ‘mates rates.’ I am covering my costs and making a bit of pin money and am just so pleased to have a nice project to do helping to advertise PURPLECOO as well as uniting everyone with merchandise and giving an even stronger sense of belonging....

PURPLE COO COW FUN FABRIC RANGE-

-All items made from a thick, quality fun fabric with 'pile/texture' and fressian cow print.

Large Bag £10.50 each+£2.50 P&P

Standard Bag £7.50 each+ £2.50 P&P
Carrier Bag Tidy £3.95 each + £1.00 P&P

Door Stop (unfilled) £10.00 each+£1.50 P&P

PURPLECOO-PURPLE GINGHAM RANGE-

Made from thick woven cotton purple gingham fabric. Lettering and letter plate are appliqued in felt by bondaweb and hand sewn finishing.

Large Bag £10.50 each+£2.50 P&P
Standard Bag £7.50 each+£2.50 P&P
Carrier Bag Tidy £3.95 each+ £1.00 P&P

Door Stop (unfilled) £10.00 each+£1.50 P&P

PURPLE COO VELVET BAG-

-Made from crushed velvet and lined with purple viscose lining and an organza ribbon drawstring.

Large Bag £11.50 each+£2.50 P&P

Standard Bag £8.50 each+£2.50 P&P

PURPLE COO SHOPPER BAG

A heavy duty Canvas Shopper style Bag with long handles.

Cream coloured heighy weight canvas.

Lettering appliqued in purple canvas or felt (TBC)

SHOPPER (approx 43cm x38cm ) £5.50 each + £1.50 P&P

PLEASE CLICK ON PICTURE FOR AN ENLARGED IMAGE

PRODUCT SPECIFICATIONS

Large Bags measure approx 48cm x 60cm (Laundry Bag Size)

Standard Bags measure approx 35cm x 45cm (PE Kit/Gym Shoe Bag Size)

Door Stops measure approx 16cm x 14 cm.

Carrier Bag Tidy's measure approx 19cm x 45cm.

Please note Door Stops are supplied unfilled due to weight/high postage costs. Simply fill with approx 2-3kg of cheap rice +/or beans (not sand as this stains fabric)

All items are individually made and not mass produced. Therefore if you require any item to be personalised or wish for alternative wording, just advise when ordering.

All Items are all double stitched for added strength and are completely washable.

TO PLACE AN ORDER
Please either leave a note in the comments box of this blog or E-mail me direct with details of which product (s) and choice of designs.

My business E-mail is:- orders@despinagifts.co.uk

DELIVERY
Because every item is individually made please allow me up to 21 days for orders to be completed and up to 28 days for busier times.

I will however always endeavour to meet any deadlines or special dates you may need your order for. Just let me know at ordering and I’ll do my best.

I also give my assurance to keep you updated on progress of customers order throughout. As soon as I can I will give an estimated date of completion.

Delivery will be by 1st class post.

For multiple purchases:-If you would like to order more than one item please calculate the postage weight charge of the heaviest item and then add an extra £1.00 per item. For example:-

If you wish to purchase a Standard Gingham Bag and a Gingham Door Stop,

The total for the order would be £17.50 (£7.50+£10.00)

p&p will be £ 3.50 (£2.50+1.00)

TOTAL TO PAY = £21.00

I can also send by Recorded Delivery for an additional 0.70p.

If you are unsure about p&p charges please feel free to e-mail me for a quote.

REFUND POLICY
I am sure you will be completely happy with your purchase. However in the unlikely event that you are not completely satisfied I offer a full refund on goods returned and undamaged within 14 days of receipt.

PAYMENT- Either cheque, postal order or Paypal

Cheques/P.O should be made payable to:-DESPINA GIFTS
and please then send to:-

Debbie White
DESPINA GIFTS
1 Frodesley Court Barns
Frodesley

Longnor

Shrewsbury

Shropshire

SY5 7QH

If you prefer to pay via paypal simply go into your paypal account and Click SEND MONEY. My main E-mail address for Paypal payments is:-debbieawhite@btinternet.com and select OTHER GOODS.

