The Homemade Heart

unexpected journeys

'The Hobbit' is a cherished book for me. I have several copies of it; a hardback in a slipcase, like this, and an annotated copy like this, as well as a paperback copy, plus a small pocket hardback that I have temporarily misplaced, as well as access to Isaac's rather magnificent hardback slipcased collection of The Hobbit and Lord of The Rings, which he received a few years ago at Christmas. Obviously that is several more copies than strictly required for the purpose of reading a story, no matter how enjoyable, but I do take great pleasure in reading the same words in different editions, to see where a favourite phrase or paragraph sits on the page in a particular hardback or paperback.
Whilst my journeys this summer have not involved gold-hungry dwarves, fire breathing dragons, or flights on the back of giant eagles, they have in their own way been as unexpected as Bilbo's, and have the added piquancy of not being fictional.  

unexpected journey: by train
In the Spring, I bought a ticket to see James Taylor at BST in Hyde Park, on July 15th. As a bonus, Bonnie Rait was playing with James, and it was also Paul Simon's last UK gig as part of his final tour.  The day at the festival was to be wrapped within four or five days of solo pottering around London, a long cherished ambition of mine. The hotel was booked, plans involving the Persephone Bookshop, Liberty of London, Fortnum and Mason and the Foundling Museum were made, as well as booking tickets to the ABBA exhibition at the Southbank Centre, and I began to feel very excited. 
Then some unexpected, hefty domestic expenses in early June left us reeling, and my London plan came crashing down in pieces. The money earmarked for my trip had to be diverted elsewhere. Swallowing my disappointment, I cancelled the hotel, and packed away the new dresses and sandals I had bought for my London wanderings, as well as my day dreams of drifting round London at my own pace, with no-one to please but myself, for a few days.
However, the day before I had originally been due to leave, Derek unexpectedly suggested that I go anyway, but with some modifications to my original trip. I still had my BST ticket (non refundable, non transferable),  and if I went for three days, not five, stayed here, not here, and generally took it easy with expenses, then it was do-able. I found myself, therefore, in the style of Bilbo running out of his Hobbit Hole without a pocket handkerchief, sitting on a train to London, not quite sure what I had thrown in my bag, checking I was not still wearing my apron, did not have toast crumbs round my mouth, double checking I had brought my BST ticket and wondering if I had left anything remotely resembling dinners, or clean clothes, for the family for the next few days.
And yes, I had an absolutely wonderful time.

unexpected journey: with camera
Last year, Jacob fell in love with Andrea, and he fell hard. This is entirely understandable, as she is the sweetest, funniest, kindest, most adorable girl you could ever imagine. He decided, sensibly, to ask her to marry him, and laid his plans for a very simple, sincere, and beautiful proposal. He asked me, unexpectedly, the day before the momentous event, if I would be there to take photographs. I was honoured, and extremely excited, and instantly said yes.
Hence, on the morning of the proposal, when Jacob and Andrea were driving to a pretty Inn outside Edinburgh for what Andrea thought was to be an overnight stay, I was driving there too, ahead of them. I parked behind a wall, and searched for a vantage point, from where I could discreetly take up position in the hotel gardens after they had gone inside to book in. I found myself lurking in some overgrown bushes opposite the Inn; camera in hand, hoping with some sincerity that nobody would approach and ask me just exactly what I was doing.
That day I learned how hard it is to take photographs when tears of happiness are running unchecked down your face. Jacob proposed, with a ring he designed and commissioned, as unique as the lovely girl I now proudly regard as my daughter. And of course, she did say yes.

unexpected journey: to health
If you are a long time reader of my blog (and if you are, thank you), you may remember that Isaac has had a tough time with his health over the past few years. I am extremely happy to report that we have finally had a diagnosis, and since then, life has improved for my boy.
What has been rather unexpected is the fulsome blossoming of his personality in the face of better health. He has energy, enthusiasm, and stamina. His natural wit and humour has come to the fore, and his calm wisdom and counsel are overtly clear. There are very few people whose advice I would seek, but Isaac is one of them. He is wise beyond his years, and has a clear, logical, yet kind way of looking at the world that is truly beautiful.

unexpected journey: in the wee small hours
Nobody wants to receive a message at 11pm on a Sunday evening saying 'Jacob has had a fall, we are in A+E', however that was my experience some three weeks ago.
Taut with tension, I threw a few essentials in a bag and set off for Aberdeen, arriving in the wee small hours of the morning, to find Jacob, lovingly and capably supported by Andrea, on a trolley in A+E. He had no sensation, movement or control from the waist down. He had slipped that afternoon, coming down the steps from his house, 'sober and undistracted' as he put it in his scholarly way, and was clearly in a bad way. An MRI revealed herniated discs in his lumbar spine, which were impinging on his spinal cord. This is a red flag situation, requiring emergency surgical intervention, if the patient is not to be left permanently disabled. With a nursing background, I had an inkling of how serious the situation was, but fortunately, at that time, Jacob was unaware of the severity of the situation.
His consultant ('Call me Tosh') was outstandingly capable, and he and Jacob had an immediate rapport, which made the following hours marginally more bearable. Jacob was taken away to theatre, with Andrea by his side in to the anaesthetic room (it will take me a long time to forget watching his trolley being wheeled away down the ward; my darling boy waving, saying, 'Don't worry mum, I'll be fine'). 
Many hours later, around 1am, he came back to the ward. Surgery was successful.
I will skip forward the gruelling days in hospital, as they are too painful to dwell on, however Jacob was amazing, and despite terrible pain, and life altering surgery, he faced his fears and challenges with courage and dignity, and walked out, 10 days later on two crutches, flanked by Andrea on one side, and me on the other. Pale, a bit clammy, but resolute; on his feet, and on his way.
The nursing and medical staff were almost without exception, cheerful, kind, and accommodating, but it was a hard time.
I was away from home for two and a half weeks, a truly unexpected journey.  Andrea never left Jacob's side; her devotion was complete; what a test of their love, and how well they came through it.

an unexpected journey: with needle and thread
If you are a long time reader of this blog (and, again, thank you if you are), you will know that I took up quilting about three years ago, writing about my first attempt at making a quilt here. Since then, I have made many quilts, some of which I have written about on the blog, but many which have been made without fanfare or photograph. Some are in use at home, some have been given away as gifts, all have been a joy to make, and my love affair with quilting is pretty strongly established.
In my last post, I mentioned that creatively I was 'almost' fulfilled. Amongst other things, I wished to become properly proficient at quilt making; learn more techniques, and possibly gain some sort of qualification. Browsing through options, I unexpectedly found what seems the perfect online City and Guilds course in Patchwork and Quilting, and after much discussion with Derek, and a bit of piggy-bank emptying, I enrolled on 3rd September on the C&G course 'Level Three Patchwork and Quilting', which is provided by the School of Stitched Textiles.
I am excited, and nervous, but also determined and committed. I'm not sure where my course will lead but I know I will work hard and do the best job I can. 

an unexpected journey: back to blogging
My final unexpected journey, as summer wheels steadily towards autumn, is back here to the blog. I hope, and intend, to be writing again more regularly again. Thank you for still being here.

it's a new dawn, it's a new day....

 
I don't subscribe to the tendency in Blogland to declare wistfully that September is really the start of the new year, with that back to school feeling; new jotters, new shoes, good intentions etc.
To me, the new year starts firmly on January 1st. Hogmanay is over, the Christmas tree is still droopily, defiantly standing, and dust has gathered where the house hasn't been properly cleaned for weeks. The sideboard is hosting a remarkable array of sticky necked bottles of port; colourful foreign liqueurs, and exotic gins. The fridge is clogged with bottles of wine, of vastly varying quality. Eating chocolates before breakfast has become the lazy norm, and half a pound of blue cheese smeared onto some thick, crumbly oatcakes has become the supper of choice, eaten half reclined in a favourite chair, whilst catching up with a bit of Christmas viewing. So far, so festive (at least in our house).

After Hogmanay is over, and 1st January has arrived (a date that seemed impossibly distant this time last week), an uneasy awareness creeps in round the back of your neck, and you start to see Real Life hove into view on the horizon. You realise it's half past one and you have been meaning to shower since 9am, and instead sat down with some tea and buttered toast and a few After Eights, and are now witlessly watching '101 Dalmations' on your own. 
Dim recollections of alarm clocks and school uniforms begin to gather behind the temples, and you look around your shattered sitting room, and in to your kitchen, where the fairy lights, strung with Nigella-esque intentions at the beginning of December, now limply illuminate a clutter of dishes from last nights dinner (turkey stroganoff with the last of the roast parsnips), and Christmas cards that never quite made it to the artful display strung along the sitting room wall, are now silted up with the discarded toys from Christmas crackers, some left over wrapping paper, and a pair of reading glasses you have never seen before.
With a surprising stab of something like relief,  you realise that the time has come to bring New Year order to the Post Festive chaos. You jump in the shower, and come out bellowing the familiar war cry 'Black Bin Bags, and Plenty of Hot Water'.

Much as I adore Christmas, I equally relish the Great Clean Up of January 1st (or 2nd). Down come the tree and decorations, out comes the hoover, cloths, scrubbers, and hot soapy water. Drips of candle wax are chiselled off the mantelpiece, ropey Christmas drinks are returned to the cupboard (or discreetly emptied down the sink), furniture is pushed back into position, everyday crockery is returned to the kitchen dresser, and everything is given a wash or polish before being put back in its usual place. Christmas crockery (most of mine is from here,  with some of this for Christmas main course and cheese plates) is carefully stacked away until the first of December next year, always with a silent but heartfelt hope that we will all be here, and all be well next year to once again gather round the table. 
There are usually several trips to the Municipal Recycling Centre with paper and packaging (now there's a gold standard for knocking the last of the festive spirit out of a person). 

With Isaac's encouragement I have made a couple of New Year Resolutions for 2018: to go to my Yoga class faithfully, and get back to writing my blog. Isaac has a quietly insistent manner which is extremely effective in shaming you in to what you have always known you should be doing. He is so true and pure himself, that he brings up the standards of those around him. I mentioned Isaac, briefly in my last post, and for those kind enough to wonder how he is, he is now improving, thankfully, day by day.

I have other plans for the year too; we are planning a desperately needed but low cost refurb of our family sitting room. Our floor needs replaced, which will absorb much of our budget, so I will do what I can with regards to curtains, and cushions, and painting our shabby bookcases etc. I am in love with the  Farrow and Ball paint chart (the actual chart itself is beautiful, never mind the colours), and I am nervously viewing 'upcycling' tutorials on You Tube. I will post photographs of my progress  if I can bear to.

I have lots of quilting plans for 2018 too, and am currently saving hard for a new sewing machine. I adore mine, but it is rather small, and basic, and I would like a more robust model for the projects I have in mind.
In my never ending battle with clutter, I am going to try hard not to allow it to accumulate this year (so hard!), and have already culled my extensive collection of magazine back-numbers. Very hard to discard all those beautiful images and words into the recycling, but of course I feel better for having done it. I have now designated a shallow basket for magazines, which will be emptied on a monthly basis, rather than stacking back numbers for that mythical future day when I have time to re-read them. The fact that I have been subscribing to several magazines for almost thirty years and have never read a back number yet is something which my brain seems unable to compute.
I intend to resurrect the Cookery Calendar Challenge, and will restart that on 1st of February. I am toying with the idea of including cakes and bakes this time, as well as meals ( let me know if you think that is a good idea).

