The Homemade Heart

Winter Project Link Party October 2016

This autumn and winter, I am joining with Jennifer over at Thistlebear, for her Winter Link Party, where bloggers post their craft projects over the autumn and winter months, and encourage each other along the way. Do pop over to Jennifers's truly heartfelt and delightful blog and read all about it. 
For my first Winter Project Link Party post, I am sharing my most recent craft project, a small(ish) tote bag, started yesterday, and finished this afternoon (much to the detriment of my domestic duties). 

The dimensions of this bag (35x28x10cm) are highly significant; let me explain...
Tomorrow, Isaac and I will travel to London, for the purpose of attending 'Harry Potter and the Cursed Child' at the Palace Theatre, on Saturday. These tickets were Isaac's Christmas gift last year, so we have waited a long time to go, yet it seems also to have crept up suddenly (perhaps in some Harry Potter-ish time turning manner?).
There are certain restrictions regarding what can be taken in to the theatre (cameras, recording equipment, wands not purchased at Olivanders etc). All bags are security checked, and when reading the conditions of entry, I noticed with a pang of mild alarm that no bags larger than 41x31x16cm would be allowed in the theatre.
Cue a comic scene of me measuring handbags, shoulder bags, tote bags, canvas bags, any and every bag that I own, only to find that they were either too large, or simply unsuitable for the trip. I was already planning to use a small, cross body bag for purse, phone etc, but with Isaac and I coming down from the outlying regions of the Empire to the great capital, we had both planned a little light retail therapy in the morning prior to our theatre visit, and a tote or shopping bag of suitable dimensions would be required. The obvious solution was to make one myself,  well within the specified dimensions, so I selected some upholstery-weight fabric from my modest stash, and set to work.

I cut out two rectangles of blue, 35cmx28cm, and a strip for the gusset, 10cm wide. I also cut out lining fabric in the same dimensions; I liked that the smaller, paler circles in the lining fabric complimented the bolder circles of the blue fabrics.
Next, I sewed two basic bags; one from the blue fabric, one from the lining fabric, and then inserted the lining bag into the outer bag, and pinned it into place. Here are the steps:
 
My next step was to make a small rectangular front pocket, to add interest to the front of the bag, then on to the handles; just two strips of the blue fabric, folded in half and stitched down the long side, then turned inside out to hide the seam. I also made a little closure strip for the front, backed with the lining fabric, which I hoped could serve a double function: one, to keep the front pocket secure by means of a button hole and button; two, to close the main opening of the bag by means of a magnetic closure, situated inside the top opening of the bag. 

Following this, I inserted the ends of the handles between the lining and outer fabrics, and stitched right round the opening of the bag, twice, to secure the handles, and attach the lining to the outer bag.
Finally, I secured the closure strip to the front of the bag, attaching a magnetic closure to one end, with the corresponding piece inside the bag, and making a button hole and button closure for the front pocket. At this point I discovered I had no idea how to actually make a buttonhole, but undeterred, I stitched a narrow rectangle with several rows of machine stitching, and then trimmed away the centre. It worked for me. 
My last task was to stitch on the front pocket. I realised that I should have done this as one of my very first tasks, before the blue fabric was even made into the initial bag shape, but as I am no expert in these matters (the phrase 'rank amateur' springs to mind), I squirrelled that knowledge away for another time, and instead hand, rather than machine stitched the pocket into position. Last tiny step; to sew on the button. Eagle eyed readers may have noticed that I changed my mind from the first, blue button I had selected, and instead chose a smaller, white, fabric covered button.

It amuses me to think that I will be wandering the streets of London at the weekend with an unsophisticated, home-made, fun, tote bag.  Isaac and I can shop with impunity on Saturday morning, and provided that no purchase is physically larger than this bag, we can be safe in the knowledge that we will be willingly admitted, for a few hours anyway, to the wonderful, wizarding world of Harry Potter.

 

this is not my life!

My life is very domestic, and repetitive. I spend most days cleaning, tidying, cooking, taking care of the family, plus various other commitments, which leave me much less time for treats and outings than I would perhaps wish. This summer, however, is proving the exception to the rule, and for the next few days, my humdrum domestic lifestyle is going to be exchanged for several consecutive days of pleasure. A most unusual occurrence; this is not my life!
This weekend, I am attending a two day workshop on pot throwing at the Glasgow Ceramics Studio, to which I am looking forward enormously. I am under no illusions about discovering a previously unsuspected genius for pot throwing, but if I manage to produce anything vaguely bowl shaped I will be very happy. The weekend workshop was a gift from my ever-thoughtful husband, who, though he frequently teases me about my constant quest for self-improvement, nevertheless supports me in the most practical way to attend yoga classes, or quilting courses, or photography lessons, or sing in choirs, or whatever activity or skill I decide will add to my quality of life at any given time.
The excitement does not end there, however, as on Monday afternoon I am travelling to Stoke on Trent in order to attend a Collectors' Club Open Day at the Emma Bridgewater factory on Tuesday. I am quite amazed to be going, and say again; this is not my life!
I will post a few photographs to my Instagram account from both events (find me at @penny.homemadeheart), and report back here once these unusual days of leisure and pleasure are done.

perfect, really

 

Don't you agree that  preparation for a holiday is almost as pleasurable as the actual event? Not so much the boring jobs like cleaning the fridge and cancelling the milk (though there is something deliciously old fashioned about leaving  a little rolled up note for the milk man in an empty milk bottle on the doorstep). I am referring more to the delightful decisions about which holiday projects to pack; the pondering over books, the gathering of yarn, the choice of sewing projects. One holiday essential for me is a capsule baking collection; two 8" baking tins, a few spices, and a tiny bottle of vanilla extract. The bulky stuff, like flour, butter, sugar etc, I order online to be delivered with our Waitrose shop to our holiday house on the day of arrival. I also take Annie Bell's Baking Bible, one of my favourite baking books.

We are returning this year, for the fourth time, to our beloved Sugar Loaf Barn in Wales (sugarloafbarn.com )

These is something peculiarly comforting about returning to Sugar Loaf. We are not a family of adventure seekers, a fact we have long accepted without regret. We love being together, in a beautiful place, pottering about the barn, going in to Abergavenney and Crickhowell, pretty little towns both, to have a coffee, lunch, or a rootle around the shops. The boys help out on the farm,  loving the freedom and physical demand of lifting bales of hay, helping shear sheep, digging drains as they did last year, and generally getting sweaty and filthy.