E-mail - orders@despinagifts.co.uk
website:- www.despinagifts.co.uk

Phew! Ok my PurpleCoo friends, I think that just about covers everything!

I hope the above is clear and of course if anyone has any further questions please don't hesitate to contact me.

I thank you all in advance for your interest and assure you of my best attention

So until another day

Bye for now

THE COUNTRY CRAFT ANGEL

VILLAGE LIFE-A pile of old poo!!

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Tue, 01 May 2007 14:18:00 +0000

March 2007

I’m still a bit of a novice in the country so I’m not sure whether the ‘poop a scoop’ rules apply to Horses? For you see yesterday I was walking through my hall and something outside caught my eye. Imagine my surprise when I looked out and did a double take. For there in our courtyard, almost by the front entrance of our barn, was the most enormous pile of horse manure!

“Well this takes the biscuit!!” I thought. Country Life gone too far!!...At first I thought it must be one of the neighbours playing a prank. Or maybe it was an error in the order my workaholic hubby had made for some top soil to be delivered. Or maybe it was Mrs Frodsham’s latest attempt to drive us all out of our barns. Mrs Frodsham owns ‘Dracula’s Castle’ as my boys call it. It’s a huge Tudor Hunting Lodge at the rear of our barns. She strongly objected for years to the barns being developed and has caused us no end of grief with our local planning and conservation departments. But that’s another story.

I had a sudden thought to check the post box. Yes, there was a simple explanation for the steaming deposit. ‘Pervy’ Reg had been up here…

Two days ago I had just come home from picking my eldest up from the rural bus stop. We were getting out of the car and were all startled to turn round and see ‘Pervy’ Reg standing there looking at us.

Now don’t get me wrong and report me for slander. I am sure Reg, our Parish Warden is not a Paedophile. But unfortunately for him he has that look about him. He looks just like the Child Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (he always terrifed me too!). I can always imagine him rubbing his hands together like Fagin in Oliver Twist and saying ‘Kiddies’. He has a very intense way of staring at you when he talks which can be terribly disconcerting. You wonder if he has spotted something hanging off the end of your nose. But I’m sure he is just listening intently.

To be fair he is a very nice man, even if he is a little ‘pervy’ looking! He has lived in the village for over 30 years and so he’s seen all the changes and knows everyone (and their business) very well. He and his wife run the only B&B in the village which is always well frequented. His wife, Margorie (or ‘Mad’ Marg as I call her) is an outrageous flirt with any man she happens to meet. I could tell you tales of how she’s terrorised the village men, and some of the stories I’ve heard about her escapades with men who visit the B&B would make your toes curl!!

They have a large paddock and stables at the bottom of their garden and every morning at 7.30am prompt you will see ‘Pervy’ Reg riding up our hill towards our barns on his horse. Then usually you will see him again later in the day but always riding with someone else. So he really is a mind of information on the best walks, places of interest in the area and the local flora and fauna because of his knowledge of the area, having lived here so long and running the B&B.

Anyway ‘Pervy’ Reg works tirelessly to raise funds for the Parish hence the reason for the impromptu visit. He was armed with a carrier bag and a clipboard and clearly touting for business. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I wonder if I might interest you in joining the Village Tote? It’s to help to raise funds for the Village Hall.” My boys grinned at each other, (maybe it was nerves), and dashed in the house to get their usual drink and biscuit when they come in from school.