So ends my New Year ramble, thank you for sticking with it, and with me, during my lengthy absence last year. Like a convalescent patient, it is taking me a little time to find my feet again with the blog, but to paraphrase the great Nina Simone, it's a new year, and I am feeling good. (Here's Nina, saying it so much better than I).
 

teetering

What's going on?
My blog has been teetering on the brink of extinction in recent months....
My last Cookery Calendar Challenge did not materialise (though I am still cooking)
My quilt posts dried up (though I am still quilting)
My book posts failed to materialise (though I am still reading)
My seasonal posts have not been written (though I am still noting and enjoying the changing seasons)
My annual Dalmally Show post has never been composed (though it was a good year for prizes and cups)
My Christmas crafts and recipes have not been shared (though preparations are well underway)

 

Why?
The lure of Instagram (easy, colourful, quick, communicative)
The less you blog....the less you blog (losing the habit)
The difficulty of knowing how to restart (feeling mildly embarrassed)
The nagging question 'Do I still want to do this?' (still having doubts)
 

But....
The main reason I have not been around is a change in our lives which I have been focussed on adapting to, and it has taken time: Jacob has left home to go to University, and my little nest is half empty. One of my baby birds has flown, and is joyfully spreading his wings as a fledgling adult. A very large baby bird, at 6' 4" with size 12 feet, but my baby bird nevertheless.
This is, of course, what we bring our children up to do, and I am truly happy and proud that my dear boy is forging ahead with his characteristic single minded energy and commitment, calmly taking this new situation in his stride. He is loving university life, keeping in touch with us, and staying true to himself, and I can't ask for more than that.

 

However....
How to get used to the empty bedroom; the un-raided fridge, the clean bathroom, the lack of dirty dishes in the sitting room, the loft ladders no longer dominating our narrow hallway (Jacob had a man-cave in the loft, and I had grown used to daily negotiating my way past the wooden loft ladders).
How to get used to not seeing him, cuddling him, talking to him every day, going in to his room at night to say goodnight, tell him that I love him, and go to bed knowing my wee family was all under one roof.
In the end, it comes down to a hefty dose of self discipline. I haven't sent him to war, and I haven't sent him to sea, so I can cope, and I am coping, and will cope. 

I have also been very absorbed in supporting Isaac through some challenging health issues, which have been adversely affecting his well-being for a long time. We are now slowly - painfully slowly - moving forwards and hopefully life should begin to gradually (how I wish it were instantly) improve for my wonderful, creative, musical, sensitive, kind, funny, gentle boy.

So...
I have been busily assimilating the changed rhythms of home life for the last few months, and my familiar blogging subjects and themes have not felt a natural fit for what was happening, and how I was feeling.
My lead carnivore (Jacob) is eating his dinners elsewhere now, and we are eating differently at home because of this absence, hence no Cookery Calendar Challenge.
I have been sewing, and making quilts, but not taking photographs of them; it didn't seem important.
I have been reading, but not as much as I usually do.
I have been walking every day, but not taking my camera, or actively looking for 'good' photography subjects for the blog when out and about, as I previously would have.

The question is....
Is blogging still something I want to do? Is it still a happy fit with what I want to write about and can I truly write about what is currently important in my life without compromising privacy, or sounding mysterious; neither of which are acceptable?

And the answer...
I honestly don't know. I have been thinking about writing this post for several weeks, not sure what to say, or how to say it. I have been writing this blog fairly consistently since January 2014, and I guess it is natural that there will be fallow periods now and then. This evening, sitting at my desk beside the fire, the winter wind howling round the house, it feels pleasant to be writing again; rather like meeting an old friend, and realising that you have missed them.
I think there are things I would probably like to write about soon: I have a big pile of books waiting to be read, and several recommendations from recent reads. I have a Christmas quilt well underway. We are having a pre-Christmas brunch for family this weekend, and it would be nice to take photographs of the table, the food, the twinkling light from the candles. I will be planning my Christmas food gifts soon, and might make something new this year, and share the recipes....
Hmmm, I think my blog rehabilitation period may officially have begun.

 

 

(*photographs from family holiday in Northumberland this summer)

Spring comes late

Spring in Scotland comes late, and is perhaps the lovliest of seasons, with colour slowly infusing garden and field, lane and woods. After a long, driech winter, the bright Spring sunshine makes the eyes water.
We are fortunate to have a profusion of daffodils in our garden, which come after the dear little snowdrops fade; their rich egg-yolk yellow trumpets are a cheering sight to winter-jaded eyes. There are also paler narcissi, with their dainty white petals and orange centres. The small magnolia tree has bloomed beautifully again; its papery petals now slowly blow across the grass as its season passes for another year.
The daffys seem to have gone over very quickly this Spring, and the blood red tulips are starting to flower. I can see the aliums slowly beginning to open in their turn also.

 

We had a quiet Easter this year, just the four of us, and made a small celebration with a nice brunch. No egg rolling or treasure hunts in the garden now, as we used to when the boys were small, but each age has its joys, and sitting chatting round the breakfast table with the boys is such a delight.
It being Easter, a little chocolate was necessary, so my very quick and easy chocolate cake recipe was pressed into service, with some seasonal decorations in the shape of candy eggs and a chocolate bunny; it looked very jolly, and tasted good too, perfect for our simple Easter celebration.

My kitchen table.

I love a kitchen table; just the words 'kitchen table' make me feel cosy and safe. As a child, sitting at the kitchen table drawing, doing homework or best of all, reading, whilst dinner is being prepared, has to be one of the most comforting feelings in the world. If, like me, you were a bookworm as a child, you will well remember that delightful sensation of cooking smells, familiar voices, and the ebb and flow of family life swirling around you, as you focussed on the page in front of you, simulataneously enjoying the security of your familiar environment whilst living is the world of your chosen book, with its perils, excitement or sadness (I can't be the only person who cried at the tragic death of Beth in Little Women one second, then tucked into a hearty dinner at the kitchen table before the tears were dry).
When we moved into our current house, I loved the fact that the kitchen was big enough to house a good sized table and our boys have grown up eating, playing, celebrating, and squabbling at our now very shabby kitchen table.
Our kitchen table is in fact two tables pushed together; when we reconfigured our dining room into the Boys Room, the dining table (one of those that unfolds from a square into a rectangle) was abutted on to our kitchen table, temporarily, until we decided what to do with it. Three years later it is still there, and we are all used to it now. Such is family life.

Yesterday Derek and the boys were all out, and being alone in the house for most of the day I thought it would be fun to follow a Day in the Life of my kitchen table.

8a.m. Wave off D and boys, tidy away breakfast plates and mug. Dump huge bag of  underwear and 'non-ironables' on the kitchen table and sort out.  Deliver to underwear drawers of respective family members.
 
9a.m. Time for a quick cup of tea before taking Meg out for her walk. Since everyone else is out having a nice time, I decide on the unusual measure of sitting down at the kitchen table (rather than drinking my tea on the hop as I usually do). Look through a couple of quilting books and sigh over photographs of unatainably beautiful quilts.

11a.m Home from walking Meg; perfect day for it: sunny, windy and chilly. Feel hungry for breakfast when I get back. Enjoy setting my place at the kitchen table but really need to hurry up. Still to go to the shops for this evening's dinner to feed the hungry hordes on their return, and I really want some uninterrupted quilting time this afternoon.

1.30pm Back from shops, dump bags on kitchen table. Time to put this little lot away, then onto more creative endeavours.

2 p.m. Trim up my current quilt project ready for binding. Much as I love my kitchen table, at times like this I wish I had a cutting table, though even if I did there's nowhere to put it. Straighten up from kitchen table, ease out crick in lumbar spine. Take quilt through to sewing machine, stitch down binding to front, leave hand stitching for later.

3.30p.m. Cut some more 4 1/2" squares for my next quilt at the kitchen table. Very excited about this project (from this book)as it is the first time I will have followed instructions and not just made the quilt up as I go along. When all squares are cut, neatly assemble them in to piles on my small cutting mat ready to carry through to my room to lay out and arrange on the big bed.

4.30 p.m. Need to start dinner prep and I have decided on a 'proper' Sunday dinner for my returning heroes, who have spent the day in adventurous pursuits in lovely St Andrew's. Roast chicken, roast beef, roast potatoes, gravy, and lots of veg, followed by plum and apple crumble and custard. Work out timings, get ovens on and start cooking. Once everything is in the oven, and the apples and plums are stewing with a tiny amount of water, and a generous sprinkle of sugar, I make the cumble topping (200g plain flour, 100g butter, 100g sugar, tiny pinch salt rubbed together, so easy, so delicious)

8p.m. Dinner is over; everyone enjoyed it. The boys are getting on well just now, so lots of laughter and chat at the kitchen table this evening (as in every family, meal times are not always harmonious, but we take the rough with the smooth, and persevere in making family mealtimes a priority). This evening we chat in some detail about our plans for next year's holiday, which we are all very excited about.
Just the dishes to clear away. Another day in the life of our kitchen table is almost over, then tomorrow it will start all over again.

A quilt for Mum

One of the greatest joys associated with learning how to make quilts has been gradually fulfilling my wish to make quilts for my family. Last spring I made a quilt for Jacob; in the summer I made a quilt for Isaac, and as the nights darkened towards winter, I made a quilt for my wee Mum, for Christmas.
This quilt is not quite single bed sized, though it can be spread over a single bed without looking silly. It is far from perfect, but I am pleased with how it turned out, wobbles included.

The inspiration for this quilt came from Mum's love of wild flowers, and of the walks she took as a child with my Nana, gathering wild flowers along the way. The colours are mainly soft greens, with lots of other muted pastels. The quilt is a combination of hand stitched hexagons and machine sewn log cabin blocks. It is made with a combination of Tilda fabrics, bought online, and some Lewis and Irene fabrics which I bought at my local sewing shop.
I pieced and stitched six groups of hexagons, and then cut them into rectangles. It is hard to cut into hand stitched hexagons as they are so time consuming to stitch, but I needed six rectangles, so had to close my eyes to the sad little hexi halves that were discarded. I stabilised the rectangles with a narrow frame of green, and then added sashing to each  rectangle. They were then stitched together and more sashing added. The backing is a lovely piece of fabric decorated with British herbs, and the binding is more of the same green fabric used within the quilt.
My plan was to quilt the piece by hand, but the stitches seemed too conspicuous for the delicate colours and traditional feel of the quilt, so I machine quilted in simple diagonal lines instead, and was happy with the result.
Mum loved it, and it has been tried in several locations in her house until she found a spot she was happy with.
I am currently working on another hand stitched quilt, which I have been making on and off since last Christmas. I am hand quilting it at the moment and will post photographs when it is completed.
I keep a notebook of quilt ideas, some of which I am sure will never be made, as I would need to live to be 200 to complete them all. I am constantly amazed that, even with my minimal sewing skills, pretty, personal quilts can be created and enjoyed.

