Walking uphill; or, the beauty of a barn door

 I have great dreams of powering off to the gym every morning, and honing those muscles in preparation for the physically demanding tasks of basting a quilt top or casting on a legwarmer. But, alas and alack, they remain dreams - as the days get shorter, the nights longer and the mornings darker, it takes an even greater effort of will to heave myself from the warm and cosy nest that is my bed.

No quilt in sight

If I were left to myself I would spend the winter months huddled up indoors, never straying too far from the fire or sofa. But luckily I have the services of a personal trainer to keep me up to the mark.

An October morning

Several mornings this week I have tried to begin the day by sitting at my computer, thinking that I couldn't possibly go out in the cold and damp because I have so much to do, but no, there is no slacking - there is my trainer by my side, arms around me, whispering in my ear, come along do, you know it is time for our yomp, you know it will do us both good.

Personal trainer extraordinaire

She will brook no refusals, and shivering and resigned I find myself in the lane, wrapped up to the nines, wellied and ready.

The road less travelled

And she is right, you know.

Green and growing

It is the best thing in the world on a dreary grey morning to go out into the wide world to seek out the tiniest weakest gleam of watery sunshine peering from behind a cloud, to find the widest most open spaces you can, stand on the highest point you can reach in the landscape, get a little breathless, look far and near, and observe the seasons and the weather and the green growing things defying the turning of the year.

Poppies on the grattan

Nothing can match the bliss of walking out one mid-autumn morning and listening to the curlew crying and hearing the wind in the trees, the sound of far, far away traffic a distant hum, and the sound of boots slap, slap on the muddy lane the most insistent noise around.

More flowers in October

There is nothing better than this and I would wish myself nowhere else, with the soft ground underfoot and my faithful friend by my side.

Come on, keep up

There is some Welsh in her ancestry and I imagine her forebears as drovers' dogs, padding across the land, watching and listening, herding and keeping safe.

Waiting

And I saw barn walls perfect for hanging quilts on, sitting waiting in the morning light, and now I am hoping that one fine day I will turn the corner and see there amongst the trees and the clouds a quilt hanging, blowing gently in the breeze, a vision just for me.

Nesting and barn walls: more essentials for quilting

It is a deeply grey day, and now the rain is teeming down, washing all the colours of the world away. But early this morning I managed to get a photograph of my latest quilt top before the rain began to descend, braving the proleptic leaden skies and chill dampness in my eagerness to record another show and tell.

And this is the entirely unedited result.

A trick of the light

That damp grey autumn light filtered through the camera's beady eye has done the weirdest thing to the colours of this quilt, making them appear eerily dayglo and intense against the sinister grey-green backdrop.

The fabric is Rose Parade from Moda, and the pattern is PS I Love You from Sweet Jane , (photographed upside down so you won't notice the deliberate mistake, entirely the fault of Radio 4, which distracted me so much when cutting out blocks that I cut out a 10in and 11in, rather than two 10.5in. Hmm, you may say, and so did I, but very cleverly I sewed the selvedge edge trimming back on, and most of it will disappear into the binding, honest).

So this brings me rather to another essential for a quilter - a suitably photogenic place in which to photograph your quilts. I hanker after a barn wall like Amy's or even two tall sons at home to stand behind holding it up for me in the sunshine ... All in short supply here at the moment.

But before I am accused of being too morose, I should like to engender some positive associations in connection with the use of the seam ripper. No longer need you experience thoughts of anger, despair or destruction when you catch sight of the little stiletto in your sewing box.

I saw the light when I did a sewing course at the London College of Fashion some years ago - it was supposed to teach the amateur to sew in a professional manner, and I am sure that I am not one of the success stories, especially as we weren't allowed to use pins, and I still harbour a lingering attachment to pinkind. But the trick I remember is the use of the seam ripper, not for ripping seams, because of course real pros don't do that, but to guide the fabric through the machine, like so.

Some gentle guidance

The clear piecing foot with the handy little guide at the right is a godsend - and allows me to whip out the pin at the last minute (again using the seam ripper as a grab), so the needle does not hit the pin.

I think she needs to clean the fluff from her machine ...

The seam ripper really comes into  its own with those lovely little nested seams - I love the concept of nesting seams: the terminology, the cosiness and togetherness of the concept, and with (sshh!) two pins and a seam ripper, no squiffy nesting, no underside seams jumping back the wrong way.

Nesting

I must go now - the Head Chef has come up with the most divinely delectable variation on the best flapjack recipe ever, and having eaten some for morning coffee, I plan to consume quantities for lunch. Let me know if you would like the recipe, and I will be sure to photograph some before I eat them all up ...

Washed up on the shores of the future

Stepping out

The year has wheeled and turned, summer is most definitely over and gone, and today the rain has had a relentless quality, insisting on the advent of autumn and the darkening of the days. The all-too-brief Indian summer has disappeared with the morning mist.