Derek and I sit outside, reading, chatting, or simply gazing at the view. I adore watching the swallows dip and dart; they nest all along the farmhouse eaves, a quintessential summer sight.(If anyone has any tips on how to attract swallows to nest, please tell me, it would complete my world if swallows nested under the eaves of my house).

Our holidays at Sugar Loaf are like a more relaxing version of our lives at home, without the stressful bits. Perfect, really.

So what am I packing this year? My books are 'Greenbanks' by Dorothy Whipple; 'Here Be Dragons' by Stella Gibbons, and 'Ice In The Bedroom' by P.G. Wodehouse. I am also taking Isaac's quilt. It is half finished, I am hoping to complete the hand quilting at Sugar Loaf. I am also almost finished a hand stitched hexagon quilt top, which I am attempting to complete with some needle-turn applique. That is coming with me too. And, just in case I fly through these projects in super-quick time, I am taking some knitting, and a tiny crochet project. 

What do you take on holiday with you? What are your holiday essentials? I'd love to know.

cosy, colourful, warm.

I like to believe my home is cosy, colourful, warm, inviting and well supplied. I spend a lot of time at home, and it is a priority to have things around me that I enjoy using, like being around, and that mean something to me. Far from immaculate, our house is quite scruffy. The paintwork is chipped, the furniture is a bit battered, and anything more than a cursory glance into the corners of any ceiling will reveal dusty cobwebs. The flooring in the sitting room needs replaced, there are always heaps of laundry; a lack of utility room means ironing baskets live in the sitting room (except on high days and holidays, when I dump them in my bedroom out of the way), plus a constantly shifting landscape of books, magazines, sewing and knitting projects, not to mention all the boys' discarded clothes, shoes and other belongings that make their way into the kitchen and sitting room, and somehow never make it back to their rooms.

I would, however, much rather the cheerful chaos, with occasional tidiness, than an impressive, antiques laden, gilt-edged, precious environment, where shoes must be taken off at the front door, edges of chairs perched on, and sighs of relief drawn on leaving. I also still shudder occasionally  at the memory of the Royal Doulton Lady encrusted apartment of a late Aunt of Derek's, where I once spent the most stressful afternoon of my life with a newly-toddling Jacob, whose sole aim was to grab, lick, knock over and smear his lunch on the crinoline-swirling ladies adorning every surface.

Part of creating a cosy, colourful, warm home is filling it with things we enjoy touching, looking at and using, be they made, bought, or received from kind friends or family. Particularly close to my heart is crockery. Shelves laden with piles of dishes, serving bowls and dishes, jugs and mugs, make me sigh with happiness. To me, they indicate that this home is one of plenty, where welcome and sustenance are always assured. Surely all those plates, bowls and mugs would not be there unless to fill with good things. Mugs of hot tea; plates for biscuits, cakes or savoury snacks, bowls to pile high with fruit or sweets, serving dishes to load with vegetables or fat golden chips at dinner time.

When choosing crockery, I like to mix vintage and charity shop finds with family hand-me-downs, and new crockery, usually  Emma Bridgewater pieces. I can't remember the first piece of Emma Bridgewater pottery that I bought, but in my mind it approximates to 2004, when we moved to our current home. Visiting the (now sadly closed) shop in Edinburgh for the first time was a pivotal retail experience and branded my home-maker's  heart with the Emma Bridgewater logo for ever.

Derek and I recently attended a wedding in England, and our route home brought us to within 10 minutes drive the Emma Bridgewater factory in Stoke on Trent. Naturally, a detour had to be made, and Derek demonstrated admirable patience in the on-site shop as I swooned, then revived sufficiently to make a few purchases. Refreshed by tea and delicious home made cake in the café, I returned for a second forage, eventually staggering back to the car with several weighty carrier bags and most of my Christmas shopping complete. 

It being a Sunday, the factory was closed, but perhaps one day I will be fortunate enough to visit during the week and enjoy a factory tour. In the meantime, allow me to share some photographs from the factory shop and café with you.

(doorway to factory shop)

 

(shop display)

(shop display)

 

(shop display)

(display wall in café)

(display wall in café)

 

a long way from there to anywhere

When I was growing up, we took our family holidays in October, and always in Britain. Not for us the sunny beaches of Majorca, or a charming house in the south of France for a sun soaked summer. Our holidays were all about slightly nippy October weeks in self-catering cottages in Perthshire; Dorset, Yorkshire, or Somerset.

They were also all about exceptionally lengthy car journeys. We lived in a tiny village in the far north of Scotland. It's a long way from there to anywhere. Our family holiday was enthusiastically, though hastily prepared for, and our mantra was always 'better take it, just incase'.  We packed enough clothes for a fortnight of probably cold/possibly warm/probably wet/possibly dry/possibly sunny/possibly windy British weather, with more bags and suitcases than the boot of our car could ever hope to hold. I took a bundle of favourite books, my sister was inseparable from her cuddly black and white panda (fortunately not life-size, though doubtless we would have determinedly squeezed it in somewhere if it had been) My brother's wooden cot would be dismantled and strapped to the roof, where it would bounce alarmingly as we rounded corners, and fly serenely a few inches above the car when we picked up speed.

We would always be late setting off, usually by several hours; one memorable year by two days. This is what happened.......

The car was packed. My sister and I were jammed amongst various bags and packages that wouldn't fit in the boot. We each had a tiny floor space just large enough to accommodate our feet; our arms were resting on parcels of rolled up towels and sheets (in those days you had to take your own linen on self-catering holidays). Even my little brother had a couple of bags jammed under his baby seat.  Mum shared her foot well with a large bag full of supplies for the journey; damp face flannels for sticky hands and faces, sandwiches, chocolate bars, flasks of tea, a change of clothes and nappies for my brother, tissues, maps, Dad's spare glasses. None of us (except my brother) could move our legs. The space between the back seat and the rear windscreen was full to overflowing with coats, negating the possibility of Dad checking the rear view mirror at any time during our two day drive to the south of England.  We were on the point of departure, in high spirits, and just waiting for Dad to finish various vital tasks he had left until the last minute. My parents were hoteliers, and there was always a lot of work involved in handing over responsibility to others when we went on holiday. We waited. Time passed. We grew restless. My sister and I started bickering; my baby brother turned hungry and fractious. Mum dispatched my sister to see if Dad was nearly ready. She returned with the message 'another twenty minutes'. We waited again, the bright October sun shining in on our expectant faces. Time drifted on, with one of us occasionally being sent inside for a progress report; always the same reply; 'yes nearly ready, go back out to the car'. After several hours we all trooped back inside for lunch. Then we all trooped  back dismally to the car, to wait again.  The hours dragged on, our spirits flagging, then (momentarily) reviving, as Dad reassured us he 'wouldn't be much longer'. As the short October day darkened to night, we went inside. Mum, stony faced, whipped up something for our dinner, then we all went upstairs to sleep in beds we had not expected to occupy for another fortnight. 