Dalmally Show 2016

The first Saturday in September is a significant one for our family; it is the day of the Dalmally Show, which I have written about before here. We travel up to Argyll for the weekend, attend the show during the day, and in the evening, have a multi-generational ceilidh at my uncle's house, or more specifically in an enormous wind and watertight gazebo in his garden, specially erected for the occasion. Wonderful food, lots of wine, and good scots whisky (and of course non alcoholic drinks for the under 18's and drivers!), stories, songs and music. Everyone who can, sings (and one or two who probably shouldn't do too!). This year Jacob sang and Isaac accompanied him on the guitar, singing their version of 'Time of Your Life' by Green Day; a proud moment for me. 
My nana, 96 and still going strong, loves the Show and ceilidh. She is such a sociable person, and every person present loves and respects her quite intensely.

When I was growing up, we were a highly mobile family, who moved frequently, yet in many ways I still regard Dalmally as my true home. The family connections are strong, and so many of my maternal relations still live there. I also have a dream of living once more in our old home, which still exerts a strong pull on my heart. I believe that our family would have had a good life in this house, which we lived in for a few years when I was young. I have so many memories attached to this house, which sits beside the river, on a quiet, single track road that forms a winding loop away from the main village of Dalmally, eventually re-joining the main road some two miles later. This house was originally the general store and bakery for the people living along this beautiful stretch of countryside, and at the front of the house, there are still the huge, wooden double doors leading in to what was the shop. They are never opened now.

I dream daily of living here again. In my imagination I regularly mentally renovate, restore, furnish and decorate this house. I reinstate the scullery off the big kitchen; I once again access the back stairs which lead to what would have been servants' quarters; I rebuild the big fireplace in the sitting room, and renovate to full functional glory those massive oak double doors at the front of the house. I imagine knocking through walls to create beautiful  bathrooms leading off the large front bedrooms. I visualise a snug self-contained suite of rooms for house guests comprising bedrooms, a sitting room under the eaves, and a pretty shower room (I would want lots of visitors, this is a house made for company). Our old sitting room becomes my office/sewing room, just between the kitchen and the back door. The huge front room (once the shop) becomes a massive multi-purpose room; there is space there for all sorts of wonderful activities and events to take place.
This is the home I imagine my boys eventually bringing their families to, where their children could run wild in the garden, or take the short path down the garden to the river, to play on the pebbly spit, throw stones, or just sit and watch the water. In short, this is the house I want to live in again. However, in reality, it would take a great deal more money than I am ever likely to have to buy it, and renovate it to the standard it deserves, nor is it currently for sale. I can't shake the dream though. 

Combine the house of my dreams, with views like this, and it is little wonder I feel so pulled to the north.
Apart from stirring up memories and daydreams, the purpose of our annual trip to Dalmally is of course to attend the Dalmally Show. Much of the fun is entering our jams, bakes, makes and crafts in to the competitions in the Home Industries tent. For Mum and me, this is the highlight of our crafting year, and something we love to discuss and plan for in great detail (much to the amusement of my 'townie' husband). The lists of the various competitions are sent out in April each year, and can also be found on line here (pages 14, 15 and 16 are those which interest Mum and me).
The schedule generates much discussion about which competitions or 'classes' to enter; Mum and I both love to make jams and preserves, so lots of ticks on that page. The knitting/sewing/crafting page has several fixed items which appear every year, such as a knitted baby garment, also a cross stitch picture, and piece of embroidery. This is where we diverge slightly, as Mum is a marvellous knitter (she can whip up kilt stockings with cables and complicated tops with ease), whereas I am not, though I do attempt an occasional knit for the Show. Then on to the all important Baking classes; it is difficult to enter bakes which are best eaten 'same day' like scones and pancakes, as of course our bakes are by necessity made in advance and transported north with care the night before the Show, so we tend to stick to larger cakes and bakes, or items which will still taste good a day or two after baking. 
After the decisions regarding classes comes the preparation. Crafts first, in April and May, all completed items carefully wrapped in tissue and put away, then preserves are made in June and July, and then in the days prior to the Show, baking is completed.
This year was a particularly good year for us both, with quite a few prizes, and even a Trophy for mum (the Tullich Trophy, for most points in the Preserves section) as well as a Special Prize for her fruit tart (a particularly delicious apricot and almond one, which was devoured at the family ceilidh in the evening).
I was also very lucky with my entries this year, and won quite a few prizes.
In the Preserves section, I won a 1st for my Fruits of the Forest jelly; a 1st for my Lemon Curd, a 3rd for my Raspberry jam, and a Highly Commended for my Strawberry Jam.


In the Home Baking section, a 1st for my Meat Loaf, a 1st for my Tear and Share Loaf, a 2nd for my Jar of Pasta Sauce (not pictured), a 2nd for my Empire Biscuits, and a 2nd for my Rocky Road Squares.

In the Home Industries Section, a 1st for my Advent Calendar (I entered a box of numbered, decorated gingerbread biscuits, each one threaded with string, to hang on the christmas tree; I may replicate this 'for real' at Christmas!), a 1st and Special Prize for Isaac's quilt (Any Other Handcraft) a 2nd for my Machine Sewn Shopping Bag, a 2nd for my Crochet Purse (Best Use 50g yarn. (not pictured), and a Highly Commended for my Patchwork Cushion Cover.

Not all my entries were winners however; no prizes for my chocolate cake; coffee and walnut loaf, crocheted brooch, banana loaf, or my ladies knitted scarf. However, I was delighted with my prizes and Mum and I are already looking forward to next year's competitions.
The whole Damally Show weekend is a very happy one for our family. It provides a touchstone for collective family memories. When family sands eventually shift, and when the generations and people of the current times are no longer here, I dearly hope my boys will say, in years to come 'Do you remember those great weekends at the Dalmally Show....?' 
As for my dream of living in my old home, it will undoubtedly persist, and be once again stirred up to the point of painful longing when we return to Dalmally next year, and I see it once again, but that is the price I am prepared to pay for my beautiful, comforting day dream.
  

a quilt for Isaac

  

I have made this quilt for Isaac in several bursts of activity, with long spells in between where it has lain untouched. Oh for the luxury of uninterrupted time to sew, and dream, and make. In my world, those precious hours absorbed in making and creating are few and far between. However, Isaac's quilt is now finished, and on his bed.
I wrote about making Jacob's quilt ( here ).Jacob's vision was clear and direct. It was rather different with Isaac. Initially he wasn't sure he even wanted a quilt; then when he decided he would rather like one, his design ideas were entirely beyond my capabilities (this type of thing was suggested and quickly rejected by me; ditto this). Feeling rather out of my depth, I suggested a design based on squares, which was accepted (phew). Next to choose colours, fabric designs and general feel. This had to include guitars, plus other music themed fabrics, and the colours must be bright; bold, and include lots of orange and red. No problem. So I plunged in and, as before, bought some fabrics online, and some from my local sewing shop (here). I made the quilt up from several different blocks; all were easy to construct. My measuring and matching were not perfect, but I don't mind about that, and neither does Isaac.

The back is plain white, with a single teal stripe. The stripe wanders a little, but I still like it.

I quilted each block as the construction style suggested. It was time consuming, but most absorbing and enjoyable. I used perle cotton which pulls through the quilt layers smoothly, and creates thick, tactile lines of quilting.

Now the quilt is at last on Isaac's bed, and he is happy with it.


It has made me so happy to make a quilt for each of the boys during spring and summer this year. Each quilt reflects the boys' tastes and personalities and the stage they are at in their lives right now. I hope that as they grow up and forge adult lives they will still tolerate an occasional quilt from Mum! 

 

Too Much Stuff

    Since returning from holiday some days ago, I have been assessing my immediate surroundings, and coming to the conclusion that I have Too Much Stuff. This is a familiar pattern; whenever I come home after a spell away, my home always appears to be teetering on the brink of clutter-overload (I wrote about it here after a previous summer holiday). 
Our house is small, with poor storage, and I am a maximalist. The kitchen is a fine example. My dresser (it is 'my dresser' not 'the dresser') is piled high with crockery, serving dishes, mugs and jugs; the cupboards underneath are stuffed with kilner jars, empty jam jars (surely handy for something?), and pretty tins (purpose yet to be decided). The kitchen shelves are filled to capacity (and slightly beyond) with cookery and baking books. The food cupboards are packed to the gunnels with food staples; pasta, rice of every description, tins, and packets. The baking cupboard has enough flour, spices, flavourings, dried fruit, and chocolate to bake a hundred cakes. 
I have something of a siege mentality when it comes to the kitchen. When I was young, and we lived in the far north of Scotland, it was very important to be well stocked with food. The nearest shops were 17 miles in one direction, and 21 miles in the other,  and in the winter we were often snowed in for weeks at a time. Bulging cupboards and freezers were a necessity to see us through these times. I have never managed to shake off the habit of laying in stores for the winter. As soon as the temperature drops in October, I start filling the cupboards with long life milk, and tinned and dried goods, much to my husband's amusement. My parents were hoteliers, so providing plentiful food for hordes of people was ingrained in their behaviour, and some of that passed on to me. I operate on the proviso that food for the masses may be required at a moment's notice, and I must be prepared at all times for this eventuality.

My wardrobe is another area where clutter accumulates. I am only moderately interested in clothes, and I do not have a huge shoe or hand bag collection (if only!), but I do have two distinct wardrobes: fat, and not fat. The difference is about two and a half stones, which I gain and lose in a roughly three yearly cycle, with much accompanying misery. That is a story for another day, however it does mean that I have many more garments than someone whose weight is stable. Within these sets of clothes there are distinct winter and summer wardrobes, which I rotate between my bedroom and the loft, seasonally. That's a lot of clothes. Too many, in fact, yet I find it hard to dispose of garments that have seen better days.
In addition to providing for both my fat and non-fat self, another reason for keeping clothes longer than I should, is an ingrained anxiety about not having the resources to replace them. This stems from the many years of (comparative) poverty that Derek and I have lived through. I am talking strictly first world poverty here, nothing dramatic, but a budget for clothes was simply not available at various points in our lives together; most recently during the last recession, when I didn't (couldn't) buy any new clothes, at all, for five years. So now, even though we are no longer in that impecunious state, there is a small learned fear associated with getting rid of even worn out clothes.
However, I am able to overcome these irrational thoughts with a little conscious effort, and always feel mightily refreshed when I do eventually have a wardrobe purge, so the other day, armed with a roll of black bin bags and mug of tea, I had a ruthless clear out of bobbly jumpers, tired jeans, unflattering dresses and what I loosely refer to as 'dog walking clothes'. I still ended up with a bag for the loft labelled 'Do not currently fit' (note the optimism inherent in that phrase), but many garments were packed up for the charity shop, and others for the rag bag donation container which sits outside the village community centre.

Next task, the bookshelves. Books are so close to my heart that I find it terribly difficult to objectively decide which to keep, and which to lose. I constantly accumulate books, regarding a new book as one of life's greatest, and simplest, luxuries. However, as a result I am faced periodically with overflowing bookshelves. I refuse to have books seeping on to the floor in tottering piles, so roughly once a year I need to straighten my shoulders and tackle the job. Certain books I will never part with, but paper backs I have read once, and know I will not re-read, I am able to let go; cookery books I have picked up second hand, and found less than useful I can re-donate without a pang, plus the occasional clanger I have bought at full price (ouch). My 'to read' pile becomes a 'will I ever read?' pile, and usually a few of those go too.