Looking into the distance

 The silence seems all-enveloping as I sit in the quiet and listen for the ticking of the clock and ponder on the contrast with the noisy and joyful weekend when my boys flew in for a day, two days, and flew out again, off and away.

It strikes me that I miss most dreadfully the seemingly endless squabbling and jostling of years past, the trail of socks on the floor, the sideboards heaped with homework, and the multiple trip hazards ascending the stairs.

Our meals are no longer large, disputatious events, but sedate little finishings-up of scraps from the fridge. Even the fridge looks bare, with no need to buy 20 litres of milk every week and gigantic catering-size blocks of cheese, or to make two loaves of bread a day.

Christmas is coming ...

We are quite shrunk and denuded, two Aged Ps with one not-so-little Princess, who is more often out singing and sporting and studying than she is at home sitting quietly and amiably at her desk. I have spent many years saying over and again that it takes two to make an argument, and I am now most definitely proved right. The peace and stillness bring that home to me today.

You wouldn't really want us to stay at home forever, they say, and such certainties seem, well, somehow more contingent.

I think back to those Sunday nights when I was the one setting off for the excitements of the world, and departing into the dusk; catching trains and heaving my bags on and off interminably delayed replacement buses, or driving three hours to the back of beyond in the dark and cold without a second thought, always looking forward and never back.

And now I am the one left behind, silently slipping into a new role where I will count down the days to the next visit and eagerly await the considerate phone call dutifully made. I am grateful that I still have one fledgling wanting me to discuss French verbs and common denominators, and after years of firefighting and taking each day as it comes, I begin to think about the importance of setting myself goals, and casting around hopefully for unfulfilled ambitions.

My faithful friend

If only I had the time, I said to myself for so many years, if only I had the time, just think what I could do. Now I can walk the dog for an hour at sunrise, and sew quilt squares together in the wrong order, and knit orphan legwarmers for stumpy legs; my afternoons don't end at three, and my day begins unconscionably early.

And now indeed there will be time, time for me to consider Bergsonian notions of le temps and la durée (as I noted so carefully in my copy of 'The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock' in those years when time was at a premium; I have been rather fond of old Prufrock for many a long year now, and also note with unease a certain personal identification with his plight); perhaps I could learn Latin or sign language (both of which seem rather tempting at this point), or even take those stumpy legs Nordic walking, which would be sure to make them svelte and my socks fall down. Maybe even take photos with the horizon straight.

I'll let you know how I get on.

Sweet dreams are made of this: adventures in quilting

As the temperatures fall, and now that I have two socks and an almost legwarmer on hand to keep those stocky legs cosy, I have been wondering how to counteract the chilly nights. The Head Chef and I have been married so long that our duvet contains only a memory of goosedown, and thus needs some supplementary layers to ensure that I at least wake rosy with the dawn rather than blue and shivering under the eaves.

Thus some years ago, before I knew a layer cake from a jelly roll, I bought one of each in the misguided notion that I would have to  do barely more than untie the ribbon and hey presto! a king size patchwork quilt would appear before my very eyes (at least that is what the woman in the shop led me to believe - and she showed me one that she had whipped up herself in an hour or two).

The fabric (Sanctuary by Three Sisters for Moda) also caught my eye, jumping out as it did amongst the bolts of midnight blue printed with gold pharaohs and tabby cats sitting amongst daffodils, and so when I signed up for the Learn to Patchwork Day I also took possession of a selection of matching fat quarters, without any clear idea of how it would all come together in a quilt. Then six months later in the sales I pounced upon some half-price end of rolls in yes, you have guessed it, Sanctuary (there is a theme emerging here, you may say to yourself [remember also that I was quite innocent back then regarding the temptation inherent in the concept of the online fabric store]).

And there things rested, getting dusty under the bed rather than keeping me warm on top, until I had read the prettiest quilting book and practised on some baby quilts here and here, and graduated to Princess size here, and spent some time as a Farmer's Wife (yes, it's still a WIP, but I am getting there very slowly).

And hey presto! here is a very large (by my standards) quilt top made from the jelly roll and some of the yardage. The pattern is Blue Lagoon (which as you might have guessed is a blue and white quilt, so perhaps I should call mine Pink Pond), from this excellent book by the talented Lintott mother and daughter team. I just added a double border to increase the warmth factor.

I am now on such a roll that on Sunday afternoon I cut up the Sanctuary layer cake and have laid out the pieces for a companion quilt in order to be extra cosy. (I did make the mistake of using the largest dog-free floor space in the house, which is in the B&B sitting room, and no, I don't mind potential guests ringing up at 4pm on a Sunday and saying are you vacant, could we be with you in an hour, we'll ring you right back. It is no trouble at all to pick up 196 squares and transport them upstairs and tidy the floor and plump up the cushions and move it all upstairs and then find the squares can't fit on our bed and bring it all down again when you realize that they are not going to ring back, no trouble whatsoever, says she smiling sweetly.)

