A Rare Review

Some time ago I wrote a post called Brightening Up about taking on our new allotment (did I mention we have an allotment ;)) In the comments section the lovely Frances from City Views, Country Dreams asked if I had read a book called Four Hedges. I immediately looked it up and was blown over by the cover alone. A few days later I was happily ensconced in what I consider to be one of the most enjoyable pieces of writing I've read.  

Written in the 1930's, Clare Leighton - renowned wood engraver - told of her experience of creating a garden in the Chiltern Hills. Alongside her partner, Henry Noel Brailsford, she fought against the not too ideal location to develop a garden that provided both visual and spiritual pleasure.

Divided into sections - one for each month - she not only observes the plants and wildlife but also the weather, social etiquette and the symbiotic nature of gardening.

Even if you're not a gardening nut such as myself you would find it difficult not to be moved by her deep understanding and appreciation of the senses.

To quote from 'January':

There is nothing more satisfying than to lie in bed at night, secure and warm,with a whistling wind outside. Windows creak and flap and grumble; one's senses are limited by the dark to hearing, and so the moan of the wind lifts and falls, strengthens and diminishes with a range of sound that is unimagined during the daytime, when hearing is tempered and distracted by sight, and wind means the racing of clouds across the sky.

In the introduction Carol Klein tells us

As you read each word, as you study each line, you smile. Yes, you want to say, yes, yes, you want to shout, that's it!

Not only battling with the plot and the weather, they also have another battle on their hands. That with their gardener - someone for whom they have the utmost respect but are too intimidated by to disagree with. This leads to often subversive methods in order to try and garden 'their' way. The local villagers also enrich their gardening knowledge with local lore.When their housekeeper Annie turns up with the phrase 'Coo! There's thunder about' they are confident that rain will soon appear to end a prolonged period of dry weather.

Clare urges us to look at things from a different view. When all seems grey and stark in the middle of Winter she notices the brightness of the birds plumage, and furnishes us with a beautiful account of watching the first iris open.

Throughout the book there is an air of appreciation and optimism. She manages to put into words what so many of us might feel but would find difficult to express. The eloquence of her writing is enhanced by the intensity of her engravings.

 A truly beautiful read.

So - how to follow up such a book?

Recently another blogger (I'm sorry I can't remember who - please put me right if you know!) put up a book for a giveaway. This one was called Allotted Time and with the strapline 'two blokes' one shed, no idea' I knew it would make a perfect gift for Mr K. Very loosely linked, in that it is about developing a garden, it provides a light hearted recount of the trials and tribulations of starting an allotment with - in their words - no idea. The writing may not be as lyrical, but the events are just as recognisable - with battles against the similar obstacles of land, weather and locals. 

Good fun.

So there we go. Two books - similar themes but very different tones. Both perfect for snuggling up with on these dark January days when all we can do is dream about what the year ahead will bring.

I'd love to hear if you've read either of these - or if you have any recommendations yourself.

Keep warm

Jane

xxx

Calling all story tellers!

Last shout for any more spooky stories that I can put together for Hallowe'eeeeeeeeeen! 

It doesn't have to be a novel - one of the shortest comments had the hairs standing up on the back of my neck! 

So come on - you can either leave it as a comment or a link to your blog and we'll see if we can get spooky!

See my post here for further details. 

Looking forward to hearing from yooooooooooooohoooooooooooowoooooooooo.

Jane 

xxx

Do you want to tell a story....?

As we all know up here in the Northern hemisphere it's that time of year. Memories of sunny days are just that. The magical colours and textures of Autumn are fleeing by and we are in that brief lull that this change of season brings - allowing us to readjust before the madness of the Christmas season takes hold. Cardigans are out of hibernation and snuggly blankets beckon us toward the sofa. Various of us have extolled the virtues of lighting candles and open fires, yet what better to accompany them than a storm whipping up outside, lashing rain against the windows and wind howling through the keyholes. The perfect setting, one might say, for a ghostie tale....

