Little apples, little people

As I manhandled (or maybe that should be womanhandled) my oh so very large and so absolutely Charming Flowers (I must think of a different name as I find that one quite painful) about the ironing board last night, I began to understand why so many quilters stick to wallhangings and baby quilts.

Spot the pesky squirrel

I am also quite geometrically challenged and with an almost square quilt I have moments of confusion about which way is up and which across, which resulted in my sewing my pieced strip along, rather than perpendicular to, the selvedge. (Unlike  my friend from Ted and Bunny, I do not find unpicking at all therapeutic, especially when it is 7 foot long and it is 10 o'clock at night and I know that I won't sleep easy if I don't unpick every last stitch and press out the holes before I retire).

Little Apples

So as a little light relief for the weekend I thought I would show you a nice little baby quilt I made earlier in the year (every time I say here's one I made earlier I think of the Blue Peter advent crown and a childhood where you could buy sticky-backed plastic off the roll in the back corner of Woolworths [this is a peculiarly British reminiscence and will no doubt be utterly mystifying to my international readers, but if I attempt to explain the significance it will involve a meandering disquisition on matters sociocultural and historical here in Old Blighty, and would involve so many parentheses and much venturing up byways, that I would be sure to get Lost and Distracted {which I fear that I may be already}]).

Here's one I made earlier

So where was I, I think to myself as I extricate myself from a Parenthetical Thicket. Ah yes, a Rather Charming baby quilt which I made for a very sweet little chap earlier in the year (you will be glad to hear that I am dismissing all thoughts of Blue Peter from my head Quite Firmly, but I am finding that such a Firm Tone requires copious use of  the Upper Case).

The fabric I used was Little Apples by Aneela Hoey (she says in a Firmly Informative Tone), which I really like because of a family association with Apples and Squirrels (I must admit that the Squirrel Association is not an entirely happy one but the passage of time has enabled me to Smile at that Peculiar Irony).

Charming stitching

The pattern for this quilt is a Charmingly Easy one from the Cloud Nine blog - it is a free pattern and you will find it here. It is also a very good pattern for the Terminally Disorganized and Unexpected Arrivals, as it is genuinely very quick to make. The quilt is tied with embroidery thread in the centres of the panels, and the same thread is also used for some simple running stitch quilting along the edges and seam lines. (The Little Apples fabric is still available from JB Quilting and Ebay, she says helpfully, in case you wanted to make one later.)

So if you want a quilt that you can make in a weekend, one which will fit on your table for basting, can be pressed with not a hint of manhandling and which can be hand-quilted without tears in an evening, then this little cot quilt is for you.

Charmingly small

Unfortunately it looks rather meagre on a double bed, so it's back to wrestling those very Charming Flowers to the ground for me ...

In the meantime, hello to Lindsey and Mama Smith at Project Little Smith who is, rather intriguingly, an architect turned homemaker and takes very lovely pictures.



   

Walking uphill; or, the beauty of a barn door

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

No quilt in sight

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

An October morning

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

Personal trainer extraordinaire

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

The road less travelled

And she is right, you know.

Green and growing

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

Poppies on the grattan

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

More flowers in October

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

Come on, keep up

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

Waiting

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

Washed up on the shores of the future

Stepping out

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

Looking into the distance

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

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

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

Christmas is coming ...

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

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

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

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

My faithful friend

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

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

I'll let you know how I get on.

Scarlet and black

As a granny fashionista, I feel that it is my duty to dispense the occasional handy hint regarding matters sartorial, and this weekend I felt that I learned a lesson worth sharing.

And my advice is, please don't listen to those grande dames of decluttering, and ladies of high fashion who insist that if an item of clothing has not been worn for a couple of years, then the only thing to do is to toss it smartly into a bin bag and consign it to history.

No, the granny fashionista knows better - and in fact, I have come to the conclusion with matters of fashion and style, then the older the better, and even better if it is so old that you have forgotten that it belongs to you.

Many moons ago

Last Friday I found myself in the unusual situation of deciding what to wear to a party more than one hour in advance (mainly because those dastardly admirals were keeping me waiting, and I had time on my hands) and I stood in front of the mirror gazing sadly as this year's party frock purchase, and finding it sadly wanting.

I made the mistake of buying a new dress in the spring, thinking that three rather exciting parties in the offing justified such impulsive extravagance and would of course reduce the CPW to a mere nothing (fashionista-speak for cost per wear, a concept about as useful as that of investment dressing which somehow implies that spending large amounts on clothes is akin to putting the money into the bank or a pension. Take it from me, the more you spend on fashion, the more you spend and the less you have in the bank, whatever the CPW).

And as for my little piece of investment dressing, it has not stepped up to the mark for any party as yet. 'It is a very pretty dress,' said Princess Bunchy kindly. 'I think I might be cold,' I replied as I tried leggings and a variety of cardis, and every single pair of shoes to my name, and felt the sinking feeling that this fatal frock was not really up to a Hollywood theme in a rather lovely venue in the Great Wen, or anywhere else for that matter. In fact, this dress came under the category of Big Mistake, and contrary to the effusive affirmations of the shop assistants, it was not a dress for me but a dress for somebody else. I am not sure quite whom, but definitely not for me.

So Princess Bunchy went exploring in the back of the wardrobe and emerged with three party frocks from many moons ago, including the one I wore to my twenty-first birthday dance. 'It's rather revealing,' she said in a shocked voice, and I tried to explain about the 1980s and strapless ballgowns with boned bodices, not that my frock was strapless or boned, or revealing as I explained as I shifted the waistband up six inches to the 1980s, and pulled the laces tight, so this was only marginally relevant. 'Whalebone,' she said knowledgeably, and then I had to explain that actually I am not that old and plastic had been invented by the time I first donned a ballgown.