Astonishingly (though not that astonishingly if you had known my Dad) the next day continued in the same way, though this time we stayed indoors; the car sitting forlornly at the back door, still packed to the gunnels. Eventually we left at about 5 o'clock, a mere 35 hours late.

I can't remember if that was the year we planned a holiday in York, but Dad took us a further south, to Bath, because he wanted to go there instead, and nothing, certainly not a little thing like a wife and three children all expecting a holiday in York, was going to stop him. He didn't even tell us until all road signs for York had petered out, and yet our journey continued, and continued, and continued. Eventually Mum asked him when we would get to York, and he announced in confident tones that we were going to Bath instead. The additional 230 miles to an existing journey of 460 was brushed off with his usual combination of optimism and impatience. Dad was impossible; stubborn, and yes, selfish; there was always a lot of forgiveness involved in loving him, but our lives would have been infinitely more dull (though very possibly more stable)  if he had been less so. We all did love him, so very much, and we all still do. 

The Dalmally Show: vegetables and flowers.

In addition to the fun of entering competitions at the Dalmally Show (read about my entries in my previous post), there was also huge enjoyment in wandering round the marquees looking at all the other entries; the beautiful vegetables and flowers, the floral arrangements, the prize dahlias and roses. 

Vegetables:

Giant vegetables:

Extreme giant vegetables...

These onions were the size of small footballs. They were one of my favourite exhibits; so perfect, so unblemished, and, I was assured by the (very enthusiastic) grower, so delicious.

Flowers:

The light shining through the marquee illuminated these roses so beautifully;

 

This floral arrangement caught my eye, perhaps because I like marmite (but only on very hot, crisp toast, served with a mug of scaldingly hot tea, and some heavily salted tomatoes)

Enchanting though giant onions and novelty floral arrangements are, there comes a point in the day when lunch is required. The carnivores were well provided for, with burgers and fish and chips a-plenty. Vegetarians less so, and eventually hunger drove me to request a cheese and fried onion roll; not the most nutritious, though actually rather delicious, especially when eaten in the fresh air, accompanied by a cup of very hot tea in a paper cup.

Of course there was live music. For a Scottish person, the skirl of the pipes does something to the inside of your scalp; it is the most astonishing sound, and thrills the blood.

The show is held at Dalmally Auction Mart, which is on the bank of the majestic and very beautiful River Orchy.

After the show, with all our entries packed back into boxes and tins, prize money collected, and the last of the stragglers leaving the show ground, I stopped on the way to our family ceilidh in the evening, to take a photograph of beautiful Loch Awe;

Argyll, home of my heart, I love you.

The Dalmally Show: a red letter day.

In every family, there are certain red letter days, unimportant to the rest of the world, but of great significance to those involved. Such a day for our family is the first Saturday of every September, when we attend the  Dalmally  Agricultural Show. Dalmally is a village in Argyll, in the southern highlands. It is in Dalmally that my heart lives, specifically in a big white, gabled house with a huge garden running down to the river Orchy. We lived in this house when I was a child, and I still yearn, daily, to live in it now. The village of Dalmally has myriad childhood memories and family connections. Mum's family come from there, my parents met there, and many of my relatives still live locally. To have a weekend every year, when we attend the show, and have a big family ceilidh in the evening, means that Dalmally Show weekend is a much anticipated date in our family calendar.

(highland cattle)

The Dalmally Show was introduced on the show website this year thus:

"Saturday 5th September 2015: Dalmally proudly presents its annual agricultural show; a celebrations of rural community and local produce. This is a well attended show where you will enjoy a range of attractions including the agricultural events on which the show was founded many years ago. These include judging of highland and commercial beef cattle; black face sheep, poultry, dogs, baking, preserves, horticulture, photography, painting, shinty match, trade stands and more"

(view from the show ground)

At the show, we don't go and see the bulls, sheep or poultry being judged, nor do we concern ourselves too much with the beer tent, or the live chain-saw carving or falconry displays. (This year there was even a modest herd of Alpacas on display, looking ruminatively over their pens at visitors.) We do watch some of the shinty (a particularly vicious highland game resembling turbo charged lacrosse, played by young men willing to die in the attempt to score a goal)

What we are primarily interested in is the  Industrial Tent. This is where the cakes; biscuits, scones, jams, jellies, and crafts are displayed and judged. This tent is where a competitive spirit, dormant for 364 of the 365 days in every year, comes gushing forth like a well spring, and otherwise composed, gentle folks (like my wee Mum and me) reveal a hitherto unsuspected killer streak. The excitement begins in April, when the show schedule is sent out, and initial decisions are made about which competitions, or 'classes' we will enter. Then comes the preparation. Knitting, sewing or crafts are done first, and stored away carefully. Jams and jellies next; the best jar from each batch put aside for the show. Last comes the perishables; cakes, biscuits, scones, dumplings, pancakes, all made in the few days prior to the show, then transported north the night before (Dalmally is about 70 miles away), in tins and boxes, to finally be delivered to the show ground early on the morning of the show. Those of us who have spent the preceding weeks or months preparing our knitting, sewing, jams, crafts and cakes, lay out our entries, have a last fuss and fret over them, eye up the competition and leave, as the tent closes for a few hours for the all- important judging.

The boys enter competitions too. Now regarding themselves as too mature for the Childrens' tent, they take their chances with the adult classes, entering photographs, the occasional cake, bake, or craft item.

(the judges table, ready for action!)

After leaving our entries to be judged, we go for breakfast, discuss our entries (again), then return to the show late morning. By this time, the crowds have started to arrive, the pipe bands are tuning up, the smells of hot dogs, venison burgers, coffee and beer are adding their aroma to the distinctive whiff of cattle, and most importantly, the tents have re-opened after judging. Now we find out what, if any prizes we have won.