‘Pervy’ Reg continued, “Obviously the Hall isn’t used enough to keep itself going. So we are starting a village Tote which is proving very popular and there are some good cash prizes. We have a good offer at the moment of eleven months for the price of twelve.” “Of course” I replied. “How much will it be?” “Well, thank you” He beamed. “It’s £1.00 per month so that would be £11.00” How could I refuse? It will be exciting to scour the parish magazine to see the draw each month and see whether we have won. He looked down the list on his clipboard and put a number 40 next to our name. My age…must be a sign…

And so the mystery of the huge dollop of manure was solved! It was ‘Pervy’ Reg who had come back up to our barn, evidently on his horse, to hand deliver the valuable Village Tote Ticket in anticipation of that evenings monthly draw!

In fairness I suppose he won’t be in the habit of carrying a large black bin liner to clean up after his horse as a rule. I must be grateful as it will be good for the garden. Mr Wagtail certainly enjoyed it and spent all afternoon feasting off the insects that it attracted!

Anyway I will let you know if we win.

So until another day

Bye for now

HOME LIFE-The Simple Things in Life

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Tue, 01 May 2007 14:11:00 +0000

March 2007

I have just been reflecting on the simple life that I now lead.

Some days I apologise for this in my blogs as I think what I do all day must be very dull by comparison to some of you and the interesting lives you lead; your work on a farm, or in a rambling French Chateau on a small island or managing a small holding.

I bet at times my brother who is currently serving in Basra, Iraq would give anything for my simple life. I haven’t heard from him for a few days, which is why he is in my thoughts. And it is strange because until very recently I hadn’t heard from him for nearly 30 years. Yet here I am checking my inbox as frequently as the Blog site to see whether he has e-mailed again.

For various complicated reasons, some of which I have only just found out myself, I hadn’t seen him or indeed my dad for all those years, even though we each knew the other existed. When my nan, (who brought me up since I was 3) was taken seriously ill at the New Year I had to contact my dad who immediately dashed across from Hull to see her while she was in ITU. My brother had to drive him as my dad had just recently had a knee operation and couldn’t drive. I agreed to meet them both in the hospital cafeteria. And there over fish and chips and copious cups of tea we tried to pick up the pieces of our broken relationships.

That was back in January. Two days later my brother went to Basra with a promise that we would keep in touch. And to my part I have kept my promise. I write to him once, sometimes twice a week with light hearted news about the family and an update on my DIARY OF A COUNTRY BUMPKIN. I thought it might be a good way of him getting to know about me and my life and at the same time provide him with a little light hearted distraction from his own troubles and godforsaken duties.
He told me that he too had started a diary since he went out to Iraq. He doesn’t know what made him do it as he’s never done anything like it before but it’s all about his ramblings and feelings, ‘soft stuff’ as he called it.

I haven’t yet told him about the ‘cyber friends’ although I think he will understand all about camararderie. It was one of his men from Yorkshire Battalion that was killed in the last roadside suicide bomb a few weeks ago.

Sometimes when he sounds down or homesick I will send him one of the ‘funny’ stories, usually about ‘Pervy’ Reg or The Wicked Witch of the North. I sent him the one a few weeks ago about the pile of manure that I found by the front door in our courtyard. Apparently he laughed so much at that and he showed several of his colleagues. It’s hard to imagine that story could have cheered him up so much.

I never thought of myself as funny. I can’t tell a joke for toffee-I always forget things or give away the punchline before the end. But I think he must have just enjoyed the simplicity of the tale and now having met me he would have been able to visualise me looking out dumbfounded at the enormous dollop!

I think about the apple mash and chicken with thyme recipe on Cow girl’s blog and wonder what tinned and processed delights he will be feasting on today.

I would imagine he would give anything to be woken by the woodpecker drumming or the dawn chorus that envelops our barn every morning rather than the relentless mortaring that never lets him sleep.

He loved the photo of the boys a few weeks ago when we had over a foot of snow and they had made an enormous snowman as he said it was over 35 degrees there and especially hot with body armour and helmets.

As I look out over the green fields in front of me with all the sheep and lambs scattered everywhere and marvel at the birds and donkeys and next doors ducks I wonder what scenes of carnage and chaos he must see every day. I know I take so much for granted living in the countryside. Tonight I shall be writing them in a list, like Cait’s blessings…

So until another day...

