A busy summer

I have just realised how long it is since I posted anything here – blame the busimg_5552y summer months!

This year, the garden seems to have done nothing but grow – despite our frequent assaults upon it with cutters and spades, it still looks more like a jungle than a garden. Everything has either grown and grown, higher, bushier and enormous, or proliferated – in an attempt to take over as muchimg_5550 space as possible.

Meanwhile, we have been out and about, travelling all over the UK from SW to SE to NW/E, visiting friends and family along the way. Wonderful!

Photos include: Coleridge cottage garden, the Thames @ Kingston, Wolvercote Lakes, Gorran Haven, Southwold, Norfolk, Litchfield, Morecombe Bay  & Townend NT.




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So much joy

May is an incredible month, even in the bleakest years, but this year -after an icy blast at the tail end of ‘spring’ – May exploded into life.

In a matter of two or three days, the  countryside ‘greened’ and the garden stretched, yawned and remembered how to grow. Now, the variety of delicious spring colours sates the senses. The birdsong wakes me before dawn and all day, there is life and light and growth and change and… delight.

Somerset is a beautiful county in all the seasons, but this May it has excelled itself. At an ‘apple blossom cream tea’ this afternoon, the sky was pure blue, the temperatures heading up to summer figures and the food, drink and company were all wonderful. There was even a gentle musical background offering from some talented local musicians.

Sorry if this all sounds smug – it isn’t meant to – just DELIGHTED – and wondering if Somerset can get any lovelier.

Oh, and thank you.IMG_1420

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‘Nightingale Wood’ by Stella Gibbons

Nightingale+Wood.jpg (318×500)

(Part of 1938 reading week)

From the very first moment of meeting ‘Wither’ as a family name, I knew this book would not only be SG’s up-dated take on  Cinderella, but would also ape Dickens’ love of witty names. According to the introduction (by Sophie Dahl) this was SG’s first published foray into this territory – to be followed by books inspired by The Snow Queen (1939: My American) and Beauty and the Beast (1958: White Sand and Grey Sand).

But SG isn’t clumsy in her choice of names – one has to look carefully or even read them aloud to get the joke. The subtlety (or otherwise) of the characterisation, scene-painting and plot twists, is typical SG. Yes, there are the stock characters: types first met by many of us in CCF – the beautiful (if ordinary) man, the frustrated ‘old maid’, the controlling parent, the contriving wife, the slattern, the bizarre, the heartless and the deceitful. There are poor victims and indifferent rich, mismatched couples and lost causes.

The different houses also claim attention – The Eagles being a totally inappropriate name for the claustrophobic prison, brooded over by Mr Wither, and the eagles themselves being plaster ‘not badly modelled’ only remain in place because Mr Wither dared not go against his own, dead, father’s wishes. The heavy weight of history and time lying heavy upon one, combined with the unrelenting brownness of the interior, neatly sum up life at the Wither’s house. How can the newly widowed Viola (Cinderella?) with her suspect background and lack of decision, ever hope to survive in such a place? Meanwhile, Saxon’s mother lives in a squalid cottage and Victor zooms down to visit his mother in the magical Grassmere – the house of light, pleasure and luxury, perched across the valley from The Eagles, and its precise opposite, in every way.

The plot twists first one way, then another, with dramatic and farcical turns including the depiction of weather which favours the rich and punishes the pseudo-genteel. She speaks of money, breeding, aspiration, frustrated dreams and comical coincidences in much the same way as in CCF. However, one’s sympathies settle early on in the book with the widowed Viola and her sister-in-law Tina, each (albeit, flawed) caught in Mr Wither’s slowly decaying web of dullness. Madge, the plump (and plumper) back-slapping ‘don’t like mush or beastliness’, elder daughter bumbles through the book – and towards middle age – insulated by her simple desires for fresh air and a dog. Rustics abound – always appearing to know much more than they ought to – and to drink more than is good for them. Fights and retribution juggle with saving face and pretending to be gracious. One longs for everyone to get their just deserts – and, on the whole, they do.