This year was a good year. Jacob got a 2nd for his 'item made of wood', a beautiful toolbox.

 Sadly Isaac did not get placed for his beautiful lemon drizzle cake, but we all ate it after the show, and agreed it was the best non-winning lemon cake we had ever tasted.

I was not placed for my strawberry jam, or my carrot cake, or my custard creams, or my child's knitted pom-pom hat.

However I was a little more successful with my cakes.

 My Celebration Cake, Lemon Drizzle cake and Black Forest Gateaux were all 1sts, and my Lemon Drizzle also earned a Special Award. These together meant that for the first time ever I won a cup, for the overall winner of the largest classes in the baking section. This was very exciting.

My preserves did quite well too.

A 1st for my raspberry jam (a lucky punnet of raspberries I think), two 2nds for spiced tomato salsa and matrimony jam (a jam made from two complimentary fruits, mine was cherry and blueberry), and two 3rds, one for lemon curd, and the other for fruit jelly (I made mandarin).

No photographs of Mum's preserves, but she did exceptionally well, and won a cup (also for the first time) for the most points in the preserves section!

On to handcrafts:

Highly Commended for my knitted wash bag and make up bag, and another for my quilt, which I hand stitched on holiday in the summer, and a 3rd for my button bracelet. I have never made a button bracelet before, and found it a little fiddly, but was happy to be placed 3rd.

My favourite entry, and the one I was most delighted to win, was in the class for 'best use of 1 metre of fabric'.

For this entry, I lined a vintage basket, and covered three books. I made a padded glasses case, a mug cosy, and covered a little tin for biscuits. I made a little caddy for a single teabag. I called my entry 'Tea, biscuits, and a good book'. I was delighted that Mum got 2nd in this class too, for her beautiful child's sun dress, with a little bag, and hairband, and covered hanger.

After the show, in the evening, we had a fantastic family ceilidh; all generations eating, drinking, singing, laughing and story-telling together. This too is an annual institution, and one we would hate to miss. The youngest family member there is 12, the oldest is my redoubtable Nana, who at 95 is the Matriach of the family. She attends the show during the day, and examines all entries with a learned eye. She has been winning baking, preserve-making and gardening competitions for more than seven decades; she knows a good entry when she sees it. She takes a note of exactly who has won what, remarks on how well deserved or otherwise the awards have been, and more remarkably still, remembers what prizes were won the year before. After touring all the tents at the show, she settles down on a camping chair to watch the shinty, which she follows assiduously, and at night, she attends the family ceilidh. She makes a small concession to her mature years by leaving before midnight, but when we visit her next morning, she is up, dressed and ready for an eager discussion about the show, local and family news (aka gossip) and usually sends us on our way with a few pots of her home made jam.

Next time I will share some more photographs of other, non-family entries to the show, and a few more views of  gorgeous Argyll.

The August Break '15: Talisman

Joining with Susannah Conway's August Break, where bloggers post a photograph every day in August, following a list of prompts from Susannah. (You can also find the project on  Instagram using hashtag #augustbreak15)

Today's prompt is 'talisman'

Despite my highland heritage, I am not particularly superstitious. I don't know if I believe in talismans, however I do like to keep certain small treasures always near me.

My keyring. On it I have a purple heart, given to me some years ago by my dear brother. Also on there is  a little tag which was the first thing Isaac made in metal work at school. It has his initials engraved on it in wobbly capitals, and I absolutely love it.

In addition to these treasures/talismans, I have a brass number tag, from a miners lamp, given to me one day a few years ago.

These number tags were a vitally important feature of life in the mines: when a miner collected his lamp to go down underground, he left his number tag in its place. When he came back above ground at the end of his shift, he replaced the lamp and retrieved his tag. One can easily picture the significance of these humble brass number tags if something went wrong underground. A check of the number tags, and it would quickly be known exactly who was on duty, and in danger.

I was given this brass number tag on our first visit to Wales, three years ago. We visited 'Big Pit'  museum in Blaenavon, South Wales, which was a working coal mine from 1860-1980. It was of particular interest to me as my Dad was a Bevan Boy during the war. To see the working environment first hand, and imagine the camaraderie and team work of the miners, not to mention the sheer bravery involved in working in such hazardous and cramped conditions, was extremely moving.

I started talking to one of the guides, a barrel chested giant of a man, who was an ex-miner. Talking about Dad's experiences in the mines during the war, to someone who had been a miner, and knew exactly what was involved, was  quite an emotional experience. I wished Dad could have been there to talk to him too. At the conclusion of our conversation, the guide took his keyring out of his pocket, and removed the brass number tag from it. He explained its purpose, and gave it to me with the words 'There you are, you can have this. Think of me and your Dad when you look at it'. I was moved to tears. I immediately put it on my own keyring, and there it has stayed, and will stay, for ever.

Sugar Loaf Quilt

I have wanted to learn how to quilt for a long time. The world of quilting appeared inviting, beguiling, but a bit intimidating too. I noticed beautiful quilts everywhere. They caught my eye in films, perhaps draped cosily over a sofa; or plumply folded at the end of a bed, implying hospitality and welcome. They popped up in books, warming and comforting characters who were ill, sad, or chilled.

I read about quilts, I looked at them in museums. Quilts documented significant events. Quilts stored family history in their folds. Quilts were made to celebrate weddings and births. Quilts were sent away with grown children to college and new jobs. Quilts seemed to cast a homely spell, distilling the essence of love, family and home within their folds, to be used when the recipient needed warmth, or the comfort of home.

Derek, having heard me say many times how much I would like to learn to quilt, surprised me on my birthday this year by booking me on a 'Quilting for Beginners' course. (He is an excellent gift-chooser!). Inspired and motivated to do some ground work before the course, I decided to take the plunge and try to hand sew a quilt whilst we were on holiday in Wales. One the right size to nestle under on the sofa, or throw over the back of my desk chair; big enough to be useful, small enough to be realistically achievable over the summer, seemed a sensible plan. I had heard the phrase 'English paper piecing' and after reading a little about it, thought it seemed suitable for a first attempt.