Bye for now

HOME LIFE-Mr & Mrs Wagtail

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Tue, 01 May 2007 14:03:00 +0000

For most of the last year Mr Wagtail has been resident in our garden. At least I thought it was Mr Wagtail. Then in the last few weeks I have seen the two wagtails and it has become quite evident that it is in fact Mrs Wagtail who is the old friend.

They are outside again as I type. I think I may have mentioned before my little feathered friends who visit every day. They really are delightful but as I have sat here studying them for the last day or two I am struck by a funny thought; Of how much like me and the ‘workaholic hubby’ they are...

Mr Wagtail is a dapper little chap. He has a black back and dark flanks with white belly and white feather edges. His coat look to me more like a dinner jacket. With his bold markings he really is quite suave looking, you could almost say James Bond. He looks like he has taken ages getting ready he is so well groomed. Mrs Wagtail on the other hand is altogether plainer in appearance. She’s still a pretty and slender but her feathers can only be described as ‘mousey’ being a very dark charcoal grey colour and nowhere near the strong black of her mates. Her white contrast are not so priminant as his either. A bit like me she looks like she is too busy to bother with fancy clothes, makeup and definitely wouldn’t have time for much personal grooming like manicures etc!

The parallels between Mr and Mrs Wagtail and me and the Workaholic Hubby are by no means restricted to outward appearances. You only have to spend an hour or two studying them to see that their characteristics also bear a striking resemblance:-

He stands around a lot of the time admiring the garden and keeping a look out for food. In fact he barely moves from the same spot, like he’s rooted to a football match or the cricket or ‘Top Gear.’
Whereas Mrs Wagtail is a spritely little thing most of the time. She is a hive of activity being busy and industrious. She is constantly dashing over the lawns in search of food; darting, fleeting and running and chasing insects or gathering my dogs hairs in her beak. Even when she is standing still her tail continues to wag perpetually.

Mr Wagtail has a very distinct chirrup call which resonates through the house. I can hear him on the other side of the barn sometimes. It almost sounds like he’s incessently calling-“chis-ick, chis-ick.” I wonder if that’s a football team? Mrs Wagtail makes nowhere near so much noise or fuss, she just gets on with the job in hand. Her song is a twittering version of the call, somewhat rambling and lively in it’s warble.

With regards to them living alongside us he seems quite bold and not at all bothered by the children playing or any of us when we are in the garden. He seems to have adapted well to living alongside others and can be seen sometimes quite close up. She, on the other hand, whilst sometimes OK when the children are around, does tend to fly off if anyone comes near her or disturbs her, and definitely prefers her own company.

I didn’t realise but apparently there exist some old variations for the name of the Pied Wagtail. For example in Shetland area of Scotland they are sometimes referred to as the ‘Kirk Sparrow.’ In Sussex the pied wagtail is better known as a ‘dishwipe’ or ‘dishlick.’ Personally I prefer the Somerset name of ‘Lady Wagtail’ as my nan used to call them.

I found a little poem which I’d like to share if you also have resident wagtails...

Little Trotty Wagtail, he went in the rain

And twittering, tottering sideways, he ne'er got straight again.

He stooped to get a worm and looked up to get a fly,

And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.

Little Trotty Wagtail, he waddled in the mud

And left his little footmarks, trample where he would.

He waddled in the water pudge and waggle went his tail,

And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.

Little Trotty Wagtail, you nimble all about

And in the dimpling water pudge, you waddle in and out.

Your home is nigh at hand and in the warm pig stye.

So, Little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a goodbye.