Dog-free zone

And did I say dog-free? Well, except for a Little Black Dog who shall remain Nameless who sneaked in while no one was about and scuffed up one corner, and I know it was you Little Stranger because of the nature of the discombobulation and the little bits of black dust and grit scattered so artfully on the white sheet.

This quilt is also based on a Lintott pattern from here - a very simple one called Charming Flowers, but I am afraid I had to line up the asymmetrical stars. (Such is my need for order in my life that I can't cope with too much asymmetry and had to arrange them evenly.)

Symmetrical

There is just the sticky question of backing and quilting a big double quilt - a bit too big to hand quilt, I think, and I am feeling slightly nervous about the whole thing. I have a walking foot, unused, and occasionally eye it with trepidation.

Maybe a bigger sewing table and more space in which to manhandle the quilt and pin it out would jolt me out of my impasse ...

Hence my latest project for the Head Chef: turning our luxury shed into a bijou super-deluxe office (which can of course be used as a sewing studio when no one is feeling officious).

But knowing the Head Chef's capacity for procrastination (which puts my efforts on that front into the shade) I have a feeling that I will be shivering quiltless in my bed for some time ...

He promised to take me for a walk last Wednesday ...

There are some newbies on the block to welcome to the jolly band - hello to Gilly at Gilly Makes (she has just done some very pretty quilting), Bee at The Linen Cloud (very nice granny blanket on the go), Su at Living on the Edge (I love her beachy textile creation),  and Sweet Posy Dreams (who is busy decorating) - Blogland is such a hive of industry that I think we can all pat ourselves on the back.

Now what shall I make next ...?

Vitamin therapy

The summer seems to have slipped by in the twinkling of an eye, the admirals have sailed off with the tide, and I remain, beached, almost wondering what to do with myself, so much have they filled my days over the past few weeks.

Dear readers, I would love to tell you that I can manage to edit a book, run a B&B, be a good mother, and keep my house and garden tidy at the same time.

But sadly if I did I would be lying.

Catching up with the laundry mountain

I would love to be the sort of blogger who leads a life to which other bloggers aspire, in a house filled with sunlight whatever the season, where the dogs sleep on clean blankets of patchwork and crochet, with a garden where one can take a photograph anywhere and be confronted with a vision of loveliness and distinguished plantings.

Did someone mention a crochet blanket?

And yesterday I could have started on that route to the pink and pineapple of perfection by addressing the dog-hair, ankle-deep in the sitting room, or polishing the windows to improve the light-levels indoors. Maybe I could even have done a little light weeding in the aim of getting to grips with the bindweed, creeping buttercup and ground elder which threaten to overwhelm my flowerbeds.

I pegged up my sadly deficient dog blankets that seemed to have taken on the appearance of ragged old bathtowels, splotched with sinister-looking stains which are highly resistant to the boil wash, and sighed.

Dreaming of a tartan blanket to sleep on

I looked at the bedrooms of my absent boys: the Ploughboy's is merely grubby and unkempt, whereas that of the General one could categorize as a health hazard and threatening to the fabric of the house. There is very little floor space available for standing in, even if I wanted to attempt some sort of fumigation.

A strong aroma of mouse

But when they do come home, I want to be a welcoming, glad to see you, sort of mother, and not one who berates them with the amount by which their disorderly nests reduce the value of the house (£8,000 per mucky children's room apparently).

Then I heard the caressing tones of Dr Mark Porter on Radio 4 (trust him implicitly, he is a doctor) recommending the benefits of vitamin D as an anti-inflammatory (this is why TB patients were made to sunbathe in winter).

I need such treatment, I thought. So I took up my knitting, heaved a chair onto the grass,
and I sat and basked in the sunshine, in order maximize my intake of anti-inflammatory vitamin D.

Very soothing

And I thought that you might like to know that the result of my experiment was to feel very much better, so I can highly recommend its efficacy, and anti-inflammatory nature - the experience of such therapy was distinctly healing.

Sunning oneself

However, it does not seem to work for dogs. As two out of the three were sick on the grass,  I cannot affirm its effectiveness in canines.

I think I am going to be sick

So the moral of the story is that if you are feeling a little inflamed, then go and expose your body to sunlight (trust me, I am a doctor).

But don't forget your knitting ...