I bought ready cut paper hexagons (2 1/2"), and cut some rough squares from an old fabric sample book. On a last minute trip into town before leaving for holiday, I chose a couple of larger pieces to supplement the fabric samples (and whilst on holiday bought remnants for the backing here)

 

I started basting the pieces onto the paper templates on the long train journey to Wales. It was quick to do each one, and enjoyable, but I had no real idea of how many hexagons I would need, how they would look, or if they would ever become a quilt.

During our weeks at Sugar Loaf Barn, I made steady progress. I worked on my hexagon flowers whenever I could. I learned to strengthen corners where hexagons met, with extra stitches; to trim the backs neatly when the hexagons were stitched together, to 'patch' the areas between flowers with extra hexagons as the quilt top began to take shape, and on no account to remove the paper template from a hexagon until it was surrounded by other hexagons (I found that one out the hard way...)

The fabric I used was soft furnishings weight, not a conscious choice, just what I had to hand, and this gave considerable heft to the quilt top as it grew, which I rather liked. The evening before we left Wales, I stitched the final hexagon in place.

Once back in Glasgow, I was determined that my quilt would not languish unfinished, and worked on it whenever I could over the next couple of weeks. I was rather daunted by the process of joining together the layers to make up the quilt, and made lots of mistakes, but I managed, after a fashion, and to my amazement it began to look quite quilt-like. I don't have a sewing machine, so there were no short-cuts with binding or quilting, everything was stitched by hand. I quilted the layers with a simple grid of wiggly lines, in a dark pink thread.(I used a water-erasable marking pen like this  to make the pattern.)

Here, then is my Sugar Loaf Quilt. It was made with great enthusiasm rather than great skill, but I really do love it. The finished size is 125cm x 70cm, just about right for keeping legs warm and general sofa comfort. Amazingly, though it is very old fashioned and quite pink, both boys like it and have watched its development with some interest.

 

I rather like (even prefer?) the back.

I learned such a lot making this quilt, and found every moment stitching it hugely satisfying and enjoyable. I began to understand, rather than just imagine, the  charm of quilt making, and the pleasure the finished article can bring, even if it is imperfect.

 

My course begins soon, and is based on machine quilting, so that will be a different experience entirely. I don't know if I will make another quilt wholly by hand again, but do find myself, in odd moments, thinking about next year's holiday, and somehow imaging another quilt top slowly taking shape in the quiet of the Welsh hills....

a pile of new books:1

There are few things in this world that make me happier than a pile of new books.

In the spirit of new year's resolutions in January, I committed to not buying any new books until my 'to read' shelf had been thoroughly explored, and I have stuck to it pretty well. I have resisted the lure of Amazon's 'Recommended for You' page, and bought books only from charity shops or borrowed them from the library, with the exception of books for my book group, though I very conscientiously selected a book from my 'to read' shelf when it was my turn to choose.

However, I did have a 'get out of jail card' in my possession, in the form of a book token, which I had been hoarding  for some months. Derek had very kindly gifted me a quilting course for my birthday earlier this month, to start in August, and this presented the perfect excuse for a trip to Waterstones to look for a quilting book. Derek had already given me 'Homemade and Happy' by Tone Finnanger, (he really is an excellent gift-chooser!) so after a delightfully lengthy browse I chose 'Quilt Me' by Jane Brocket; full of inspirational ideas for quilt making, and fearless in the choice of fabrics used. I thought this would be a very helpful counterpoint to the rigid 'rules' of quilting I will be exposed to during my course!

I have recently become fascinated by the Bloomsbury Group, and when I saw  'The Bloomsbury Cookbook' by Jans Ondantje Rolls I swooped on it like a merlin; I love a cook book that combines recipes with background information, and this book is a rich resource. It has hundreds of recipes, some sourced directly from members of the Bloomsbury Group (or more accurately from their cooks), some from 'Good Things In England' by Florence White, some from the author. It also contains drawings and paintings by the Bloomsbury Group; excerpts from their letters and diaries and lots of other biographical information. I find 'straight' biographies deadly to read; making food and recipes the focal point appeals much more.

 

I have since sourced 'Charleston' and 'Bloomsbury at Home' from Amazon marketplace for the purposes of cross-reference, which purchases I thought acceptable within the 'no new books' rule as they were second hand. In that peculiar way that sometimes happens, when your interest is piqued, you see references to the subject everywhere. In the back of a weekend magazine supplement, I found an article about Vanessa Nicolson, granddaughter of Vita Sackville-West , member of the Bloomsbury Group, now cut out and tucked away for future reference. Mary Addison also mentioned the Bloomsbury Group recently on her excellent blog, which appears prima facie to be about embroidery; but is also about botany, baking, religious festivals, books, fashion, paintings, history and so much more. Finally, reading recently about Caroline Zoob's embroidery, I learned that she lived in Monks House, Virginia Woolf's Sussex home, and in that delightfully cyclical manner that the universe loves to provide, has written a book about it.

 

post-script....

Sunday morning dawned, cool, and blustery. Perfect weather for running the Glasgow Great Womens 10k. 

Thousands of women converged on Ballahouston Park on the south side of Glasgow, to take part in what has become a massive event over the years. Despite all the preparation, I felt quite jittery before the start, but as soon as I started the run, I began to relax, and enjoy the extraordinary experience of running with around 7,000 other women. I  tried to maintain a steady pace, keeping a little energy in reserve for the finish line (even those of us with a very small ego want to end with a modest flourish!) It felt a long way, and I inwardly cheered at the sight of the pipers heralding each kilometre mark. I crossed the line in 1hour and 6 minutes, which I was very happy with.

I came over the finish to the welcome sight of Derek and the boys cheering me on, and rushed over for a big hug. Isaac said I looked  'very unlikely' coming over the finish line, and Derek said I looked exhausted (!), Jacob just gave me a big huge hug, and despite looking pretty awful, with hair scraped back, no make up, and a red face, I felt brilliant.

Thank you so much to those generous readers who donated to my Just Giving page to help raise funds for my chosen charity, Funding Neuro, I am so grateful to you. And to all the kind souls who left encouraging comments on my previous post, thank you, thank you.

There is a post-script to the tale...

Whilst running the 10k, I was aware of pain in my right foot, which my adrenalin and I decided to ignore- I wasn't stopping for anything. However, when I reached home and took my trainers off, my foot began to swell, and weight bearing became very difficult. Yesterday morning I took myself up to the local Minor Injuries Unit, and it turns out that I had unwittingly run 10 kilometres on a stress fracture. I had probably fractured it sometime in the preceding week and hadn't realised, and then running the 10k aggravated it. So I am now wearing  huge black air cast boot and will be for the next 4-5 weeks. I honestly don't know whether to laugh or cry, but in the meantime I am plodding around lop-sidedly, trying to stay positive, knowing that I wont be able to run again until the summer time. It will be like starting all over again. And, who knows, maybe that's no bad thing. 