-- John Clare --(1793-1864)

So until another day

Bye for now

COUNTRY CRAFT FAIRY-Also known as 'the Bag Lady'

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Tue, 01 May 2007 13:59:00 +0000

1st Day back to School after Easter Hols-April 2007

The searing pain cutting through my feet like hot knives woke me during the night. Every time I turned over it stirred me again. Eventually I could stand the weight of the bed clothes on my feet no longer, so I pushed the quilt off.

I am unfortunately now probably going to have to suffer for all the exertions of the last two weeks;
I try as much as I can to not let my Bechets disease stop me from doing anything or from spoiling the children’s pleasure. But I fear Egg Hunts, nature walks in the woods, days out at historic working farms, a trip to the seaside and of course battling dinosaurs in the faraway land of Cardingmill Valley have taken their toll.

I can’t complain-someone ‘up there’ let me enjoy the last two weeks and do more than I have done for a while with the boys. A few years ago my GP said to me, “Mother nature is very clever when she is not being a pig.” His words have stuck with me. Last week the pain was in my chest, neck and elbow, so it didn’t stop me getting out and about. This week I don’t need my feet. I don’t have to go anywhere. Tesco (sorry Chickenix) can deliver my shopping later in the week. So I can afford the ‘luxury’ of sitting around. Although as you will probably have already gathered I will never be sitting around and doing nothing. Sadly, relaxation is a skill which I haven’t yet mastered.

At least, after nearly twenty years of managing my illness, I am now sensible enough and responsible enough to listen to my body and know when I have to rest to avoid a big flare up of the arthritus, just one of the ‘symptoms’ of the disease. By experiencing some very harsh lessons in the past and admitting defeat when I have pain I have managed to stay out of hospital (for the arthritus side at least) for over six years. But it is still not always easy-I HATE giving in. Believe me, the prospect of injections in the small bones of my feet is enough to make me behave myself which is not a pleasant experience at all. The first time I had one I went into shock and the doctors had to make me a cup of strong tea-seriously.

So today will be a quiet one for me. I think I mentioned a few weeks ago when I was talking about my little craft business that a Teacher had approached me enquiring about 15 bright fabric book bags. She cam back a couple of weeks ago with the order and I promised her I would get them done as soon as the children went back to school because she needs them for a project she is starting next week. It is a nice ‘easy’ little order, just simple large drawstring bags in a funky bright fabric that I have, no wording or designs. I spent all afternoon at the sewing machine yesterday and made them all. Today I can just sit and tidy the ends up and slot the cord through. I am happy. I told you before, my little craft business suits me fine. I can sit by the PC and read your blogs which will keep me company. I have the music of the birds and next doors animals. And of course the dog and the wagtails are here with me...

So until another day

Bye for now

PS-photo is of my Lego Bags-The teacher doesn’t want any wording-just plain bags. But this is the bright fabric I am making them out of.

HOME LIFE-A Prehistoric Adventure

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Tue, 01 May 2007 13:52:00 +0000

The promise of a picnic in a prehistoric land and fighting dinosaurs was too much to keep the boys in their beds yesterday morning. They were both up with their rucksacks packed and ‘swords’ and sticks by the front door ready to load into the car by 7am, even thought this was their third trip of the Easter Holidays.

The mythical land that eagerly awaited was Cardingmill Valley, a mere 15-20 minutes drive from our house so I managed to stall them for another two and a half hours and off we set. We were surprised to find it surprisingly quiet when we first arrived but by mid day there wasn’t a car parking space to be found.

Cardingmill Valley lies on the edge of Church Stretton, my nearest market town, and is part of the Long Mynd, a deceptively flat but relatively high beacon in the vicinity. The whole area including my village are all set within the South Shropshire Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty and are the very heart of Shropshires finest walking country. It really is the most spectacular scenery and easy to see why the area has earned it’s nickname of ‘Little Switzerland.’