Despite my initial reluctance to have a  clear out, I always warm to the task, and rarely miss clothes, books, or other items I donate to the charity shop (though I do recall one slightly over zealous clothing purge when I spent the following week skulking round Oxfam waiting to buy back two skirts I had too hastily discarded).
I do also have a horror of hoarding, and inwardly tremble at the thought of becoming an old lady shuffling in broken down carpet slippers through piles of old newspapers, lidless plastic containers and broken toasters in a fly infested house (dramatic, moi?) which vision is usually sufficient to send me scurrying for the bin bags.
More seriously, I also need a bit of  head-space to think through a wardrobe or cupboard (or room) clear out. During term time, day to day life is simply too hectic to take time for extra tasks, especially those which initially create more, not less, mess. The christmas holidays are not the time to do anything requiring such psychological effort, but during the long summer holiday days, I am able to take the few hours I need to make a difference, and always feel so much better, and psychologically lighter, when I do.
Do you find it hard to let go of possessions? Are you are clear eyed Clearer Outer, or a misty eyed, just in case Keeper? I would love to know.

(The photographs in this post are close up shots of Isaac's quilt. I finished the quilting on holiday, and have only the binding to do. All being well I should finish it next week, when I will post more photographs and report on Isaac's thoughts about it.)

 

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.

surfacing

 

Since the end of March, Isaac, my youngest son, has had a really tough time. Initially, he developed a painful knee problem, which affected his mobility. Our GP referred him immediately for physio, but even an urgent referral takes several weeks. In the meantime he was prescribed Cocodamol for pain, though it made him feel so ill he stopped taking it after about a week. He took Ibuprofen instead, which helped a little. 
When he returned to school after the Easter holiday he was using a crutch to help him get around. His knee was painful, he missed doing PE which he loves, and at home he was unable to walk the dog with his dad at weekends, play badminton with his pals, or do anything very active atall.

At the end of April he started weekly physio, with thrice daily exercises at home in between times, which he carried out unfailingly.
In these first weeks, I ensured Isaac took Ibuprofen regularly, but  unfortunately its prolonged use started to cause problems. He suffered stomach pain, and overwhelming nausea, which really floored him. He stopped the brufen, but by that time his stomach was damaged, and consequently there followed a one month 'healing course' of Omeprozole; not a happy state of affairs in a 14 year old boy.

As always at these times of stress, family life, with its myriad demands, continued. I cooked, shopped and cleaned as usual, and generally organised family life. Birthdays were celebrated. I turned 52 without noticing, and Isaac turned 14. His birthday photographs from the day show him rather pale-faced, leaning on his crutch, but grinning. He enjoyed a cinema trip with a group of friends, and family meals and treats too. 
Jacob, my oldest boy, was on study leave all this time, in preparation for his Higher exams. In the months prior to Isaac's difficulties, I had assumed that the spotlight of my concern during these weeks would be Jacob, but in fact it was Isaac who was the focus of attention. Jacob was brilliant, calmly following his study plan, ticking off five exams during May, and really being an absolute credit to himself.

Then Isaac developed a second problem with his knee;  his mobility decreased, and his pain increased. He continued with physio. I negotiated half days at school. Every day I woke worrying about his wellbeing, his health, and his by now patchy attendance at school. The awful nausea had started again, and was pitiful to witness, was I missing something? Yet, though his spirits were low, and he had a lot to cope with, I could see a well boy in there, and felt sure there was nothing sinister going on, if I could just get some answers to the stomach pain and nausea, which our GP could not resolve, but seemed unconcerned by.
By half term, three weeks ago, Isaac's knee was slowly improving, but his poor stomach was not. He felt constantly sick, and in the evenings in particular, was suffering from a lot of pain. At my wits' end one Sunday afternoon, I called NHS24, and after some convoluted hours of consultations and further referrals, Isaac was seen in hospital by his (and my!) new hero, Mr Albert. Listening to Mr Albert questioning Isaac, and watching his skilled examination, was like witnessing a detective solve a crime. He distilled all the facts and information, and came up with a definitive diagnosis.
It seems that the cocktail of medications had not only caused problems in Isaac's stomach, but also elsewhere in his system. Each problem exacerbated the other, and the end result was Isaac's ongoing pain and nausea.

Thankfully, the problem could be resolved without any invasive treatment, and we left late that night clutching a prescription, both feeling extremely relieved that we had an answer, and, more importantly, a solution. Isaac started his new medication early next morning, and by the end of the first day, I could already see a tiny improvement.

Three weeks later, Isaac has now finished with all his medications, and yesterday he was discharged by the physio. He feels well! (How good it feels to type those words!). Tomorrow, for the first time since the end of March, he will walk in to school without a crutch. 
I feel I am surfacing after all these weeks of worry, anxiety, and stress. I feel buoyant and optimistic, and am looking forward so much to the summer holidays, and all our summer plans, which I will talk about another time.
Blogging, both writing and reading, has not been part of my daily or weekly routine for many weeks, though I have maintained my monthly  Cookery Calendar Challenge posts. I am looking forward to catching up with all my blog reading, and to writing more regularly again too.

I have not until now, written about Isaac's recent experiences; respect for his privacy being the main reason.  Now that we are coming out the other side however, I do want to record a summarised record of events. Isaac has given me full permission to publish this post. I mentioned  elsewhere that my blog has become a haphazard journal of family life, and it doesn't feel right to simply ignore the experience that has been my main focus for the last several months. I am so proud of how well he has coped with everything. He is a credit to himself, and that is worth recording too.
 

 

 

sometimes plain cake is just right

 

May is one of my favourite months; Mother Nature is clearing her throat and tuning up for the full blown song of summer, new life is established in field, woods and garden. A late spring favourite in my own garden is a beautiful, blowsy peony rose, which faithfully bursts into glorious bloom for a few weeks at this time of year. 
It is also the birthday month of my younger brother. He was born when I was 13, in the year of the Queen's Silver Jubilee. One of his birth gifts, from a generous friend of the family, was a pair of  silver (or 'solid silver' as my 10 year old sister and I said in awestruck tones) commemorative cufflinks, from Hamilton and Inches, 'the Queen's jeweller', a fact still referred to semi-frequently by my mother. As we were living in the far north of Scotland at the time, and our retail needs were met by a row of scruffy shops twenty one miles away in one direction, and a lone 'Mace' store seventeen miles in the other, the mere existence of a shop sufficiently luxurious to supply such elegant trifles seemed impossibly romantic to us. The uselessness of silver cufflinks for a new born baby was also impressive.
I had given my new brother a crochet blanket of wobbly granny squares, made over many painstaking weeks, in purple and cream wool. My sister, seeing this effort and fearing that she would be left behind, had started knitting him a toy, which proved, unsurprisingly, too complicated, and my Mum quietly completed it for her to give to the baby. The cufflinks were in a stratosphere far beyond these humble offerings.
The baby in question is now 6'3", lives and works in London, and is grown up enough to wear his solid silver commemorative cufflinks any time he wishes. He comes home frequently to see family and friends, and it is always wonderful to see him when he does.
Last year, I wrote about his birthday brunch here. This year he just wanted tea and cake, which I was happy to supply.

I made a simple vanilla sponge, increasing the proportions of the ingredients to fit the size of the Bundt tin. I am always apprehensive about turning out a Bundt cake, for obvious reasons, however careful brushing with melted butter, and a light dusting of flour usually ensures success. This time, a simple shake of icing sugar and some strawberries finished the cake in a manner sufficiently celebratory for a birthday, but plain enough to be eaten at 11am with tea. Sometimes plain cake is just right, and this was one of those times. (I only managed a phone shot before the cake was cut, hence the slightly squashed proportions of the image above.)
It was delicious, here is the recipe. If you have a Bundt tin languishing at the back of a cupboard, do dust it off and use it. The high proportion of cake crust to soft inside is what makes it taste so good.

Ingredients.

340g butter at room temp (and approx. 50g for preparing the tin)
330g caster sugar
310 g self raising flour (and small amount for preparing the tin)
35g cornflour
1 1/2 tsp baking powder
5 large free range eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons vanilla extract
3-4 tablespoons semi skimmed milk

Method.

Preheat oven to 180c/Gas 4. Melt approx. 30g butter and brush it over the inside of the tin lightly but thoroughly. Dust the inside of the tin with self raising flour, ensuring all inside contours are covered. Thoroughly shake the excess flour out of the tin. Set aside until needed.
Beat butter and sugar together in Kitchenaid mixer or with a hand held electric mixer until light and fluffy.
Sift together the dry ingredients. Break the eggs into a bowl and add the vanilla extract.
Alternately add the eggs and flour, mixing well with each addition, but not over-mixing, or the cake will be tough.
Start to add the milk until a consistency on the firm side of dropping is achieved, you are likely to need 3 tablespoons but may not need as much as 4.
Scrape carefully into Bundt tin, and smooth the mixture.
Bake for 45-55 mins depending on your oven. The cake should be golden and no crumbs should adhere to a cocktail sick inserted in to the middle of the cake. Set aside in tin to cool until the tin can be handled comfortably.
When the cake has cooled and started to settle in the tin (about 20 minutes), invert onto a wire cooling rack and allow to cool completely before decorating as desired.

a quilt for Jacob

I started learning how to quilt last year, and consider myself a novice. I made my first quilt by hand last summer, and the Christmas quilt mentioned in this post last autumn. It was always my hope and dream to make quilts for my family to use and love, and my plan for 2016 was to complete a quilt for each of my boys (the first of many I hope). Jacob was very interested in, and enthusiastic about having a quilt made for him, and since the beginning of February I have been working on his quilt. I finished it late last night, stitching the binding at the kitchen table when everyone was asleep, and I gave it to him this morning.
He had requested a quilt in greys, greens and camouflage, with a stag's head appliqued on a central panel. The overall feel of the quilt was to be as though made by an old trapper over-wintering in a log cabin in the wilds somewhere. With this vivid description I could see the quilt very clearly in my mind's eye, and although the end result has some mistakes and a few wobbly bits here and there, I really don't mind; these 'irregularities' probably fit the brief!
The fabric came from various sources; an old camouflage jacket of Jacob's which I filleted, saving the breast pocket and a cuff, with the idea of incorporating them into the quilt. Billow Fabrics was an excellent source of quilting cotton, and eBay also provided rich pickings. The 'running hare' fabric was a tote bag from Habitat which caught my eye in the January sale. The wadding is Hobbs Heirloom cotton. The 'tartan stags' backing fabric (the 4th picture in the collage, above) is a brushed cotton duvet cover, bought online. The quilting is simple diagonal lines, hand stitched in green quilting cotton.
Photographing a 70" square quilt outside in a stiff breeze this morning was something of a challenge, but a few clothes pegs secured the quilt to the garden fence, and the brushed cotton of the quilt's backing fabric found purchase on the weathered wood of the old garden bench, holding it securely whilst I took a few photographs.

