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.

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.

Sock issues

Captain Lurgy has been in residence at the cottage and his requirements for bed and board have been quite tiresome, but I decided that I must drag my frail frame from its indolent habitation on the sofa in order to prove that I still exist and that some days I manage to achieve something.

What with the gammy hand and the dicky neck and the tender ministrations of Captain Lurgy, my output has not matched my aspirations, but I am distinctly conscious that there is a nip hovering in the air, and the season to be cosy approaches nearly.

Nice socks

So my creative efforts have been concentrated on things warm and comforting. Hence the stripy socks. Hand-knitted socks, as I am sure that I have said before, are like cashmere cardigans - one encounter and you are ruined forever (I am still in hopes that Brora will suddenly email me, begging to sponsor my blog and offering copious amounts of things cashmere to review).

Thus I try to knit one or two pairs of cosy socks a year, and you may look at and admire my Jubilee Socks. (Yes, I was a Bay City Roller fan when I was a mere scrap of a girl - why did you ask?)

Heavy duty winter warmers

I cast on these jolly numbers on the Jubilee weekend in June - we had fled the country in honour of the celebration and as I sat in sunny Brittany I was quite bemused to see that the French were quite over-excited about the whole event (little union flag logos on the TV screen and hysterical TV presenters in the rain on the riverbank interviewing equally bemused Brits in their waterproofs), so we didn't have to miss anything.

I knitted my very patriotic socks, quietly satisfied that for once the weather in the country in which we had chosen to holiday was sunny and dry, and that it looked pretty grey, wet and cold at home. The converse is usually true and it has become something of a holiday essential for me to be out searching the shops for heavy-duty Goretex.

Titanic

Unfortunately I have still not solved the problem of how to photograph myself in my new socks without my ankles thickening before my very eyes, or my thighs appearing to be of titanic proportions (I hear my sister sniggering as she reads this, and muttering 'stumpy' ...)

Stumpy

In my defence, I would like to say that these have been made as top-layer winter socks, extra-roomy to accommodate an underneath pair, for those months when my circulation comes to a halt mid-calf. The pattern is my usual favourite from Ann Budd's book, and the yarn is Regia 4-ply sock yarn - I now find out that it is Flusi Das Socken Monster yarn (colour 1807) especially for small children with small legs. I was not warned about this in the shop. Perhaps that is why my ankles are so rotund in appearance?

Hmm, they are a bit on the thick side

And I have also just cast on some super-cosy legwarmers (free pattern here) to ensure that my legs look equally thick the whole way along.

It is also of some comfort to me that the Little Stranger likes my socks - I know this because she jumped on my stomach and licked my face and my camera. The lens will probably never be the same again.

Thank you for all of your lovely comments on the previous post. I will come and say hello to you in return as soon as I can get round you all. Perhaps you could also say hello to the lovely new followers who are Kay at Deep in the Cornish Countryside,  Sarajan at Fleachic, Pattypan at Tarragon & Thyme, Debby at Cozy Blanket, Geraldine at Sophie Belle Designs, Cheryl at My Little Piece of England,  Maggie Moore at Pretty Flowers in the Window, and Kaylagking.

From a health and safety point of view you will be pleased to hear that no socks or black dogs were harmed in the manufacture of this post, but unfortunately a party of ants hitched a ride and are only now emerging from their hiding places about my person. With skin crawling I salute you and depart ...

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.

Growing up fast

It is not every Monday morning that I am greeted at the gate by four little piggy smiles when I am about to set off to work, but yesterday was one such.

Butter wouldnt melt ...

The day had already had a slightly hectic quality thanks to an early run to the station with the General, and breakfast for the B&Bs, and Princess Bunchy doing a Sleeping Beauty impression beyond the point of amusement and into the zone where parental blood pressure is elevated to a level considered a risk to health.

Pigs on the run

And time was running on apace to the extent that I could not delay my departure for work if I wanted to arrive at the office at a time which would still be within the bounds of decency, and indicative of a certain willingness, if not quite enthusiasm, for work.

So I had to dismiss anxious thoughts about the impermeability of the hedge between the field and the road, and the adventurousness of pigkind . . . [How could four sweet little scraps like this, so meek and mild and shy, turn into the rumbustious quartet we have today, in the space of six short weeks?]

Sweet babies

All I could do was foam at the mouth enough to force a promise from the Head Chef that he would abandon his domestic duties and buy a new battery for the electric fence and turn the dial high enough to provide a deterrent to our resident escape artists.

New friends?

 By this stage in the proceedings,  I was also beginning to feel that I preside over a disappointingly ill-regulated household, both inside and out, as Princess Bunchy had risen from her couch and descended into the kitchen still wearing yesterday's clothes, albeit slightly crumpled from twelve hours' sleep. [This is not a rare occurrence - I am wondering where I went wrong.]

It was actually a relief to get to work. I think the lesson here is that if you are not enamoured of your employment, and dread Monday mornings, just ensure that you maintain a high enough level of domestic disarray that your place of work seems a place of peace and orderliness in comparison. I am feeling waves of gratitude, just like Soulemama, at the thought.

Happy days!

Winners at last

Now I am very conscious that you have all been sitting on the edge of your seats anxiously waiting for the big prize draw - and that I have been very tardy about conducting the event, my only excuse being the ludic interlude that is half term.

The bird training did not go well so I decided to resort to the usual suspects, the Little Stranger and Mad Dog.