The actual valley is accessible by car although it gets very busy in the summer months or on hot sunny days like yesterday. The paths along the sides provide an easy walk to the head of the valley-then a steep climb up onto the very top of the Long Myynd with views that take your break away. Sadly I have never managed these myself due to my ill health but I have heard what people tell me, seen photos and can use my own imagination to picture the sights that would repay the effort. The whole stretch is about 4500 acres of heath and moorland owned by the National Trust. It is banked on either side by steep grassy hills and has a stream running along the whole length. This stream is the main attraction for my boys. It is safe and shallow, ideal for paddling barefoot or with waterproof shoes or wellies. And of course with my pair the old warning of ‘cast not a clout ‘til May is out’ went out of the window yesterday. They were paddling and falling in-thank goodness I know them well and had anticipated towels and a change of clothes.

The phrase ‘idyllic location’ is often over used. However with this particular piece of the Shropshire Hills patchwork, few words can convey the beauty and sheer awesome magnitude of the valley. The landscape is so spectacular it is more reminiscent of a prehistoric land,(-imagine Raquel Welsh in ‘One Million Years B.C’ or ‘The Land that Time Forgot.’) With such scenery the boys have their own film set, allowing them to easily slip into role play. They run and rampage like little neanderthal men, imagining the hills are volcanoes and the bubbling stream is in fact a molten mass of flowing larva which must be jumped over they have to build dams to be able to cross or else they would surely perish. They can run through bracken and up banks pretending to be chased by a T-Rex.

For my boys this is probably their favourite outings-we can come here for a couple of hours or a whole day and are so lucky to live with this little nugget on our ‘doorstep.’ If I was a little girl it would have been one of my favourite outings too. And now I am a ‘big girl’ it still holds the same attraction but for different reasons.

For me it is a perfect day out for all the family. Nature at her best and all for free. The children can leave me to my reading and writing. I am happy with only a flask for company and the sound of the flowing water to sooth me. Flowing, trickling water is surely the most relaxing and therapeutic sound in the world, even with the screams of the children being eaten alive by Velociraptors in the background. They leave me alone to my musings and only cease their adventures to eat, like cavemen, the picnic I had prepared. The fresh air saps their energy, what more prize could a mother have then children who will fall into their beds without argument tonight. And they had a bit of a sleep in the morning.

So until another day

Bye for now

VILLAGE LIFE-Double Murder (Part 2)

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Tue, 01 May 2007 13:50:00 +0000

So if it wasn’t ‘Foxy Loxy’ who killed the ducks from next door, then who killed them? I could see this was going to need proper Chicken Licken investigative journalism!

I was standing talking to George, Barbara and Amanda their daughter to try and glean the truth behind what or who had wiped out half of their four ducks.

“So who killed them?” I asked George.
“It was Whiskey,” he almost whispered.
“Whiskey? What, Whiskey Laura’s beautiful Springer Spaniel?” I asked in disbelief.
George nodded, gloomily and looked down.

Laura for those of you who have missed snippets of our village life from previous blogs, is the attractive and elegant lady who owns ‘The White House,’ a beautiful old mansion in the village where we hold the Annual Village Party on the lawns. She adores her little dog, Whiskey. Whiskey has become her surrogate baby since her three daughters all left the nest and Laura misses them terribly.

Whiskey is a very pretty Springer Spaniel, liver and white with long pendant ears and a docked tail that wags incessently. We considered getting one when we were looking for a dog, only the chubby labrador stole our heartsfirst. I knew the breed needs lots of exercise to keep them happy. Whiskey must get lots, we see her on our lane two or three times a day, that’s what makes her so happy. She always seems playfully energetic and despite a frenetic and sometimes ‘mad’ appearances seems gentle, sociable and intelligent and obedient. Whiskey loves everyone and indeed everyone loves Whiskey.

But despite all her positive qualities, she is a dog, and a field bred hunting type at that, which is what most Springers were originally bred for irrespective of being a family dog.

So what happened to make this seemingly placid and even tempered, friendly dog attach and kill the lovely ducks? George went on to tell me the tale...