After photographing, it was smoothed into place on Jacob's bed, where it looked instantly at home. I have mentally handed it over to him now, and don't mind if it gets crumpled, or has tea spilled on it, or lands in a heap on the floor. It is there to be used, and loved.

There was not one part of making this quilt that I did not enjoy. Everything from discussing it with Jacob, to choosing the fabric, cutting and sewing the blocks, piecing the top, even the tedious business of basting the quilt sandwich; each step was absorbing and interesting. Someone told me that a well made (i.e. secure) quilt will last a hundred years. That fact fills me with untold pleasure. I hope Jacob will continue to use his quilt for years to come. I know I will make other quilts for him, but I have a feeling that this first quilt will always hold a warm spot in his heart, and in mine.

a busy day ahead

 
It is 8 a.m. on  Saturday morning. Everyone else is still asleep. I am greatly enjoying the silence of the hour. I can hear the clock ticking on the mantelpiece as I sit on my laptop at Mrs Doubtfire. The bird feeders on the cherry blossom trees outside the window are quiet, just one or two draggled sparrows have come for breakfast in the steady rain. Meg greeted me enthusiastically when I came through, but she has now lost interest and has lain down on her bed again, snoring gently, dreaming of muddy walks and rabbits no doubt. Her peaceful presence is comforting.
I have a busy day ahead. Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, and we are having a celebratory meal. Lamb is traditional, but I will be cooking a glazed ham, and making a salmon coulibiac for the non meat eaters (Mum, and me), though everyone else will have some too. Lots of vegetables, and small new potatoes cooked slowly with a slick of olive oil, and plenty of salt and pepper. Pudding is still to be decided; something chocolatey for the boys, and perhaps an apple fool, or something lemony. As you can tell, I haven't done a huge amount of forward planning for this meal, but I am looking forward enormously to having everyone here.
I am confident that by the end of today the house will be tidy, the Easter decorations will be up, the food for tomorrow will be well under way. The big kitchen table will be laid with a bright cloth, and scattered with small posies of flowers. A Lindt Easter bunny will mark each guest's place the table.
However you enjoy Easter, be it for you a religious festival, or, like me, an opportunity to gather dear family and friends together for a celebration meal, I wish you a very happy day. 

concientious, though not obsessive

I am a conscientious, though not obsessive, recycler. I sort dutifully through the junk mail; separate plastic and paper food packaging, recycle all jars and tins, and  wash and return our empty glass bottles to the milkman when he comes for his money on a Thursday teatime. Clothes and shoes not suitable for the charity shop go to a huge sealed skip beside our community centre and are recycled. Our local council supplies different coloured bins for glass, paper, plastic, and food waste, and a complicated rota for kerbside collection which I adhere to like a good citizen. It is an easy habit to get into, and I like to think that at least some of the household waste will be reused.

Growing up in the Highlands in the 1970's, there were many examples of recycling, based not so much on the ideals of ecology, as the straightforward difficulty of disposing of unwanted items. Recycling, re-using, and re-purposing was done with a minimum of fuss, and certainly without the slight air of self-conscious congratulation that so often accompanies modern day endeavours.  No field was complete without an enamel bath or sink, removed during someone's house renovation, tucked in the shelter of the hedge for the cows to drink from. Old cars, once run in to the ground, were never towed away, but left round the back of the croft to rust; put to use as a hen house, or somewhere for the cats to sleep. A childhood friend kept several generations of guinea pigs in a broken down caravan.
Smaller household items too, were not thrown out, but re-used, sometimes with disastrous results. Our childhood was peppered with stories of children who had drunk bleach from old glass lemonade bottles, kept under the kitchen sink within easy reach of small hands. Petrol, decanted into unsuitable containers, was ripe for conflagration. Old tin cans with perilously jagged edges, filled with nails or screws, caused nasty cuts, and inevitably, tetanus. Not that any of us knew what tetanus was, but it sounded terrifying.
Happier recycling examples were old biscuit tins, or pretty chocolate boxes, usually from Christmas time, hoarded with delight and filled with small treasures. Again, this was not so much due to whimsy, but because there wasn't really anywhere to buy plastic storage boxes or containers. The nearest shop was 17 miles away, and if the owner had wasted shelf space with empty containers the locals would have taken a very dim view of such frivolous behaviour.

Childhood habits can be hard to shake off, and whilst I do not have any cars rusting in the garden, or bottles of bleach decanted into child-attracting juice containers, I do find it hard to get rid of pretty tins, or cardboard boxes that are just a good, handy size. I have to absolutely force myself to recycle all the little pots that cosmetics and body care products are packed in; they are so pretty, so sturdy, and just the right size for pins, or bobbins, or icing bag nozzles, or paper clips... I have seen myself standing at the recycling bin in minor emotional turmoil over getting rid of a nice little pot or box.

Fortunately, I also have a horror of hoarding, which keeps in check my tendency to keep hold of absolutely everything that might just come in handy for a need not yet specified at some vague time in the future. I always have a charity shop bag in the house, which fills steadily with old clothes, books etc, plus more thorough clear outs a couple of times a year, which usually result in at least a dozen bin bags going to the charity shop. I encourage the boys in this habit too, occasionally asking them to tidy their rooms and identify everything as belonging to one of four categories: keep, charity, recycle/bin, loft. (The loft category must always be the smallest, it is there for things they really cannot bear to get rid of but have no immediate use for). I don't attach a judgement to what they choose to keep or not, I want them to get into the habit of feeling in control of their environment, as well as keeping their rooms tolerably tidy. I also want their rooms to hold things that they enjoy being around, feel comforted by, or use regularly.

I started writing about recycling in this post because I particularly like the vase in the photograph above. It is a good size, and perfect for showing off the vibrant orange and yellow of the daffodils. It once held a candle (from here, though bought on holiday in Wales). When the candle burned down, I melted the remaining traces of wax by warming the container in a low oven, then wiped round with some kitchen paper and the transformation, such as it was, was complete. I kept the box too, it is a good size and well made; I keep reels of thread in it. Recycling in action; thankfully it's not always about old newspapers and empty yogurt pots.

the Famous Five

Enid Blyton books will always hold a place in my heart. As I child I loved her nature stories, mysteries and adventures, but even as a very young child I also noticed her distinctive signature, which I thought, then, as now, beautiful, with its boldly inked, evenly spaced letters, lovely rounded 'E', and most enchanting of all, the short, double line under the 'd' of Enid. 
The first Enid Blyton book I clearly remember reading myself, was 'The Adventures of Pip', a series of short stories about a mischevious elf interacting with the natural world. I read and re-read my copy,  the cover of which showed Pip dressed in a red tunic. (The first edition, from 1948, is even more charming, showing Pip airborne on a swallow's back.) Looking now at the list of contents, some 45- plus years later,  I can still clearly remember what some of the stories were about; quite a testament to Enid Blyton's story telling powers.
I remember making a concious decision to move on to her more 'grown up' stories when I was about eight, when started the enduring love affair with the Famous Five series in particular, which I read over and over. I adored them; the exciting plots, the freedom the characters enjoyed, and the presence of Timmy, the dog, who was as big a character as Julien, Dick, George and Anne, hence 'the Five' (four humans, one dog).
I was not alone in greedily reading Enid Blyton's books. Many have never been out of print, and as recently as 2012, Enid was the second most popular 'classic' childrens' author to be borrowed from libraries (second only to Roald Dahl).

Enid Blyton's books have, however, been criticised almost since she started writing; as early as the 1930's her books were considered 'bland'. In  later years, they were heavily criticised as being racist, sexist and xenophobic, and were extensively edited in the '80's and '90's by Chorion, the publishers, to reflect current mores and attitudes. Few would disagree with the removal of 'gollies', and similar characters which now jar uncomfortably. However the fact remains that children love them, albeit modern editions have some characters  removed or altered, and certain wince-making phrases re-written to make them acceptable in today's society (some think with perhaps an over zealous red pen, see here for comment) .

I had no hesitation in reading Isaac all twenty one Famous Five books a few years back. We read the series in order, and in its entirety (a luxury not available to me as a child). We both thoroughly enjoyed the plots, the characters, and the straightforward assurance that good would win out over bad, and of course the many mentions of food, which Enid Blyton describes with regularity, and enthusiasm, never allowing her characters to feel hungry in pursuit of adventure. 
When not tracking down dangerous criminals; escaping from underground caves, or seeking solutions to mysterious happenings, the Five enjoy many mouth watering meals, and in every Famous Five book there are appetising descriptions of farmhouse tables groaning with crusty bread straight from the oven, gleaming pink joints of ham, freshly made sticky buns, home made cakes, and delicious puddings with plenty of custard. Picnics also feature frequently, with an abundance of tasty sandwiches, tomatoes eaten in the hand, and hard boiled eggs, with a twist of salt in a little paper alongside, and of course, bars of chocolate to finish off the feast.

It is unlikely that many current authors would write a character like Anne, the gentle youngest sister, who delights in home making, and spreads cheer and comfort through her kindly domesticity whenever 'the Five' go camping, or  caravanning, or find themselves setting up home on an abandoned island, or in a cave. I stoutly applaud Anne's right to play to her strengths as a domestic goddess in the making. She is also clever, often working out clues first, and bravely faces her fears many times throughout the series.

Enid Blyton's writing is in and of her era, and could not be otherwise, but there is such affection for her creations that she is likely to be read for many generations to come. Isaac's 'Famous Five' books are still on his bedroom shelf, I am sure in the next big 'room tidy' they will be relegated to the loft. I do hope though, that if a time comes when he is looking for an exciting story to read to children in his care, he will remember about his old books, dust them off  and enjoy reading them aloud, perhaps also remembering when a loving mother read them to him.                                                                

Mum, listen to this

We are a music loving family. Derek and I both love music (our tastes differ in this, as in so many things, but it never seems to matter) and so do the boys. When they were babies, and toddlers, I had no idea of the particular joy I would experience when their adult personalities and tastes started to develop, and they would share their musical discoveries with me. Neither did I anticipate that peculiar sensation of nostalgia ( combined with a wry inward smile) when they 'discover' a song that instantly transports me back to my own youth.  One of my favourite phrases is 'Mum, listen to this'. So many of my own musical memories are now overlaid with the happiness of seeing my boys enjoy the same music.

Jacob's tastes range from Frank Sinatra, to Pink Floyd and Bruce Springsteen. One of his highlights of last year was seeing The Who live.  He even manages to study with earphones in, absorbing music along with his revision notes. One of his favourite bands is Walk Off The Earth. Significant for him as they were the first (and thus far the only) band he has seen with a friend, rather than a parent, when they played recently in Glasgow. (That was a long evening, even though we drove them there, and home). I have to agree with Jacob though, they are an amazing band; inventive, theatrical, musical.

Here they are singing their mesmerising version of Adele's 'Hello' (I always prefer Adele's songs performed by other people).

Isaac, who's guitar lesson a Saturday morning is the highlight of his week, sucks music up like a dry sponge, constantly finding new artists that he loves, and learning how to play their songs on the guitar. He favours singer songwriters; idolises Passenger (he looks daily for UK tour tickets), and loves Imagine Dragons, who he saw live last year in Newcastle. He's also partial to an '80's power ballad when the mood takes him. 