James and the Uffizi

Leaving the house at 5.30am last Monday, I was..

....excited (three days in Florence, two dear friends, tickets for a James Taylor concert.)

...a bit anxious (would everyone really be ok without me?)

...tired (I had spent the preceding days cooking, cleaning, ironing, organising, writing lists..)

...in a quiet state of disbelief that the trip was happening at all.

However, after all the dreaming, wishing, hoping and planning, here I was, leaving the boys still in bed, Derek waving me off sleepily at the door. I took a taxi through quiet, early morning streets to the ceaseless activity of the airport, and I was on my way.

Florence may have grey rainy days, and sleety days, and cold, miserable days, but not so the April days we spent there. The sky was azure; the river Arno flowing voluptuously through the city, lazily reflecting the light back onto the facades of riverside buildings, like a beautiful woman kissing her hand to innumerable, smitten admirers.

It was beautifully warm, and being able to wear just a linen dress and sandals, after a long Scottish winter of woollies and wellies, was bliss.

The centre of Florence is small, and easy to navigate. Every corner you turn there are beautiful things to see; buildings, churches, flowers, fountains, statues.

 
 
 

On Tuesday we visited the Uffizi Gallery in the morning, offset by a little retail therapy afterwards, a lingering lunch outdoors, followed by James Taylor concert in the evening. There are not many days so perfect in a lifetime.

The Uffizi Gallery was a revelation. I could have spent days there, impressing the paintings, colours, light and beauty on my inner eye, to be recalled at will. I have never studied art, and know nothing about the technical aspects, but to stand in front of paintings that I had seen in books and prints, and see the brush strokes, realise the vividness of the colours, the tender sweep of an eyelash, the detail of a foot, or a lock of hair, the light and shadow in the fold of a gown, was so absorbing, so rewarding, my soul soared.

 

Of course, we weren't the only people enjoying the Uffizi that morning, and a little patience was required to see some of the more famous works on display.

In the evening, James Taylor. This was hugely exciting for me, particularly as we realised when we arrived that the theatre was small, and that our seats were in row B. I do love James Taylor, and have seen him many times, but Florence was absolutely fantastic. James was as gracious and gentle as ever, the music was outstanding. Here he is singing 'You've Got  Friend' at the end, and yes, I was standing right in front of the stage (you might as well know the truth about me now, so you can decide if you want to abandon this blog for ever).

The next day was time to come home; sad to say goodbye to Florence, and to my friends; but so immensely happy to have been there. I have dreamed about being in Florence every night since my return, I hope the dreams are prophetic. The highlights? James and the Uffizi.

52 Across

52 Across; Florence. Clue in today's crossword. Coincidentally  where I am going next week, to see a dear friend, and to catch James Taylor in concert again.

complex, exact, exquisite

I have a soft spot for Stirling Castle. It is about 40 minutes from our village, and I have visited many times, several of those as a Mummy Helper on school trips in the dear departed primary school days. The majesty of the castle was a bit lost on me on those occasions, as I spent most of the time anxiously counting and re-counting heads; the weight of responsibility of other peoples' children weighing  heavily on my shoulders.

However it was with a light heart and sense of happy anticipation that I visited the castle a couple of weeks ago, specifically the Great Hall, to view The Great Tapestry Of Scotland.

 The Tapestry is the brainchild of Alexander McCall Smith (of 'The No1 Ladies' Detective Agency' books fame), in consultation with Alistair Moffat (historian), Andrew Crummy (illustrator) and Dorie Wilkie (group co-ordinator and stitch supervisor), plus many others. It tells the story of Scotland via embroidered panels and is fully explained here.

Although referred to as a tapestry, the 160 panels are in fact embroidered. Each panel is suspended on a wooden baton, the panels are hung in a specific order, that tells the story of Scotland in 143 metres. (View slide show of all panels here)

The scale and proportions of the work are breath taking. Scotland is represented from the time the land masses of the world formed, through to the present day. Each panel has a central motif, with borders showing related objects, people or places. I am not an embroiderer, but even to my untrained eye, it is clear that the stitch work is expertly done; complex, exact, exquisite.

On a corner of each panel is stitched the initials of the (mainly, though not exclusively) women who worked it. Many of the panels were stitched where the historical event depicted on the panel took place.

The texture of the stitch work is rich and varied, from lace, delicate as a cobweb, adorning the neckline of a dress, to tight whorls representing sheep's wool, and  dense chains and tufts  bringing rock, sea and hill vividly to life.

Colours start from the browns, greys and blues of rock, sea, sky, land, in the early panels, and the plain clothing of the settlers, crofters, farmers and labourers, through to the richly decorated robes of the wealthy, and of course tartan plaids and skirts; from the original, belted plaids, to the formal, 'dress' kilt introduced by the Victorians.

 

It is hard to describe the impact of seeing the tapestry in its entirety. From inspiration, collaboration, consultation, design; then to recruitment, instruction, co-ordination and final presentation, it is a monumental achievement. That the energy, goodwill and skill was all out there, just waiting to be harnessed, and put to such good use, is immensely encouraging. The tapestry is currently on tour, but it is anticipated that it will eventually have its own, custom built gallery in the Scottish borders. If you get the chance, do go.

York: misc

When I was nursing, I was extremely organised, I rarely forgot to do things. I worked hard all day and if I didn't achieve a particular goal, I passed it onto a colleague, so that nothing was missed. I was efficient.

Now that I am a stay at home mum, I am, in some ways, less organised, and though that can be rather freeing, it can be rather dismaying also, when I realise I have forgotten to do something, or taken longer to do something than I previously would. 

However, this morning I have been productive, and organised; even mildly efficient. I have made some overdue calls, and attended to a few tasks I had been neglecting.I suspect this is because I have been asked to make a cake for a friend and I know I will need to spend some time today and tomorrow concentrating on it, so need to make the best use of the hours when the boys are at school.

Therefore in the spirit of efficiency, and rounding up, and completing tasks neatly, I am posting my last images from my weekend in York: things that caught my eye, that don't fall into a particular category, 'York: misc' you might say. 