Laura was walking Whiskey as she always does along the lane which leads up to our barns, The Lodge and next doors farm. Whiskey always manages to push through the fence into the field where the donkeys and horses, have a little run up onto the manure heap and back through the fence to Laura. Only on this occasion, the ducks, who are always out somewhere wandering the 15 acres, or in our garden, happened to be at the bottom of the field near to where Whiskey comes through the fence. Whiskey, quick as a flash, went for them all and killed two outright. It has only been luck that has mercifully kept the third alive but only barely clinging to life. And lucky for Little Daz, the call duck, she had slept through the whole drama in our garden. She had left them all to it, having got sick of Drakey’s sexual pestering.

Apparently Laura is still in terrible shock having witnessed the whole event but been unable to stop Whiskey. She has rung a couple of times a day since to see what she can do-she is horrified at the damage and upset her lovely dog has caused.

As for Barbara and George next door, they have been farming all their lives-they are philosophical. It can’t be helped...it is just one of those things. It is no ones fault. Bless them.

I do understand, I know it’s nature. I would have had money on the ‘demon dogs’ from The Lodge after ‘Foxy Loxy.’ Who would have thought it of Whiskey? It does just show you how careful you need to be around dogs, it is after all just nature.

I know it’s selfish of me, I wonder whether next doors farm will have any more ducks, they did give us such pleasure. Barbara said they don’t know yet whether they will get any more, they would like to, but it has shaken them all up. What a shame. Such nice people, such nice ducks...well, they were...

So until another day

Bye for now

VILLAGE LIFE-Double Murder (Part 1)

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Tue, 01 May 2007 13:47:00 +0000

“DOUBLE MURDER IN QUIET RURAL VILLAGE...”-You can already imagine my headline for the local ‘Village News.’ It would be quite a scoop if it wasn’t so sad...

Dear Bloggers, I am sorry to be the bearer of awful news; I have only just introduced you all to our friends from next doors farm; Crispy, Noodle, Daz and Drakey, and I regret to have to tell you that half of the merry band are...umm...errr...How do I say it?...DEAD!...

For those of you who hadn’t met their aquaintance these feathered friends have delighted us since they arrived at next doors farm a few months ago, regularly frequenting our garden to forage and lending a hand helping rid us of slugs. I had misguidedly allowed myself to get attached to them, mainly because they all had names. Well, it should be a good sign when they are named as it usually means they are not destined ‘for the pot.’

About 9pm yesterday evening I saw a torch at the bottom of next doors garden where they keep the ducks. By that time of night I am usually wearing PJ’s and bed socks and not looking my best, so I thought better of going down the garden to see what was the matter. I did assume however that my arch enemy ‘Foxy Loxy’ must have been to work. So I took a little more care than usual battening down the hatches and locking up when I retired to bed.

After a fitful nights sleep I have already braced myself and just been outside to offer my condolances to next door. I am going to be honest with you all now and admit that I do actually quite like foxes. I know I shouldn’t really and that some of you will say that they are a menace and a pest. But the fox near us is quite magnificent-He looks more like ‘Fantastic Mr Fox,’ country life obviously agrees with him.I guess I can’t determine which hens, ducks or other animals Mr Fox will prefer, it is after all just nature. It is just such a shame that he had chosen ‘our’ lovely ducks from next door.

Barbara, George and Amanda their daughter were standing looking pale faced and tired by the duck coop. Gulp. This doesn’t look good, I thought. So you can imagine my surprise when I saw Daz, the little white call duck quacking about and looking fit as a fiddle. And Noodle the larger European Peking Duck sitting quietly inside the coop.

“I thought they might all be gone” I said as cheerily as I could.
“Oh, no, we just lost the two, Drakey and Crispy although Noodle is in a bad way and we’re not sure whether he will make it. Little Daz had got fed up of Drakey’s ‘frisky advances’ so she left them all to it yesterday afternoon and she went to sleep in your garden, so she was safe...” George said sadly.
“Yesterday afternoon? You wouldn’t think the fox would be so brazen with you all around would you?” I said surprised.
“Oh, no...It wasn’t the fox that killed them...” said George.