The book is an unpicking of the unfairness and superficiality of 1937/38 society, in a slapstick, pantomime way. It wanders from one plot story to another (a precursor of the ‘soap opera’ of today?) and its denouement(s) owe much to the pantomime structure. Some of the promising subtlety of the start of the book tends not to live up to expectation as the plot drives one on through the story and characters fade, becoming more two-dimensional. Phyllis never rises off the page and (spoiler alert) flounces off in a somewhat predictable scene. However, little touches like ‘I’d sooner kiss my typist’ (Victor, living up to his name) add spice to what would otherwise be a piece of tedious tying up of stray plot lines.

The younger women tend to irritate the modern reader (well, this one anyway!). They tend to sniff and weep a little more than seems necessary, fail to come to the point, and spill tears (and worse) upon a somewhat over-described (in the wardrobe department) of manly or womanly chests. The word ‘sex’ seems peppered over the pages when the plot needs a bit of a stir, as well.

Reading the book now, one cannot escape the vision of the terrible war about to fall upon them all – but, within the book, there seems to be no sense of this – merely a distant skirmish in distant parts – and any references to war still look back to the start of the century. In her ending, SG clearly does not envisage such changes as were about to occur in a world turned upside down. Her clocks are stopped in 1938.

But, for all these irritations, I couldn’t help being beguiled by Nightingale Wood. Perhaps SG best betrays her neat docketing of the subtle strata of her women in her description of the face cream – a nice little touch in chapter XIII: Mrs Spring – twelve and sixpence, Phyllis – six and sixpence, Tina – two and sixpence, and Viola – sixpence a tube. Thus the differences are summed up – in a commodity which probably contained much the same ingredients. And perhaps that is SG’s genius – she points out that we are all much the same, under the skin.



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Getting up steam

I have noticed that as the darkest days retreat, energy begins to return and one ‘builds up steam’ for the next project.

On Monday I ‘got up steam’ in several ways. The day started with a visit to a friend’s railway layout (complete with CD of sound effects) and I was able to admire the incredible attention to detail in this tiny scale train set – with three trains dashing around and no serious derailments.

Then it was off out with said friend to drink coffee in the railway carriage at Lopen’s ‘Trading Post’ (and very busy it was too). Properly ‘stoked up’ we returned home and I was able to apply myself to the next project – well, two projects: one involves door frames and creativity (more of that anon) and the other is The Next Book – which is going along nicely, thank you.

So, lots of steam being channelled into different activities – and a growing yearning to head out to the West Somerset Railway again – so here’s a taste of it:

Please provide your own sound effects…………

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No, we don’t have a Big Freeze here in Somerset – far from it – but we do have rather an over-abundance of grey skies and damp air and a general impression that this is the dullest, dankest time of year. But there are lots of reasons to be cheerful, even if the salt has settled soggily in the salt cellar!  If you live near the sea, there is nothing quite so bracing as a walk long a windswept beach. Being inland, I contented myself with a struggle along the lane with my arms full of paintings – managing to get them home from the art class in (almost) one piece. Our local hill – Ham Hill – is always fairly blusterous in a storm – most people take their dog up there on a windy day… well, it’s something to hang on to!

In other news, my New Year Resolution of drawing / sketching every day is notable by its omission(s) – but at least I am getting down to sketching more often than I did – and, if things go on this way, the activity should accelerate under its own momentum.

Now I think about it, this photo is worth making into a sketch or a painting – just as soon as I have completed my ‘blackbird cards’ and ‘snowdrops’ series…. Photos of these anon – but here is one to keep you going: (thanks, Kaye Parmenter, for the blackbird tutorial)IMG_4818IMG_3010

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Oh dear!

IMG_4878This gives ‘bringing the house down’ a whole new meaning! The last storm, ‘Frank’, was a storm too many for the ‘African Hut’. The roof came down and brought the crib scene with it… poor Mary, Joseph, baby and Innkeeper were rescued from underneath the debris. The sheep was also located, and I am working on ideas of how to get rid of the pink dye which has discoloured her face (too near a pink fabric bauble). As someone commented: ‘It’s not myrrh the Kings need to bring – it’s bricks!’

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Getting ready for Christmas!


Helped by Sherpa, the Crib slowly takes shape…

It’s very nearly Christmas – the full picture very soon!

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