As is usual the wind started whistling around the garden just as I ventured out, bowl in hand, so I am afraid that I stayed very close to the back door, hence the tasteful grey backdrop to the pictures.

You will see quite a contrast in the attitudes of the participants.

We have Little Miss Pushy, and I Am Not At All Enthusiastic About This, And Far Too Polite to Elbow My Way In.

In fact, Little Miss Pushy is so pushy that I had a problem in actually getting close enough
 to take the photo of the winners before they headed off across the garden.

But she means well, and is very willing to join in the fun.

Her only trouble, and one which I put down to her youth, is that she has difficulty in knowing when it is time for the fun to stop, and pieces of paper to remain in the bowl.

But we got there in the end, and here are the first three to land on the concrete:

The Liberty Book of Cross Stitch will be winging its way to Angela, Jan Eaton's 1000 Cross Stitch Motifs to Indigo Blue and Jane Greenoff's 100 Cross Stitch Patterns to Mix and Match to Felicity. Please could you all email me with your address for posting.

And commiserations to the rest of you - I hope the deprivations of Lent don't overcome your sense of good cheer. I have given up chocolate, cakes and sweet biscuits in the hope that the midwinter spare tyre will detach itself from my midriff, and am feeling slightly appalled at the thought of six weeks without such carbohydrate comfort, although I have great hopes for the substitute that I have found for my nibbly moments (the first one is free, and I have to say absolutely delicious) but will I be able to confine myself to one a day? I'll let you know how I get on . . .

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 . . .

An unsuspecting rustic and a couple of winners

I told you that I would find an unsuspecting rustic to pick out the lucky winners of Amy's patterns, and luckily the Ploughboy bought three home for the weekend so I was able to buttonhole the nearest one as they attempted to leave the premises en masse.

I am rather good at this sort of thing

The Little Stranger tried to move in on the deal, but I feel that the attention has gone to her head rather, and she shows signs of living up to her Scottie heritage and thinking herself Top Dog, in spite of her nearness to the ground, so unsuspecting rustic it had to be.

A strategically placed chair soon put paid to any delusions of grandeur on the part of a Scottie dog with a stripy tail (no, it's not paint so I don't think she will be heading off to Crufts any time soon, unless she finds a bootleg source of Grecian 2000).

Was that you?

Such nice boys as these agricultural types are, he cooperated most charmingly and graciously, holding out the names for the camera, although I suspect that the smiling and bemused air veiled a most uncertain understanding of the significance of 'picking winners for my blog giveaway'.

The hands of an unsuspecting rustic

And so congratulations to Mary Jane's Tearoom (or Mary Jane's teapot, as Princess Bunchy so helpfully wrote down on a piece of paper in case anyone was mislaid or took wings in the breeze) who will soon be the proud possessor of a Ruched Happy Bag pattern . . .

An agricultural encounter

 . . . congratulations to dear Frances, too, whose picture is a teacup, and thus continues the comforting theme of tea and cake from my previous post; a Hexiecase pattern is yours, my dear.

Tea and cakes all round

So if the lovely winners could please come forward to curtsey before the cheering crowd and simper fetchingly at the unsuspecting rustic, and then apprise me of their email addresses, I can forward these to the lovely Amy.

Commiserations to those who did not encounter the youthful hand of agriculture - however, I will be joining in the Sew Mama Sew Giveaway very shortly in a festive bonanza not to be missed, so pop back soon. And if you would like to buy yourself one of Amy's patterns to make a few last-minute pressies, they are available in her Etsy shop here.

Sew many reasons to be cheerful

[If you were looking for the giveaway, you will find it here.]

No reason to be crabby

I am showing my age when I say that 'Reasons to be Cheerful' by Ian Dury is part of my cultural hinterland, but when I saw the confluence of two bloggy positive thinking initiatives, Planet Penny's Reasons to be Cheerful, and Lily's Quilts Fresh Sewing Day, I felt that it was a good idea to stir my stumps and come up with my own reasons to think positive.

First of all, thank you most kindly to all of you who have enquired about my hand. Yes, it is still there on the end of my arm, and it is still encased in rather revoltingly coloured plastic, which I have embellished with orange and white Sugru (if you would like some, too, they tell me there is a discount code until 19 December, which means you get your fourth pack free - just write YAYCHRISTMAS in the box). But I am quite reconciled to it all really, if a little frustrated when I try to put my coat on, and patience is a virtue, etc.

But I did of course manage to crack in a little bit of sewing before things went awry, and so when Princess Bunchy was working out her Christmas presents I was actually quite pleased to find that we had enough little purses (from the Keyka Lou Pleated Pouch pattern) . . .

. . . and wallets (from the Keyka Lou Basic Wallet pattern) to go round, including one for the £2 Secret Santa (I think whoever gets this gets a good deal!), and moreover, I have a couple left over for emergencies (you know, that feeling you get late on Christmas Eve when you are wrapping the presents and find that you have fewer presents than names on the list [which of course doesn't happen in well-regulated households]).

So in spite of a little hurdle along the way, my sewing for November is something to feel quite cheerful about (all thanks to the discipline of the Christmas Challenge, I am sure).

Quite astonishingly we still have lettuce in the garden, and a few flowers, too, and I can even feel cheerful about the rain, the more the better in fact, or it will be hosepipe bans all round next year.

So Reasons to be Cheerful, one stitchy, two horticultural, and three meteorological - what more could a body want? Apart from tea and cake, that is . . .