I've posted some of my ghostly experiences before here, and looking back the date made me smile. This urge that I have to hear more at this time of year seems as regular as wanting to plant the first seeds in Spring, or collect that first posy of flowers from the garden. I'm not a fan of those shows that claim to contact spirits for the sake of the cameras, but have found that over the years most people have a tale to tell. Often it might seem insignificant to others, but the impact it has on the bearer can be profound.

So this is what I thought we could do. For the next couple of weeks - leading up to Halloween - I thought we could share some stories. Preferably those of our own but may be passing on tales from others. No need for a mass outpouring of urban legends - often the slightest tale can be the most evocative. Perhaps somewhere you have been has just created a particular feeling. Our house is over one hundred years old and yet I have never felt at all spooked here. In fact as soon as we first walked through the door it felt welcoming - yet some places certainly do not. 

An example of this is the infamous Winter's Gibbet in Northumberland. I remember visiting the area as a child and our usually inquisitive dog, Prince, refusing to get out of the car. He shivered and whined until we left.

 Find out more about Winter's Gibbet here.

My contribution is tricky as I relayed most of my experiences here but I do have another. Mr K is the world's biggest cynic when it comes to the supernatural. And yet something happened to him many years ago that he still can't explain. As a teenager he set about cycling around the Lake District with an old school friend of his. One night as they were returning to their camp site from the local pub they heard an almighty rush of - well something - nearing them from behind. As the noise got louder it sounded like hooves and it was enough to make them pedal like the clappers to get out of there. Next morning they mentioned their experience to the owner of the campsite, enquiring as to what sort of animals there might be nearby who would be capable of making such a row. The owner blanched as he told them the name of that particular stretch of road - Devil's Gallop. 

Sorry - this was the only picture I could find of the area - from 1952!

If you want to join in you could leave a link to your post here in the comments section, and link back to this blog using the title 'Ghostie Post'. I'm not sure if this will work or not but I for one will look forward to having a selection of tales to be passed on to others on that most spooky night of all - Halloweeeeeeeeeeeeen.

And now I've completely spooked myself I'm going to put all the lights on and make a cup of tea!

Come on - share your tales .............!

Jane

xxx

P.S. Well done for those fruit detectives amongst you - the yellow fruit was indeed a quince. Brownie points all round!

Brightening Up

I remember when Mr K and I got our first flat. It was on the ground floor which afforded us the most fantastic gift - a back yard. Now when I say 'yard' I don't mean the glorious American translation of a large well tended garden. Nope. This was a few paving slabs and very little natural light. So what did I do? I took up a row of slabs and planted some bulbs. We stayed in that flat for a couple of years and the sight of those red and yellow tulips each Spring lifted my heart.

I COULD GROW THINGS!

Nothing as prolific as this - sadly way before the age of digital photography

Our next flat had a slightly bigger yard - a nice 'square'one. For what seemed like forever we would visit the neighbouring waste ground and return with old bricks and buckets of soil to make raised beds. This time I had more space, more chance to experiment, and so began my love for anything 'herb'.

A nearby allotment came up and together we made it our own, complete with a little rose garden. I remember our most prolific crop was 'mouli' - a white Japanese radish that we neither knew what to do with or could give away. Another move said goodbye to that one and by now we were cultivating a different type of crop - our gorgeous girls!

We tried and failed to keep another allotment going, sharing with other families to try and make it more manageable - but the girls being so young and the busy nature of family life prevented us from any long term commitment.

 Our small back garden became packed to the rafters with all kinds of everything. I've absolutely loved every minute of the last eighteen years seeing it develop into my own little oasis. But both of us knew it wasn't quite enough. We had been bitten by the growing bug many years before and never quite shaken it off. So when a nice lady from the council rang a couple of weeks ago to ask if we were still interested in taking on an allotment I almost cried!

We had almost forgotten that seven years before we had put our names on the council waiting list. There had been an opportunity to join a site on the other side of town some time ago, but we knew that if we had to make a special journey by car to get there that the novelty would soon wear off. 