 

 

Thank you so much for sharing York with me. 

Back home now, to old clothes and porridge, as my Nana would say, but with lots of very happy memories to carry in my heart.

I would mostly choose to go in autumn.

Last Sunday afternoon I was chugging down the river Ouse on a little sightseeing boat. We were the only passengers; apart from two young crewmen tucking into their lunch at a nearby table it was just us, sitting smiling at each other, and the water, and the view, and the steady commentary from the skipper.

 

It was peaceful, the views were beautiful; what a perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon. If I lived in York, I might have to do it regularly. I think I would mostly choose to go in autumn, when it is quiet, and the trees along the river bank are slowly shedding their red and golden leaves into the water. 

Fun to pass under, rather than over, the bridges,

And fun to buy a paper bag full of fragrant, very hot, roasted chestnuts to nibble as we walked home.

Our little courtyard was so welcoming.

More photo's from York to share next time.

 

 

as real as real could be

Last week I spent a few days in York. We stayed in a small, quite perfect apartment, directions to which read 'first right behind York Minster'. These directions rivalled my (until last weekend) favourite ever directions, which were 'first left past Notre Dame, number 27', sent to me in advance of a visit to friends in Paris many years ago.

The view from our landing window looked out over the rooftops.

We decided to take a very early walk on Saturday morning. The streets were all but deserted, with only the occasional delivery van or road sweeper for company. It was the perfect time to be out, before the city centre filled up with tourists. We felt that York belonged to us; the historic centre ours to explore.

It was cold. At the end of our street, we could see York Minster gleaming through the mist, just a minute's walk away.

Turning the other way, we headed towards the Shambles, York's famous 14th C street, originally the butchers' quarter, now devoted to tourist shops and cafes.

The ghostly mist somehow added to the atmosphere of antiquity, and we marvelled at the buildings overhanging the narrow road, leaning drunkenly against each other, without a straight wall, window or door between them.

Some look like the work of an elfin carpenter,

 or as though made of gingerbread.

 

Despite their fairy tale appearance, they  as real as real could be, fully functioning and kept busy catering for the year-round tourist trade.

 

As the streets began to fill up towards 9am, our thoughts turned to breakfast, and we returned to 'Flax and Twine' which we had noted earlier in our walk. A fabulous vintage shop, with a delightful cafe upstairs, we sat beside the window, slowly warming up from the inside out, with big bowls of steaming, nubbly porridge, and several pots of strong tea.

Don't you love a cafe that sells home made toffee apples at breakfast time?

More about our weekend in York next time.........

Related articles

 

The August Break: Memory

The next prompt from Susannah Conway for the August Break project is 'memory'.

I took this photograph of Allan Ramsay's fine statue, and the Castle, when I attended the Edinburgh Book Festival in Charlotte Square in Edinburgh.

The annual Book Festival is delightful; small, intimate and manageable, a self contained Festival within the enormous event that is the annual Edinburgh Festival and Fringe.

I had a ticket for a reading and book signing by the very talented and, as it turns out, funny and likable Nina Stibbe, who wrote 'Love, Nina'; letters written to her sister circa 1982 when she worked as a Nanny*.

I also worked as a Nanny in the early 1980's, so her book brought back lots of good memories. My memory must have failed me recently though, because I had forgotten how utterley beautiful Edinburgh can be, very early on a cool Sunday morning at the end of August.

*She also read exerpts from her new book, 'Man at the Helm', which were so funny I laughed my mascara off.

August Break: Peaceful

Today's photo prompt for the August Break project is 'peaceful'

There is a beautiful church in Abergavenny, which I was keen to visit whilst we were on holiday in the area, having heard that some historically significant marble tombs were housed there. I was not prepared, however, for the sheer number of tombs in the church, effigies of long departed knights, and their wives, in various attitudes of devotion and prayer. A small community of the long departed, silently marking off the centuries.

Particularly moving was the the 15th C marble efigy of Sir William, and his wife Gwladys. They lay peacefully side by side unto eternity, their marble likenesses a testament to their love, as well as to the religeous conventions of the times. I found it hard to walk away and leave them.

 

Related articles

 

 

The August Break: Reflection

Another August Break photograph. If you haven't had a look at Susannah Conway's blog yet, why not pop over? The August Break project is gathering momentum, with 386 bloggers currently signed up. Lots of new blogs to visit.

Onto today's prompt, which is 'reflection'. Thankfully quite straightforward after yesterdays 'Three Bananas' debacle! Initially I messed about taking photographs in a mirror etc, but the dust kept showing; I looked like I was taking shelter behind my camera from a particularly nasty sandstorm. I was just on the point of doing the unthinkable ( getting a duster out) when I remembered  Isaac's 12th birthday meal in April, in a local pub/restaurant beside the canal, and this photograph....

See you tomorrow......
 

Related articles

 

 

Thank You Letter to Sugar Loaf Barn

Dear Sugar Loaf Barn,

Thank you for a wonderful holiday. We all miss you. 

We miss the warm, bright mornings,

and peaceful nights.

 

We miss the view.

We miss feeding these little chaps,

and these clucky girls.

(Thank you for all the eggs, ladies).

 

We miss having our lunch in pretty courtyard cafes,

doing our shopping on market days in lively little towns.

Holiday clothes,

holiday toes.

Holiday baking, 

and celebrating. 

We remember laughing, talking, eating outside on warm nights, dog walking by the river, catching up with reading, catching up with sleeping, days out, days in, Jacob and Isaac helping on the farm, visits from the farm kittens for saucers of cream, making a time capsule for the 800 year old barn currently being renovated by the three kind, strong, capable sons of the farmer, Meg chasing the hens, a trip to York to see a dear friend visiting from Australia (yes, it was a long way on the train, but so worth it xx), the deafening thunder and lightning storm on our last night,  and we can still feel the lumps in our throats as we drove away on our last morning. 

We will miss you until next summer,

Love

Penny, Derek, Jacob, Isaac and Meg XX

Related articles

 

 

holiday check list....

Holiday reading...

Holiday work basket....

Holiday clothes....

Looking forward to our time away....

innocent chocolate hearts and vodka espressos

Chocolate sprinkle hearts are a sweet hostess gift, and would also be a pretty addition to a party table. I made a batch of them on Midsummer's Eve, when we were invited to a friend's house for dinner. Having intended to make iced cookies, then running out of time, I remembered seeing these in Annie Riggs excellent Sweet Things, and quickly made some to take with us.