One of his recent discoveries is Jesse Daniel Smith Here is Jesse singing one of his own songs 'Simple Friday Night' It's beautiful.

The house is quiet.

As I write, it's early on Christmas Eve morning. Everyone else is still asleep. The house is quiet. The radio is humming in the kitchen, and the washing machine is swooshing and swishing the last couple of washes until after Christmas. The tree is glowing beside me, the familiar, treasured decorations gleaming here and there as the reflection of the fairy lights catch the faceted surfaces.

The Christmas cake sits in the kitchen, fatly important in its coat of marzipan, waiting to be iced and decorated later this morning. The gingerbread houses and hearts I baked the other day await icing, they are intended as place-markers on the Christmas table, I am so looking forward to sitting at the kitchen table later to decorate each one with a name; Gran; John, Jonathan, Derek, Penny, Jacob, Isaac. Our dear family Christmas, so precious, so familiar, so much pleasure in preparing for this day of celebration. Not so much a Christian celebration in our house, as none of us are overtly religious, but a celebration of being together as a family, being thankful for and appreciative of our health, our happiness, our peaceful home, our darling boys, my dear wee mum, my darling brother.

My favourite moment on Christmas Eve is when we return from the carol service at our local church, and close the front door. The preparations are complete. The fridge and cupboards are full, the gifts are wrapped, the house is fresh and tidy, the candles are lit. Our Christmas Eve tradition is to have a supper of party food and watch 'Elf' before hanging up stockings for Santa to fill. Very unsophisticated, very simple, and 'very fun' as Isaac used to say when he was small. I hope your Christmas is 'very fun' too. Happy Christmas.

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. 

#50daysofilovemyhome

I enjoy Instagram. My feed fills daily with cakes, crochet, flowers, knitting, sunsets, bunting and lunches. It is colourful, inspirational, and sometimes beautiful.

Last week a particular image, posted by Kate, caught my eye. It was a photograph of a mug, but what caught my attention was the very beautiful pottery bowl beside it. I asked her about it, and she realised that she had stopped noticing it, despite, or perhaps because of owning it for some twenty years. We commented back and forth for a while about how, sometimes, we stop noticing and appreciating things that we have bought, gathered, or been given. The intrinsic beauty of the item is undiminished, but we have stopped appreciating it.

We wondered about the possibility of creating a hashtag where forgotten treasures could be gathered; where the tangible (and intangible) things that make our homes unique and, more importantly, loved, could be gathered in images and stories. We decided on #50daysofilovemyhome

Here is how Kate described #50daysofilovemyhome on her Instagram feed:

'We make our homes unique by the things we choose to collect and display and cherish. But if you are anything like me, you stop seeing them and they disappear into the landscape you call home, until someone says "that's a pretty thing" and you  get a chance to appreciate it all over again. This hashtag was made, and here is your invitation to have a look at the lovely things you may have stopped seeing, see them in a new way and share them using the hashtag #50daysofilovemyhome. It doesn't have to be 50, it doesn't have to be every day. It has been created so that we can curate the pictures in one place'  

Does this appeal to you? If so, please feel free to join #50daysofilovemyhome . Take a photograph of something that makes your home uniquely yours, be it a childhood toy, a favourite painting, or (as above) a broken mug. Post it on Instagram using hashtag #50daysofilovemyhome, and tell the story of how or why it makes your home feel like home. If you don't have an Instagram account but would like to join in, feel free to blog about it. This is a no pressure, anytime, open invitation. It doesn't have to be 50 consecutive days, or regular days, or even frequent days. If you want to post very, very occasionally, when you re-notice something lovely in your home, that is just fine.  As Kate said so beautifully, this is most definitely 'a gentle little project' .

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: Smile

Drawing to the end of the August Break photography challenge, which sees participating bloggers post a photograph every day in August, helped along by a list of prompts from project host Susannah Conway.

Today's prompt is 'smile'

Essential, I feel, to avoid a sugar-coated list of 'things that make me smile'. Instead, this story: last night whilst searching through old SD cards, I found a collection of photographs from a long ago holiday when the boys were small. We were all entranced by them; I could hardly believe that the two huge teenagers looming over my shoulder to look at the photographs were the same little boys in the photographs. However, they were, and are. One thing that has hardly changed strangely enough, is their smiles. I leave you with a few photographs from the rediscovered collection. 

 

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.

The August Break '15: Numbers

Day four of the August Break hosted by Susannah Conway; posting a photograph every day in August. You can also find the project on Instagram using hashtag #augustbreak15

Today's prompt is 'numbers'

Numbers on my Yarndale calendar. I like to have two calendars in my kitchen: one on the dresser, where I write school holidays, birthdays and anniversaries, and a small one beside my recipe books, showing scenes from my beloved Argyll, which my Nana gives me every Christmas. 

What I Did In The Holidays.

After the long summer holidays of my childhood, on our first day back at school, we would routinely be given the task of writing, in our 'news' jotters, an essay entitled 'What I Did In The Holidays'.

My holidays would by then be a blur of endless days spent playing outside, new brown leather sandals (always Clarks, like these) summer dresses and shorts, favourite tee shirts, sunburned shoulders, lots of time spent at my Nana's house eating chocolate biscuits; whole days playing in the old hen house down beside the burn, which was sumptuously kitted out as a playhouse, with  chipped crockery, a little cupboard hung crookedly on the wall, a rickety table and old curtains hung on a piece of string at the (real glass) windows. Fighting with my sister, helping to look after my little brother, drinking 'coke floats' made by mum, splashing in the peat-brown burn, where a large flat rock, and a small, deep pool under the shade of the stone bridge provided a plain but perfect setting for long afternoons outside. Climbing up the moor, gathering armfuls of wildflowers, catching the occasional glimpse of an adder (Scotland's only venomous snake) sliding silently away as it sensed our approach. Nights so light in midsummer that it stayed daylight, only fading into a gentle twilight for an hour or two in the middle of the night (winter nights, conversely, lasted from 3.30 in the afternoon until about 10 the next morning). Long hours spent reading as many books as I could devour, some pages of which I can still clearly visualise in my mind's eye, forty years later. 

Somehow, back in the formal environment of school, I couldn't find the words in writing my compulsory essay to describe the sense of freedom, timelessness, and relaxed aimlessness, which personified my summer, and would instead compose a largely fictitious account, preferring to hoard the truth of those happy weeks in my own heart, and keep my memories away from the red biro pen of the teacher snipping through my work with 'watch your spelling' 'see me' 'handwriting is messy' etc written in the margin. 

 

I have the same feeling of slight bewilderment (though without the reluctance to share) when recalling the specifics of our recent holiday in Wales. We had a restorative, hugely relaxed holiday, drifting round our favourite haunts, having lots of laughs with the boys, who spent many days helping on the farm, disappearing in the morning, reappearing, ravenous at lunchtime, and then disappearing again until late afternoon, when they would return, filthy, sweaty, happy, for a shower and (enormous) dinner. I baked lots of cakes, and sewed (more of that in another post), and did lots of what I do at home (preparing meals, loading the dishwasher) but also lots of what I don't do at home (sitting outside, gazing across the valley, dreaming, sipping a mug of tea, the pages of my book flipping in the warm breeze). The days merged into a continuum of contentment; waking in the spacious, beamed bedroom, drifting through the morning, an unhurried shower and the pleasure of knowing that a linen dress and sandals would be just right for the day ahead (a fact never to be taken for granted in Scotland, where a back-up jumper and cagoule, if not raincoat, are standard when setting out). Even the cooler days were warm, and one morning, waking to rain, the water vapour in the air shrinking the view to just beyond the farm, it felt like we were enclosed in our own small, perfect, world.

I realised, about half way through the first week, that being at Sugar Loaf Barn (does a more delightful name for a house exist?) that we essentially just live there for a fortnight, that it feels just like home, but more spacious, less cluttered, more remote, therefore more private, and of course without Derek working six days a week. That life is hard to leave, and why I struggled for the first week or so after returning to Glasgow. I love my home, and generally am generally very contented, but I have had a restless spirit since my return. I am not fighting it; sometimes from restlessness comes creativity, or a plan not previously considered, or sometimes just a returning contentment, which feels like coming home all over again. 

serves 6

My brother lives in London, and it is always a complete joy to see him when he visits, as he did last weekend. I saw him on Saturday, and he visited for brunch on Monday. The boys were off school for half term, so I knew by 11am I would have some very hungry stomachs to fill. As well as bacon, sausages, black pudding and roast cherry tomatoes, all of which could be cooked slightly in advance and kept warm, I found a recipe for savoury bread and butter pudding in 'Dorset Cereals the breakfast book', which looked delicious, and as though it would provide the required ballast for three hungry men.

I approve of dishes made using bread, they make me feel thrifty and efficient (a most welcome and unusual sensation).We are a very bread-hungry household; breakfast toast, lunchtime sandwiches, after school snacks, supper time bread and jam, we get through a huge amount of bread, and there is often an elderly loaf languishing at the back of the bread bin. This recipe is perfect for using up slightly stale ends of loaves. I adapted it very slightly by substituting 100ml of the milk with double cream for added richness, but that aside it is lifted straight from the book.  Serves 6 (or one visiting uncle and two ravenous nephews).

Ingredients

30g butter

1 onion, finely chopped

2 tbsp. finely chopped fresh parsley plus extra for garnish

1 tbsp. finely snipped fresh chives plus extra for garnish

6 large free range eggs

650ml milk

100ml double cream

200g day old good quality bread, cut into smallish chunks

125g cheddar cheese, grated

salt and pepper

Method

Melt the butter in a frying pan over medium heat and fry off the onion, stirring occasionally, until very soft and translucent but not browned.

Whisk together the eggs, milk and cream in a bowl or large jug, stir in the parsley and chives, and season to taste with salt and pepper.

Butter a 3 litre baking dish. Place half the bread chunks in the dish and sprinkle with half the fried onion and half the grated cheddar. Gently pour over approx. half the egg and milk mixture. Repeat with the remaining ingredients. Gently press down any dry peaks with the back of a wooden spoon to ensure all the bread is in contact with the liquid. Cover with a dish, or cling film, and leave to one side for 30-60 minutes to allow the egg and milk to fully soak into the bread.

Preheat oven to Gas5/190c and bake for 45-50 minutes until puffed and golden on top, and cooked through. Scatter reserved parsley and chives on top before serving.

Serve with bacon, sausages, roasted cherry tomatoes, a jug of maple syrup, and fresh orange juice.

keeping it neat

Isaac turned 13 a couple of weeks ago, and half-jokingly requested 'a cake made of chocolate cookies'. Although there was nothing to stop me making a heap of chocolate cookies and sticking them together with icing, I felt slightly at a loss as to exactly how to proceed. Fortunately, I found a recipe in April Carter's 'Decorated' that fitted the bill perfectly.

The cake turns out quite small, about 6"/15 cm diameter, but is very dense, so the given quantity yields about 10 slices. It has a high novelty factor, and went down well with the birthday boy and  friends.

Ingredients

125g butter

85g caster sugar

1 medium egg, lightly beaten

175g dark chocolate, roughly chopped

225g plain flour

1 level teaspoon bicarb of soda

1/2 level teaspoon salt

Method

Beat the butter and sugar together until pale and fluffy.