As you might gather, we were not getting very far: shocking pink and purple chiffon in layers, no, too strappy for granny arms. Pale grey and cream silk with pearl buttons from Singapore - dropped waist and boxy shape far too girlish. The princess dug down into another layer - only twenty years this time - heavy black velvet with a wonderful drape on the skirt. Beautiful - a dress of dreams and probably only worn once, and I still don't regret the purchase because I would wear it again if someone would invite me to a winter party (but I don't get out much, especially in winter). But a touch warm for London in August, even one as chilly as this.

Time was

And then, hiding behind everything, covered by dry cleaner's plastic, the princess pulled out a dress only a year older than she is. Scarlet and black, chiffon and burnt velvet, a whole raft of memories came spilling out with it. A mere fourteen years old, from a time when the Commander-in-Chief occupied a position which required his daughter to have one or two rather smart party frocks. And a sad time for other reasons, and I remembered the other velvet frock in ash grey and dark blue, rather roomy in its cut, which I had discarded because of the sad memories attached to it.

And this one in scarlet and black - bought after the grey one, for a summer party which I can't quite remember, but I remember feeling not quite at ease in the dress, and trying to forget things and be cheerful and graceful in a dress that was a little too tight and a little too bright for my feelings.

Scarlet and black, hidden away for all these years, and from memory, and now not too tight and bold at all, quite perfect for wearing on a red carpet and having its picture taken.

Very old

So this frock did go to the ball after all, and the story had a happy ending.
 
And the moral is, never throw away a party frock, because they come festooned with memories of all kinds, and far better to wear a really old one, where the cost is historic (and that is a genuine economic concept) and thus more thrifty than buying a new one.

Or you can buy a really old one, older than you are, which has been emptied out of someone else's bin bag, and thus become a genuine granny fashionista. Just like I did last week.

Sometimes ...

Sometimes a little party by the beach is just what you need on a Wednesday night...

Just sitting in front of the most heavenly beach house which is a work of art in itself  ...

 Just sitting and chatting and laughing and eating cake ...

Feeling the sea breeze and watching the sun go down ...

Thank you Marilyn and Emma for enticing us out, and happy happy to Francine.

Through the square window

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

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

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

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

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

Magic beans

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

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

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

Look closely and see those gossamer strands

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

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

Peeping toms

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

Precious

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

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

Saturday afternoon bliss

The last Saturday in February, sitting on the sofa with the sun streaming in through the window, stitching a quilt for a princess . . .

. . .  listening to her dulcet tones as she rehearses a song of angels . . . and wondering (slightly tearfully) where on earth such a voice came from.

A stitchy giveaway

I think that we are all in need in a bit of cheer on a cold weekend so here at last is my long-promised giveaway.

As I told you it is one of a stitchy nature, just the thing to keep your shivering fingers busy as you sit by the fire warming your pot of gruel.

Those lovely people at Search Press sent me these three very pretty books before Christmas, and in all the flurry and bustle of seasonal excitement (not to mention the depths of my misery at having to take a sewing break) I forgot all about them until I did my little sort-out and tidy-up the other day and found them in my embroidery drawer.

As you will see from my pet stork, I have had a bit of a penchant for cross-stitch. I stitched his ball and chain on one very foggy holiday on the isle of Lundy, all the while convinced that I was rapidly losing my sight. It wasn't until I returned home that I realized that a higher than usual stitch count, not to mention a gloomy fogbound cottage and poor lighting were the cause of all my difficulties.

The books I am giving away are all very tempting. The first is the Liberty Book of Cross Stitch, which is a feast for the eyes.

There are a series of pattern and instructions for all sorts of items from home decor to baby to accessories, with a mixture of sewing and embroidery.

Then there is Jan Eaton's 1000 Cross-Stitch Motifs:

This is a wonderful cornucopia of charted designs on every subject that you could possibly need, with a whole range of individual motifs, as well as borders and pictures.

And last but not least there is a book from one of the doyennes of the cross-stitch world, Jane Greenoff, entitled 100 Cross-Stitch Patterns to Mix and Match.

This has a clever split-page format so that you can swap about and have two different pattern pages open at the same time. I think the range of different alphabets is particularly useful.

So there you have it - to spread the blessings further, I will pick three winners, rather than sending all three books to one person.

If you already have one of the books, or are only interested in one, then say so in your comment, but those who have no preference obviously have more chance of winning.

Being a Follower gives you your first entry in the draw, and if you put me on your blog sidebar or engage in any other social media promotion then you can get further entries - please do a separate comment to tell me about each of these as it makes it easier for me when I do the draw.

[And No-Reply Bloggers - please note! If you don't have your email address listed on your Blogger Profile page (just look at my Profile here to see what I mean - my email is on the top left under Contact Me, and you can make sure yours is by using the orange Edit Profile button on the top right of your Profile page), then you can't win because I can't email you. (If I have never replied to one of your comments, chances are you are a No-Reply Blogger). If you are not on Blogger, then please make sure you put your email address in your comment.]

I'll leave the giveaway open until early next week - I am wondering whether I can persuade one of the robins and blackbirds lurking on the table outside my window to do the draw this time. They are very keen on picking bits of food out of bowls - perhaps I could rub the comment slips with bacon fat . . .

News from nowhere

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

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

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

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

The General and a few hearty friends

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

Little and large

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

Overcome with excitement at the news