So if it wasn’t ‘Foxy Loxy’ who was responsible for the double murder, who was it?

You won’t believe me when I tell you who the culprit was. But that will have to wait for another day...

So until another day

Bye for now

HOME LIFE-The Swallows

noreply@blogger.com (Bluestocking Mum) — Tue, 01 May 2007 13:40:00 +0000

12th April 2007

They are back! I knew they couldn’t be far away when I heard @the mill’s were back. And sure enough...the Swallows have returned.

Two days ago I heard a familiar twittering, like radio interference, and looked up to see just one but it flew so swiftly that I thought I must have been mistaken and it was a wagtail. Yesterday there were two, ah yes, my old friends, definitely the distinctive deep fork tail of the swallow, swooping around the courtyard of our barn. Today there must be ten of them, all gracefully zig zagging across the grassland at the front of our barn eating insects as they fly. It is a sure sign the warmer weather that has been treating us for the last few days is here to stay. The swallows have chosen to leave the warmer climes of where they have spent the winter to return here to their native land and the familiar surroundings of our Barns and the farmland.

It is so wonderful to see them in the skies above us. I am usually hypnotised by the two Buzzards circling over the woods at the back of our barn. I have watched them soaring on broad wings, slightly raised at the edges in wavering, rising circles as they scan the ground for prey. But now my prodigal swallows have returned and the Buzzards are no match in my book for the grace and fluency of the beautiful swallows flight.

I remember clearly my first meeting with swallows. It was the day we first came to view our barn. I immediately spotted an old swallow’s nest just under the eaves at the front of our barn, right by our main entrance-we have a huge glass ‘porch’ style type of entrance with the most wonderful split and twisted oak window frame. Judging by the number of little mud, cup shaped pods that were cemented like fairy lights around the eaves, I think generations of them must have visited the barns and the Tudor Hunting Lodge since they were built in 1591.

Last May when we moved in the swallows were already here and it was in those first early days at the barn that my love affair with the swallows began. Me and the children would watch as the summer unfolded how the swallow and her mate gradually made their home in the little spit and mud pod that they painstakingly created. We would hide and peep out from behind the kitchen door as we could just see the bottom of the little nest right under the eaves…and we would watch for hours as the swallows industriously took turns to go out on foraging trips and bring back bulging mouthfuls of bounty for their chicks.

I used to tell the children to be quiet as I was so frightened of scaring them away. But the swallows were undeterred and became braver, having to partake in all sorts of ducking and diving to get past my family as we tended the containers and the children played their noisy games in the courtyard.

We saw the first flying lessons the new off spring took. And on several occasions I had to pick up and gently handle one which had inadvertently darted in through the open patio doors or through the open workshop door. I was always amazed at how calm they stayed for they must have known that I meant them no harm and was just trying to help them. I couldn’t believe how tiny they were and how silky smooth their feathers were.

You can therefore imagine my delight after they had fled the nest when the same swallow and her mate came back and started to make their second nest of the summer. I felt priviledged somehow that they had ‘chosen’ our house to set up home and rear their off spring. It really is a huge responsibility being a parent and they were clearly quite comfortable living alongside us, even though they must have been terrified by the noisy children at times!

The ‘Workaholic Hubby’ has promised to leave me and the Swallows well alone this year and promised that he will try and ignore whatever mess and destruction they cause. So I will be able to enjoy my beautiful Swallows from this, the beginning, now they have returned until their departure in several months time.

In between I can look forward to the promise of all those balmy summer evenings sipping wine by the chiminea and watching their formations in silhouette against the glorious sunsets or crafting in the courtyard with the swallows chattering and swooping overhead and keeping me company...

So until another day

Bye for now