Add the beaten egg, ensuring all is well combined, then add the chopped chocolate.

Sift all the dry ingredients together and add, beating until all ingredients are well combined, but don't mix beyond that point.

The dough will be quite soft. Place the dough in a clean bowl and cover with clingfilm, or pop into a freezer bag, and chill for a minimum of two hours, or overnight. This step helps the dough keep its shape when it is baked, and should not be skipped.

After chilling, preheat the oven to Gas 3/ 170c.

Weigh the dough, and divide evenly by 8. Roll each eighth into a ball between your palms, and then pat firmly into a flattish disc, about 4"/10 cm across. Place apart on a baking tray, they will spread.

Bake for approx. 10 minutes until just cooked through, golden at the edges, but still slightly soft in the middle. leave the cookies to cool slightly and firm up on the baking tray, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.

Icing

200g dark chocolate, broken into small pieces

160g very soft butter

180g icing sugar, sifted

Melt the chocolate in a bowl suspended over a pan of barely simmering water, ensuring the bottom of the bowl does not touch the water. Remove from the heat as soon as the chocolate has fully melted.

Beat the butter and icing sugar together until fully combined, and a creamy consistency. Gently stir in the chocolate; do not beat or the chocolate may seize.

To assemble the cookie cake

Anchor the first cookie onto your chosen serving plate with a dab of icing. Gently spread icing on the cookie to give a thin layer, keeping it neat. Place the next cookie on top and continue to build the cake, taking care not to dislodge the underneath layers as you proceed.

This cake lasts surprisingly well; the cookies acquiring a slightly soft texture due to the layers of icing, which is rather decadent.

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.

we confer

In our house, Saturdays are marked by a general slowing of the pace, time spent relaxing, nicer food, a couple of glasses of wine with dinner, and an attempt at the weekend crossword.

We buy two newspapers; a luxury, but worth it for marital harmony. Previous attempts to do the crossword together ended with gritted teeth. Derek is too fast for me and inevitably answered many more clues than I did. I trailed behind. When I triumphantly announced an answer, he was already ten steps ahead of me. The cost of the extra newspaper is offset by the domestic equilibrium achieved by each working at our own pace, in our different ways. Derek is a mine of general knowledge; and works quickly, logically and systematically. I am neither a mine of general knowledge, nor quick, nor logical, but I enjoy answering what I can. 

Once we have both squeezed the crossword dry individually, we confer. This is the best bit. We spend a peaceful half hour together running through the crossword, Derek supplying many answers I have been unable to find, me (very) occasionally supplying an answer for him.

The crossword is one of those seemingly unimportant habits that add up with other, similar small treats, or times spent together, that combine to make the weekend feel so different from the week.

 

happy christmas

Wishing everyone a very happy Christmas, and a peaceful, healthy and happy 2015. Signing off for a few days now, see you in the New Year. Thanks for making this space feel like home.

Love

Penny XX

brighten and cheer

Christmas decorations and adornments brighten and cheer the house at this time of year.

From

to

From

to

From

to

From

to

From

to

What changes do you like to make bring a festive feeling to your home at Christmas?

earlier than usual

 This year, we put our tree and decorations up on the weekend of the 6th/7th, a week earlier than usual, I suspect this may become the norm in future years as we have all loved it.

The boys were a huge help in lifting down all the boxes from the loft, then they helped coax the branches of our (artificial) tree into shape, after a year squashed in its box.

The fire was on, and our well worn Christmas playlist was dusted off and played at ear splitting volume.

A couple of hours work had the tree up, and decorated, we stood back to admire our handiwork. Christmas was officially 'On' in our house!

 

 

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warm at home

I am nursing a streaming head cold and sore throat today, and so grateful to stay warm at home. What could be more comforting than a late breakfast of boiled aggs and toast by the fire.....

What comfort foods do you turn to when you are not well?

re-connect

I attended a family funeral in England at the end of last week. My uncle, a year younger than my darling dad, had enjoyed a long, adventurous, happy life, but that made it no easier for the family to say goodbye. It was a bitterly cold day, with a low red winter sun, and a wind seemingly blowing straight down from the Scottish Highlands, to carry the soul of my dear uncle home.

After the ceremony and the final farewell, to the skirl of the piper playing the Flowers of the Forest*, we returned to my cousin's home, and hugged, laughed, and cried our way through the afternoon, sharing family stories and memories, looking at old photographs, and marvelling at the life of these two fabulous brothers, the eldest and second eldest of seven siblings, born in 1921 and 1922 respectively,  whose blood flows now in our veins. I looked at my cousins; there was my father's laugh; my uncle's voice, my brother's eyes. I looked down at my hands, there  were my grandpa, my uncle and my  father in the tapering shape of the fingers, the square thumb nails.  That night, flying home, trying to read on the plane, a kaleidoscope of images and memories played out behind my eyes. I gave up reading, and let the memories flow; tumbling, jumbled and disjointed, like a crackly cine film:  my uncle singing; my dad laughing, tears running down his cheeks, a dram in his hand, my cousins arriving from London to stay with us, climbing out the car after their long drive, us swimming in the peat-brown burn, those long summers of childhood, where six weeks seemed a lifetime. 

As well as saying goodbye, and reflecting on a long life, well lived, how do we honour an day like this? If we are lucky, as I consider myself to be, we re-connect with family, and we decide that we will maintain this connection, both for its own sake, because we like each other, yes, very much! and also in faithful, loving memory of those two brothers, who through their many adventures, valued family above all else. I'm sure they would approve.

* The Flowers of The Forest.

 

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our unexpected guest

My usual weekday morning kitchen routine runs along pleasantly familiar lines........

radio on (Chris Evans, since you ask)

say hello to Meg (our yellow lab)

fire on (October to March)

kettle on (first of many)

wake the boys for school (nicely)

empty the dishwasher (that machine works hard for its money)

make coffee (Derek)

make tea (me, several cups)

make bacon sandwiches (Jacob's breakfast)

warm Pain au Chocolat (Isaac's breakfast)

make packed lunch (Isaac)

make lunchtime rolls (Derek)

fill the washing machine (a load in before the boys go to school makes me feel like Superwoman)

locate gym kit (Jacob)

remind to brush teeth (Jacob)

and hair (Isaac)

locate car keys (me)

find mobile phone (Derek)

kiss goodbye (Derek)

match up boys to correct blazers, bags, kit bags and lunches (every day)

see to door, kiss, kiss, (Jacob) (Isaac)

watch boys crossing the park together (start missing them already).......

You get the general picture, perhaps your house is very similar in the morning? 

This morning, in the midst of our usual organised chaeos I was suddenly, and unexpectedly, dive bombed from above by a small, beautiful and thoroughly disorientated..... robin redbreast. He must have flown in through the back door, which I had earlier opened for Meg to allow for morning ablutions and sniffings.

I yelled in surprise and nearly dropped Jacob's breakfast, Meg started barking wildly as she caught sight of the bird, Isaac came running through in half a school uniform and bare feet, and Derek (used to a certain amount of noise in the mornings) appeared, nonplussed, at the kitchen door, to ask what the fuss was about. He quickly became a little more animated as our unexpected guest circled twice round his head before taking refuge atop a shelf of recipe books.

Before deciding how best to deal with him, I fleetingly regretted that A) he hadn't landed right on top of my christmas recipe book collection- surely a missed Christmas card design opportunity, and B) that I don't have a better zoom on my camera.

Amid much hilarity, combined with a little mild hysteria at having such an unpredictable house guest in our midst, we tried to decide what to do for the best. Suggestions ranged from adoption (Isaac) to capturing him under a hat (Jacob), laying a trail of breadcrumbs from the shelf to the back door to tempt him outside (Isaac)- actually I really liked that suggestion, and took a bag of breadcrumbs out of the freezer in preperation for a sort of reverse-Hansel-and-Gretel exercise when the children left for school.

Just as I had decided the best thing to do was just leave him well alone on top of the recipe books until the house was quieter, he suddenly decided that another tour of the kitchen skyline was in order, and flew to the top of a cupboard, as we all ducked, and shrieked (and Meg barked) as though we were being targeted by a Lancaster Bomber.

Then Jacob, always cool headed in a crisis, climbed onto a chair with a tea towel in his hand, and with infinate care, and a gentleness that belies his 6' 2" frame, size 12 feet, and huge hands, calmly and carefully caught the little fellow and cradled him carefully as he stepped down.

He walked to the back door and opened the tea towel. Our Mr Redbreast, undaunted by his awfully big adventure, flew up into the branches of our Acer tree. After looking back at us all with what we were sure was an expression of gratitude for our hospitality, he flew off. 

I have always wondered what magazine journalists, writing about Christmas, mean when they tell us to be prepared for 'unexpected guests', but I guess I know now.

The August Break: Soft

The penultimate photo prompt from The August Break project is 'soft'.

There are lots of soft things in our house; feather duvets, fluffy towels, squishy sofas, cuddly cushions, comfy chairs, and soft toys that are still very loved despite the boys' advancing ages. (For the best soft toy story ever, can I recommend 'Dogger' by Shirley Hughes. We almost knew it by heart when the boys were small). 

However, the biggest, daftest, most loveable, affectionate and softest thing in our house has to be our yellow labrador, Meg.

 

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August Break: Morning

The next photo prompt from blogging project The August Break is 'morning'

Regardless of season, my morning always starts with a cup of tea. That first cup is sipped at odd moments during the morning flurry of packed lunch making; boys' breakfast preperations, last minute gym kit assemblies, 'Clean your teeth' naggings and morning goodbye kisses. After everyone has gone, I put the kettle back on the hob again: it's never too soon for another cup of tea as far as I am concerned, particularly if a bit of rootling around in the cake tin turns up a slightly elderley banana loaf, ready to be toasted and spread generously with pale, creamy butter.

 

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The August Break: Treasures

Ten days left of the August Break, hosted by Susanne Collins. Today's photo prompt is 'treasures'.

 

In this picture are some small items I treasure:

My favourite photograph of the boys and me, taken a few years ago. I love it because I have my arms round them both, squeezing them tight. 

A photograph of the boys on Jacob's 5th birthday. I love their closeness in the photograph, and the way Isaac is looking at Jacob.

A photograph of a very plump me as a baby, resplendent in home knits and white tights, with my dad.  

A small, heavy, ugly brass boot. This belonged to my paternal granny. It used to have more detail on it, including a small shield and a mouse. The mouse was gradually rubbed away over many years of vigorous weekly polishings. I think the shield met the same fate; it was rubbed into submission and eventually dropped off.

Two champagne corks from my 50th birthday. If we ever have a bottle of champagne, or fizz, I keep the cork, and write the date and occasion on it (cork is a very receptive surface to ball point pen). I keep them in a two large Kilner jars. Periodically the boys and I tip the jars out and go through them. 

Silver bookmark, a precious gift given to me by Isaac on my 50th birthday.

My wedding ring; traditional, plain, simple. 

Silver and green tourmaline ring, given to me by Derek for my 40th birthday. 

Button shaped stones, gathered from beaches in Northumberland during summer holidays when the boys were younger. They usually sit in a small horn bowl (from here,) on the mantlepiece.