They were warmly received, and as we nibbled them after dinner with our coffee, my friend's husband (since renamed The Silent Assassin) offered  to make us Vodka Espressos , which suggestion we welcomed with enthusiasm, our defences being already weakened by the champagne and pomegranate aperitifs, and excellent wine with dinner.

A vodka espresso tastes like sweet, cold coffee, but makes your brain feel like you are propelling yourself at speed in high heels into a moving truck. Drinking lots of vodka espressos makes your brain feel like you are propelling yourself at speed in high heels into a moving truck but you don't feel any pain until the next morning.

However, on the topic of the altogether more innocent chocolate hearts; what follows is not really a recipe, more of a friendly nod in the direction of some melted chocolate and a piping bag, if you want to make these pretty little things:

Line a baking tray with greaseproof paper and pour in your choice of sprinkles, giving the tin a shake to distribute them in a even, generous layer. 

Melt 200g of plain, white or dark chocolate in a bowl suspended over a pan of simmering water. When it is melted and smooth, remove from the heat and allow to cool, stirring it every few minutes until it has cooled and thickened sufficiently to leave a ribbon trail, at which point you must the act with cool headed efficiency to pipe the hearts before the chocolate becomes too cold and stiff to pipe.

Decant the chocolate into a waiting piping bag (with a star tipped piping nozzle if you feeel so inclined, or just with the end snipped off), and pipe the chocolate hearts on top of the sprinkles. They will dry and harden in just a few minutes, ready to be packed into a pretty box or container.

For maximum effect, enjoy on Midsummer Eve, in the company of friends with a killer streak for making cocktails...

 

Related articles

 

 

In and Out.

In...... the post this week

Two of my favourite magazines; a book I had forgotten I ordered, and my Summer issue of the perenially entertaining and beautifully written Slightly Foxed .

In....a lovely late birthday parcel from my darling brother, a beautiful soft leather purse wrapped in layers of crisp tissue.

In....my In-Box, a nomination from Tracey at Yarn and Pencil to take part in the Leibster Award; I have accepted with pleasure and shall be working on my random facts, answers to her questions, and my nominations this week.

Out...walking with Meg every day. One of the great joys of having a dog is the daily walk. I am fortunate to live in a village surrounded by easily accessible fields; a small pretty woodland, muddy paths and good splashy burns. 

Out...last night to the Glasgow's new Hydro indoor arena to see The Eagles in concert. Hard to pick a highlight from what was a fantastic evening, but I did melt into a heap of slush when Timothy B. Schmidt (who's beautiful cheeckbones are so high they cast their own shadow) sang 'Love Will Keep Us Alive'

Out...this evening to my Bookgroup meeting to discuss this book, which was my suggestion for this month's read, so my turn to lead the discussion. 

 

 

I chose to go and see the Kelpies.

I find roadside sculptures fascinating. Huge, silent; set apart from, yet daily witnessing the scurryings and scuttlings of overwrought motorists and commuters on the road below with cathedral calm and a dignity that can only have been put there by the sculptor, but seem to eminate from the sculptures themselves.

So when Derek asked what I would like to do for my birthday earlier this month, I chose to go and see the Kelpies, at the newly created Helix Urban Park, outside Falkirk.

 

 The Kelpies dominate the skyline for miles around, and are set to become as synonymous with Central Scotland as the breathtaking Angel of the North is to Tyneside. Not everyone loves them, finding them  simplistic and kitscht (see this piece for a bit of art snobbery) but I love them (and I hate snobbery, in art as in all other things).

They are the work of Scottish sculptor Andy Scott who also created the lovely Arria, and the Heavy Horse and many other works.

Kelpies are creatures of Scottish folkore; shape shifters, water spirits that supposedly took delight in enchanting, ensnaring, and ultimately drowning unwary travellers. Andy Scott's towering interpretation  is realised in hundreds of tons of steel, which gleams and shimmers during the day, reflecting the light, and at night the Kelpies are lit from within, beguiling passing travellers, but hopefully without the fatal consequences of legend. 

They are part of a bigger development , The Helix, set in previously underused land between Falkirk and Grangemouth,which will link canals, communities, walkways, cycle paths and eco parks within the Falkirk/Grangemouth area of central Scotland. Very much a work in progress, the visitor centre is still under construction, as is the play area, cafe and other familiar components of  the much loved Great British Family Day Out.

Visiting the Helix so early in its life was an endearing experience; it has the optimistic feel of a friend who has just moved house, ushering you in with a half embarrassed laugh; packing boxes overflowing, paintings stacked against the wall, but the kettle and radio on, the sound of children racketing about in empty rooms upstairs, everyone knowing that great things will happen here.

Derek and I loved it. Here we are, reading Jim Carruth's poem, which is carved in stone just beside the water. Next time we'll take the boys too.

 

 

 

we decided to do it in style.

Last weekend Derek amd I stayed at the exquisite   Prestonfield, in Edinburgh.

We were celebrating our wedding anniversary, and as this was only the second time we had been away alone in 14 years, we decided to do it in style. And Prestonfield has style by the bucketload. 

Also wonderfully comfortable bedrooms,

elegant drawing rooms with cosy window seats to take tea, read, relax and dream away an hour or two,

 

mysterious architectural remains in the grounds, seemingly discarded during building modifications over the years,

 

haughty peacocks preening in the weak winter sunshine,

plus an ornamental version in dignified pose on a hall table.

There are also many intriguing original artworks in the hotel, which makes walking anywhere a slow process as your eye is constantly drawn to the paintings; pencil drawings, architectural plans, marble busts and lots of oil portraits, some of them of previous owners of Prestonfield through the centuries. All there to wander past, gaze at, even reach out and gently touch.

This was the landing outside our room.

All this splendour, which could have been a little intimidating, was tempered by the friendly informality of the staff, who swished purposefully through the hotel in their black kilts, dispensing cheer, wonderful service, lots of smiles and even the odd bit of well placed humour . 

We had a  gorgeous dinner in the (almost!) circular dining room, then coffee in the Tapestry Drawing Room, which has a deeply ornate, original plasterwork ceiling and a huge log fire roaring up the lum.

After breakfast next morning  we set off for home, via a little visit here, without which a trip to Edinburgh is not complete...