We hung on. 

And it paid off. 

The allotment is about five minutes walk away, maybe ten if we take the 'scenic' route along the canal. Unlike our previous plots the soil is a dream to behold - it's been cared for over the last eighteen years and is packed with worms (at this point I realise I might be starting to sound a little delirious). All the ideas that I have nurtured are now becoming possibilities and I'm doing no end of little scribbles and list making.

Not that it's going to be easy.

My idea of a dream shed is this sort of thing.

A quiet spot surrounded by herbs with the scent of sweet peas wafting toward me as I recline on my Cath Kidston cushions to survey the land.

What I've got so far is this.

Perhaps a greenhouse dripping with vines and bursting with the possibility of exotic fruits.

Once we've got it on it's base and it actually has some glass in it.

I imagine serenely wandering through the bug free, organic produce - Alys Fowler style.

You can see we have a way to go.

But it's here.

And it's ours.

For now.

And this time instead of taking slabs up I'm putting them down.

Oh for the joy of a path ...

So that's what's been keeping me preoccupied of late. At a time when there has been a fair amount of uncertainty and upheaval it's been good to feel that some things haven't changed. And the future is looking a little brighter.

Much love to all of you out there - and a huge welcome to my new followers.

Jane

xxx

And hello from Oscar - our allotment neighbour.

Horns, bells and pointy sticks.

As a lover of anything to do with folklore and airy fairy nonsense I jumped at the chance to visit the annual Horn Dance at nearby Abbots Bromley last week. Mr K was relieved to hear that the plans did not include him. Not that he wouldn't love to watch a group of grown men don bizarre costumes and bash their batons together (!) but to do so would probably require a copious amount of alcohol and some form of matrimonial threat.

So with a skip in my step and a song in my heart my pals and I set off along the gorgeous country lanes until we crossed the beautiful Blithfield reservoir (not my photograph I'm afraid - I was earthbound).

 Several years ago I attended a talk given by an author who collected local ghost stories. The one that stayed with me featured a taxi driver who, one dark and wintry night, had dropped off his fare at Abbots Bromley and was returning to his base in the nearby town of Rugeley.  As he neared the half way point of the reservoir he glanced in his rear view mirror and saw a face. So convinced was he that he had forgotten to drop off a further passenger that he spoke to him. When there was no reply the driver pulled over and checked the back of the car. THERE WAS NO ONE THERE! Bom bom BOMMMMMM! Of course I waited until our return journey in the dark to relay this tale. And then spent the rest of the journey unable to look over my shoulder.

Abbots Bromley itself is a pretty village, full pretty houses and olde worlde charm. As we entered the village there was a festival atmosphere.

Various stalls were set up on the village green - this one took my eye.

No end of Morris dancing paraphernalia for sale. I decided against purchasing a CD for Mr K.

The sign outside the gorgeous half timbered Goats Head on the village green gives a brief outline of the dance.

And Wikipedia tells us more about the dancers:

There are 12 dancers. Six carry the horns and they are accompanied by a musician playing an accordion (a violin in former times), Maid Marian (a man in a dress), the Hobby-horse, the Fool (or Jester), a youngster with a bow and arrow, and another youngster with a triangle. Traditionally, the dancers are all male, although in recent years girls have been seen carrying the triangle and bow and arrow.

Until the end of the 19th century the dancers were all members of the Bentley family. The dance passed to the related Fowell family in the early 20th century; this has continued to this day, though due to rising house prices none of them live in the village any longer; many live in nearby towns. They have been known to allow visitors to "dance in" if asked politely, and will often invite musicians and others to take part when necessary.

We were told that we had 'just missed' the performance on the green and the dancers had wandered up into the lanes to continue in the surrounding fields.

So we had a wander.

And I'm afraid from this point on I have no idea as to what has happened to my page colour or indeed how to fix it!

Inside the church there was a small exhibition which gave further details of the dance - including this lovely tribute to one of it's performers.