Very few of these items are of monetary value, and I am not sure if they would be defined as treasures  in any dictionary, but they are very precious indeed to me.

I would love to know what objects you treasure.

  

 

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The August Break: Jump

Forging ahead with The August Break challenge hosted by Susannah Conway, the next prompt is 'Jump'

Here are Jacob (R) and Isaac (L) walking across the park opposite our house last Thursday morning. Jacob is making the jump to S4, becoming a senior pupil, and this year (academically at least) will be concentrated on working towards exams.

Isaac is making the huge jump from Primary to Secondary school. The first few days have not been without their challenges. He is exhausted in the evenings with so much new information to assimilate: the timetable, culture, multiple teachers, new classmates, and he finds the day very long. So do I, missing them both terribly until we all get used to the school routine after the summer holidays.

One part of the jump that I am enjoying though, is knowing they are at the same school again, and will be for the next three years, until Jacob leaves and jumps again.

 

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The August Break: Hands

The August Break continues, and today's photograph prompt is 'hands'.

My hands,passing a slice of home made cake to someone I love. Of all the things hands can do, this is one of the nicest.

 

The August Break: Selfie

Today's prompt for the August Break with Susannah Conway is 'selfie'.

I love the concept of the Selfie; it's one of those unplanned consequences of digital media that is now part of everyday life. Famous individuals are no longer asked to sign autographs, but to take selfies with their delighted fans, and of course even the Pope and Royalty have posed for selfies. For many people, taking selfies is a normal part of their day, and as long as they are comfortable, not exploiting others, or being exploited themselves, that's fine.

Loving the selfie concept, and actually taking a selfie are though, two different things, and I just couldn't bring myself to take a full frontal, so to speak, instead choosing to slightly hide behind my camera. Being a mid century child of the Scottish Highlands, with a drop of Scottish Presbyterianism in my blood, my very dna rises up against taking a selfie, interpreting it as that worst of all behaviours: showing off . Showing Off was never to be tolerated in my childhood, my teenage years, or indeed since, and I have now become very self-censoring.

In the villages where I grew up, drunkenness; all sorts of petty criminality, incest, and murder were more easily tolerated than any behaviour that could be construed as self-promoting. Anything from wearing a too brightly coloured cardigan to school, to your dad buying an ostentatious car, was viewed with tight lipped disapproval and dark mutterings from the wider community. Even within my own, very loving family, we were warned time and time again not to display any behaviour that could be construed as immodest or self promoting.

So it is with very slight hesitation, a great big grin, and loving hug to my childhood self, that I post my selfie...

See you tomorrow.
 

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......
 

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welcome to my busy week

 

Welcome to

Everybody has personal triggers for change, and mine often occur when I come home after time away, and see my home with fresh eyes. After the beautifully uncluttered space of Sugar Loaf Barn, I felt the sheer quantity of belongings in our house weighing me down.

Being a bit of a clutterbug; book lover, magazine reader, vintage china fiend, charity shop prowler, with the occasional foray into online auction sites, I tend to fill our small house to bursting point without realising the space-eating effect of my habits. As vices go, it's not the worst, but sometimes I need to have a massive clear out, and feeling positive after our summer holiday, it felt like the right time to declutter.

Added to this, Derek and I have, for some time, been discussing the possibility of Jacob and Isaac having a

We thought it was time they had some teen space, a room to spend time with friends, with each other, and somewhere for the

Where would this space be? Our underused dining room was the obvious choice; it is used at christmas, but not very much throughout the year, and although I will miss it (it does look rather nice with the table all set for christmas dinner..)

there was no contest between a pretty christmas table once a year, and the oppportunity to give the boys a room of their own. They, naturally, loved the idea, and so began the Grand Clear Out.

Lots and lots of bags went to the 

Many more went to our recycling centre at the 

And  there were also lots of bulging

Furniture was moved round the house, a bookcase and sofa found their way into the Boys' Room, a new tv was purchased, and a very reluctant (me) and hugely enthusiastic (Jacob and Isaac) visit was paid to Ikea.

Once home, Jacob entered

and with much

the new tv stand and chairs were built.

Then some groovy* art work was added

and with a few finishing touches,

the Boys' Room was declared open for use. It's cosy, welcoming, funky* and most of all

On a more serious note; until now, it has been easy to monitor what the boys were watching on television, or on-line, as our family sitting room is open plan to our kitchen. The advent of the Boys' Room changes that dynamic slightly. We talked to them (as we often do) about on-line

I am satisfied that both boys are very well aware of the potential pitfalls, and I will always discuss and monitor what they watch etc. for as long as they need support and guidance in this area, but I also believe they need a little space too.

So far, the Boys' Room has been a rip roaring success, with a lovely healthy balance between time spent there, and in the family sitting room. 

With all the upheaval, there has been 

but amongst the strange looking pickles, and bumper bags of Dime bars in the Ikea shop, I found these adorable alphabet biscuits. Once home, I couldn't resist tipping them onto a tray and playing with them, I never guessed I could have so much

 

(*I am leading a unilateral movement to resurrect hippy terminology that has inexplicably fallen out of favour, care to join me?)

 

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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

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holiday check list....

Holiday reading...

Holiday work basket....

Holiday clothes....

Looking forward to our time away....

after a rainy night

After a rainy night Meg and I set off early this morning for our walk. Living in Scotland, we get our fair share of rain (some would say more than our fair share...) but we get sunshine too, and the combination sun and rain, as every nursery child learns, makes the grass grow. 

The world (our little corner of it anyway) looked freshly washed, and there was a wet whippy wind that spoke of rain to come later in the day. Meg ran ahead, in her usual ecstasy of sniffing, galloping, chasing, and running back to me, ears flying, tongue hanging out.

 

Over the stile and along the grassy path by the burn.

Lots of wild flowers with rain still clinging to the petals, and for once I had remembered the camera. 

 

Then home, to continue with preparations for our family holiday to Wales. So glad of my hour in the fresh air before tackling yet another pile of holiday ironing. 

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excited, and a tiny bit sad.

Here is Isaac, walking into the playground for his last day at Primary School. He is excited; a bit nervous, and a tiny bit sad. I know how he feels.

To Isaac's teachers for the last 7 years, I dedicate this quote from Forest E. Witcraft, an American teacher, scholar and scout leader (1894-1967)

"In a hundred years from now it will not matter what my bank account was, the sort of house I lived in, or the kind of car I drove. But the world may be different, because I was important in the life of a child"

Forest, I couldn't agree with you more. 

 

 

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More Liebster.

                                                       

Following on from my last post I would once again like to thank Tracey at Yarn and Pencil for her nomination of The Homemade Heart for the Liebster Award.

Part One continued....

...where I answer Tracey's questions.

Tracey:  What was your main reason for starting a blog?

Penny: I wanted to share my love of baking; improve my photography (clearly still a work in progress!) and write regularly, with purpose. 

Tracey: What is your favourite colour combination?

Penny: Easy! Pink and green.

Tracey: Do you have a favourite herb that you couldn't be without growing on your windowsill or in your garden?

Penny: I have some rosemary growing in the garden, but it's not necessarily my favourite herb; I just like the combination of rosemary and lavender growing in the garden. 

Tracey: What tool could you not do without?

Penny: This one gave me some pause for thought! I am quite resouceful, so I could probably improvise quite a lot of tools if necessary (I always think I'd do quite well on a desert island, apart from the lonliness and lack of  John Lewis....!). However, the tool I cannot imagine an effective substitute for is my trusty toothbrush!

Tracey: Would you rather go out or stay home in the evening?

Penny: I am a home-body, and like to spend the evenings pottering about the kitchen, usually with my much loved Roberts Radio keeping me company.

 

Tracey: What would your perfect all day outing be?

Penny: It would be either in Argyll, or the Yorkshire Dales. We would have a long walk with the dog beside a sparkling river, followed by  lunch from a generously filled picnic basket in the shade of a rustling oak tree.  After lunch, Derek and I would have tea from a flask and watch the boys kicking a ball about. In the late afternoon we'd head home to find the table set with vintage crockery, the kettle whistling on the hob, and a freshly baked Victoria sponge made by my mum, filled with my one of my nan's home made jams. Bliss.

Tracey: Name three wild flowers that you would be happy to see growing in your garden.

Penny: I am fortunate to have one of my favourite wild flowers growing in my garden already; my lovely snowdrops.

I have also recently planted another wildflower favourite; foxgloves, and am looking forward to seeing them flower next year. One of my most favourite wild flowers is the lovely Dog Rose; I would love to have one of them growing in  the garden.

Tracey: What was the last magazine you bought?

Penny: 

Tracey: Do you have a favourite film?

Penny: Hard to choose just one favourite. When I was young, single, and living in Edinburgh, I went to the cinema at least once a week, usually to the Edinburgh Film House, a habit I slipped out of when I met Derek and moved to Glasgow. I absolutely loved 'Betty Blue'; the soundtrack as much as the film.

 I loved 'Paris Texas' too, again the soundtrack was amazing. Probably my favourite film, though, was 'One From the Heart', and once more, I loved the soundtrack as much as the film.

Tracey: What is your favourite food?

Penny: Bread! I rarely make bread at home, for the simple reason that I could eat a whole loaf standing in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil!

Tracey: What will your next project be?

Penny: My next project will be preparing my entries for the Dalmally Show, which is an agricultural show in Argyll that we go to every September. I enter baking; preserves and handcrafts. The boys do some entries for the Under 16's competitions. 

Part Two.

                                  

This is where I pose 11 questions I would like my Nominees to answer:

1) Who or what inspired you to start your blog?

2) Describe your ideal Friday evening.

3) Which is your favourite room in your house, and why?

4) Do you have a 'signature bake'? Describe it and why you love it.

5) What is your favourite fashion era and why?

6) What is your favourite piece of music?

7) What was your most loved book as a child?

8) What is your least favourite household chore or task?

9) Where and when do you like to read?

10) Do you harbour a secret ambition that would surprise your family and friends?

11) Are you a make-up-every-day girl? Or do you prefer bare faced beauty?

                                               

Now the moment when I reveal my Nominees. I have chosen blogs I really enjoy reading, and follow on bloglovin. I am nominating 5 blogs, as I wanted to choose those I feel a genuine connection with, rather than simply plucking randomly from the Blogsphere to make it up to the 11 recommended in the Liebster Award rules. 

I have chosen these bloggers because I enjoy every post they write. They write with honesty and integrity, and all have, as far as I can see, less than 200 followers. 

So, in no particular order, my Nominees are:

Christina at A Colourful Life. Christina writes about her busy life in Glasgow with her family. 

Cathy at Patchy Details. Cathy blogs about her gorgeous pottery and textiles.

Pat at Sunshine and a Sewing Basket Pat blogs about her crafts, family and garden.  

Karen at A Quiet Corner Karen writes about her home and family in Bristol.

Katie at What Katie Wrote Next Katie writes about her life  in the North of England.

                                                             

To Tracey at Yarn and Pencil, thank you again, it has been fun! And to my Nominees; Good Luck! I very much look forward to reading your answers to my questions, and getting to know you all a little better. 

 

 

 

 

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