 

And if you would like to see some pretty pictures of far better regulated households, then do go and visit some of the new faces at the cottage, who are:

Ada at Vintage Sheet Addict, Lush at Diegoagogo, Nancy McCarroll at Art, Crafts and Favourites, Jane Sorgetz at Atelier de Artes, Gillian at Tales From A Happy House, Gigibird, and Ellimay (I couldn't find your blog, so do let me know if you have one).

A genteel good afternoon to some lovely new friends and charmed to meet you, I am sure.

Through the square window

The words summer and holidays don't really go together for us in the life we lead now - running the B&B, growing our own food, courses on self-sufficiency and sustainable living - all of these things mean that summer is busy and work-filled, and our down-time tends to be in January and February.

So it is important to remember and treasure brief moments of peace and beauty amongst all the helter and skelter, to take time to stand and stare, if only for an inkling.

This morning I looked out over the sink into the garden and was happy that some of the flowers are revelling in the vagaries of our climate, in spite of the uncooperative weather taking its toll on the edibles. The Japanese anemones under the kitchen window are as tall as ever I have seen them, and the cosmos seem determined to outrun their neighbours.

This is the picture I must treasure in my head when my nerve fails me in those grey and drear months after the turning of the year, and I wonder why ever we chose this path in life.

Such moments are so precious that all the trouble and toil seem as nothing when compared with their fleeting beauty.

Magic beans

A few days ago I was rummaging vainly amongst the bean rows and feeling quite ecstatic if I came away with half a dozen small runners languishing in the bottom of the basket. (My mind is boggling at the Lilliputian image conjured up in my head, but I have forsworn listening to the little voices.)

And now I find that the Head Chef has a multitude of green reasons for sitting at the kitchen table listening to the mellifluous voices on Radio 4 (midoff, dismissal, sunshine, leg bye, three slips waiting for an edge and one in the gully . . . or was it a bat on the off stump, and another by the pavilion ?). The maidens are sending me to sleep and I have quite lost my way . . .

I hope people like eating thistledown, remarks the Head Chef, and moves his hand into the picture, quite spoiling the effect.

Look closely and see those gossamer strands

With a field of thistles to the left of us, another in front of us, and a south-southwesterly breeze, our little patch of land is being drenched with gossamer fibres - the sky is full of thistledown. When I was young and innocent I thought that these were fairies floating on the summer air - now I know that the silken strands will metamorphose into spiky green witches next summer, wickedly invading every last corner of our cottage garden, and running riot in the field.

But for now the greenness of the beans is quite magical, and we can chop them and store them for the long winter ahead. If we eat thistledown, we can munch its witchy magic into nothing.

Peeping toms

And lo and behold! The blight hasn't ventured into the greenhouse, and the sunshine has - we have some tomatoes at last, all red and rotund and beaming from under the beans.

Precious

I seem to have lived this August afternoon with the sound of the cricket, and the chopping of the beans, and the filling of freezer bags so many times before, and remember beans from another garden, bagged by other hands, but the smell of the green growing things and the earth and the warm breeze on my face are forever the same.

And the imminent collapse of the English batting, or not - I seem to remember that this happens quite often too.

The Year Without A Summer

I know, it happened in 1816, not 2012, and it was far worse than this - for a start we are not going to starve, even if the outdoor tomatoes are all blighted, and the marigolds mildewy.

But sunny days seem to have been few and far between, and the ones that have happened have been mainly when I have been inside at the computer, grappling with the sailors, or sweating over the smoothing iron.

But mustn't grumble (I always think of this book when I say that - well worth a read, and um, squirmingly truthful at times, not to mention screamingly funny), as we have managed to bottle up some of that elusive sunshine, and I have to say, it tastes jolly nice.

Sunshine in a jar

We used half raspberries and half blackberries with a solitary giant strawberry as makeweight - bounty brought home from a rained-off county show by dear Papa - the largest blackberries I have ever seen in all my born days.

(And if you are coveting one of these rather wonderful boards, a good friend of mine has a shop here where she sells such wares.)

News from nowhere

I was young once, although it seems an awfully long time ago, young and foolish too (I can feel an Andrew Aguecheek moment coming on but for the sake of all I will smother it quickly).

But I am not sure that I would ever have gone cycling in the snow and ice, wearing shorts and no coat.

Pomona on a bicycle (no, I'm only joking)

The General is obviously made of sterner stuff than his mamma (and those of you who know the General will know exactly where to find him in the picture).

The General and a few hearty friends

The snow has been slow to melt here, and as an old countrywoman I know that means more to come - snow lingering on the ground draws more along and the skies certainly have a grey enough air.

Little and large

When the light improves enough for me to take some pretty pictures I will post up my long-postponed giveaway, which is of a stitchy nature. I am sure that you are all overcome with excitement.

Overcome with excitement at the news

Happy days

In her element . . .

I am somehow reminded of happy hours reading about this little character . . .

I think this Little Stranger has just as much potential for mischief . . .