Sorry about the quality here - it's been super duper zoomed.

Then there were the racks that hold the antlers

Alongside a rather spooky hobby horse that looks like it was put out to pasture many years ago.

In complete contrast the other side of the church housed a steel statue portraying Jesus and a disciple that was commissioned to celebrate the millennium.

Back outside we wandered up the high street. Still no sign of any dancing but plenty of time to take in the surroundings.

A life size dolls house!

The grandest of door frames

And a very polite notice as to what not to do with my motor!

We sat and we waited.

We waited and we wondered.

And just as the light started to fade we heard a distinct tinkle!

First came the clog dancers in a whirl of green

Then the Morris men and their pointy sticks

And finally the Horn Dance  itself

Apologies again for the picture quality but considering the weight of the antlers these men were quite nifty!

And then they were gone.

Time for a warm drink and return across the haunted reservoir!

A great evening and wonderful to have been part of something that has entertained so many people over the centuries.

Jane

xxx

P.S. So remember when driving late at night and spotting a face in your rear view mirror don't worry - it's just A GHOST!

Enchanted Enid.

Before I embark on my newest witter can I just say a heartfelt thank you from mum and myself for the lovely comments left on my last post. She's had a 'bit of a time' of it lately but the pacemaker is now in and we are expecting cartwheels in no time at all. 

Now this post could be divisive. I'm aware that Enid Blyton isn't everybody's cup of tea and from recent evidence she probably isn't someone who I would want to have met but - oh - those books of hers!

From the earliest age I always had my nose in a book but as I try to remember which ones they all come up Enid. 

My favourite had to be this one.

Never mind the dandy outfits the fact was there was a wood that was inhabited by fairy folk, and - this was the best bit - the animals talked! 

A talking bunny - every eight year old girls dream?

Reading that bit back I realise I've used the word 'fact' there - to me this place was real!

The wood was home to a magical tree that transported the children to faraway lands where adventures were waiting. Some lands were more desirable than others. For example in Birthday Land you just had to wish for something and it would appear, whereas Dame Slap's school was a terrifying place. But to me the tree itself was as magical as the lands. You could travel down Moonface's slide that ran from top to bottom, or sit on a branch and share fresh home made biscuits with Silky the fairy.

I'm going to share something with you now that I don't condone - in fact it's something I've railed against all my adult life - but look what I did ...

... I wrote all over the inside cover! Several times it seems!! Oh dear. But it was my 'best book' and obviously I had to mark that in some way! I even marked the contents page each time a chapter was read.

I don't think Enid would have approved.

The back covers of these books had a tempting array of 'rewards' which I used to pore over and covet.

From fairy woods I moved on to a slightly more 'grown up' version with 'The Children of Cherry Tree Farm'.

Following the same premise a city dwelling family go to stay with their country relations and soon find that a whole host of adventures await in the woods. In a timely situation that we probably wouldn't conceive of in this day and age, the children befriend a local wild man, Tammylan, who then teaches them about the local flora and fauna.

Alongside them I also learned. I remember reading that a very comfortable bed could be made out of moss and heather, and that a 'slow worm' was neither slow nor a worm but actually a legless lizard! In the days before t'internet Enid provided valuable information to a young nature lover like myself.

I continued with 'The Naughtiest Girl series followed by Malory Towers. Tales of independent young gals who sorted out right from wrong at their respective boarding schools. 

Then came the Famous Five and, my preferred crime solving gang, the Secret Seven. Alongside these were The Put-Em-Rights and The Mystery of ... series. 

Most of Enid's tales were based around children. They seemed to exist in a separate world to the adults (sadly something which her own children experienced only too well) but with strength of character and camaraderie anything was possible. As a young girl this was perfect escapism and encapsulated an innocence that has seemingly diminished in our technical age. (Although saying that I'd still like to think there were fairy folk at the bottom of the garden!)

I'm going to return to the talking animals now and leave you with a final word from Topsy.

Jane

xxx

You can find out more about the books here, and more about Enid herself here.