My Aunty Dora

 

Last month I finished off another batch of my ‘imaginary toadstools’ for my shop - these ones are darned and patched with various threads and vintage materials. When I create more natural toadstools, such as these...

...I give them folksy names, which are fanciful but not totally unbelievable - ‘Angel Eyes’, ‘Spice Ball’ and ‘Scarlet Bonnet’ are just a few of the toadstools that dwell in the woods in my head. 

However, even I have to admit that I have never come across a toadstool with visible mending on its cap, so I let my imagination go wherever it liked with the naming of these. And here we have my favourite, ‘Aunty Dora’s Bedroom’. 

Now, bear with me, while I explain. I had (as some of you may have) several ‘aunties’, all of a certain age, some of whom were bonafide aunts, some who were a kind of cousin or just friends of my mother’s. I had an Aunty Dora, who lived in Yeovil, Somerset and she was a proper aunty. We didn’t have holidays as such, but usually once a year mum and I would go to stay with Dora for a while. I loved her and always looked forward to our visits. Apart from the novelty of being in a more modern, comfortable household than ours, with a television, proper wall to wall carpeting and a dining table, she was very kind and fun to be with. She always had a little gift for me; just simple things, but I was easily pleased and when she gave me a small plastic box full of brightly coloured map pins (the kind with fatter ends, which I’d never seen before) I was thrilled; she’d brought them back from her job at the Milk Marketing Board, I think. Once when we arrived, she gave me a empty blue glass perfume flagon which still smelled fragrant and every time I sniffed it afterwards it reminded me of our stay with her. And a matchbox sized green plastic television which had a blank grey screen, but when you looked in the peephole in the back, it showed a photo of picture of Spain or France or somewhere exotic, and when you clicked the button on the top, the picture changed.

So, to return to her woolly namesake; I used typically 1970s colours, as that was the era in which I saw her most and although I don’t think she had such outlandish colours in any of her bedrooms, somehow it reminds me of those kinder days. I can only find one photo of her, (which is not the best) of us both enjoying a summers day in her back garden when I would have been about eight or nine, I think. I seem to be sucking on an ‘ice pop’ (another treat) and I am wearing some new and ever so trendy (I thought) espadrilles which were turquoise canvas with a bit of a chunky heel and woven hessian down the sides. New shoes were few and far between, but these were special ‘holiday shoes’ and I felt quite the thing. 

Wherever you are Aunty Dora, thank you for those lovely memories. 

Sundown

I was lucky enough to catch this wonderful sunset this evening and as it’s been a while since I wrote, I thought I’d drop in to share it with you. I am fine and despite the constant worry of finances, am remarkably calm. My heart has mended fairly quickly, with just a few hairline cracks left and I am just about managing to juggle everything. I have realised however that I need to take a little more time out for myself, after working for ten days straight and becoming a bit rundown recently. 

So many learning curves...I have restructured my Zoom classes now, so that they can be easily bought from my Etsy shop in one purchase - the kit and the one-to-one session, with date and time of choice, meaning that I can work around time zones, and I am offering free kit postage in the U.K. Each kit contains plenty enough wool for the project, which means that once someone has made their first toadstool with me, they can make more in their own time. So far I have only toadstool workshops available, but next week should see one or two seasonal projects added. 

Workshop kits and bookings

I’ve also been getting a big backlog of my own work finished and listed online and keeping up with my Patreon page, which is now up to fifteen lovely members. Their support is reassuring and  invaluable, providing a real incentive to keep writing - so for the first time in months, I picked up a kind-of-ghost story I started last year and have almost finished it. I will be drip feeding it to them over there in three instalments. The setting is remarkably like a cottage I (and possibly you) know well, in Shropshire, with a person newly moved in and finding her feet, with the help of very kind elderly neighbours.

Although despite the possible resemblance, I hope I never go through what my main protagonist experiences in ‘A Bundle of Crows’...

A scenic U-turn

Yesterday we had the luck of the sun again - October has been largely kind, weather wise. I had a workshop kit to post out; I normally do this using the online postage service and then hand my parcel over to the collecting post person at the top of the lane. But  today, I decided to cycle over to the village post office, where I haven’t been since early this year. It was all going well and I had a jovial exchange with an elderly walker who commented on my going at ‘sixty miles an hour’, to which I replied that yes, I was going so fast! (I wasn’t). And then just as I got to the turn off for the village, I came up against this;

There was a man with a mobile phone wandering about, but no workers, so I enquired if it would be possible for me to push my bike through, as the diversion was quite a large one. He investigated what I could see was a fairly deep cut trench (the electric mains wires were being replaced) and advised against it, as there was barely any road to work on. I had to agree with him. So I turned homewards. Said hello to the elderly walker again. Pushed Marjorie up the hill.

Investigated some gnarly bits of hedgerow.

And took a scenic shot, before returning home feeling thwarted but virtuous. And later that day I got my order sent off the usual way, stopping to chat to our farmer who (cheerfully blocking the traffic with his enormous tractor) offered to give the outside of the cottage hedge a trim as he always does. He’s a good sort. 

I have been busy juggling various things and have been amazed that my new Patreon page has gained twelve lovely subscribers since I launched it last week. It’s been good to have a safe place, where I can post freely and chat more easily with people. With the benefit of subscriptions, I’m able to take the time to craft longer, photo rich posts, and update more regularly here. I’ve also added three extra tiers, which allow people to save towards a small piece of my work over six months. 

This week, my subscribers shared my quiet weekend, in ‘A Letter from Saturday Night’. 

And have been on a long, autumnal ramble with me, with lots of photos, as I took Marjorie out for a very long spin, finding (at long last) some woodland to explore in ‘Seeing the Woods and the Trees’. 

If you’d like to join me in my wanderings, you can find my Patreon page here. I’d love to see you! (And Marjorie would be pleased too). 

A new path winding

This is the field which is situated right under my bedroom window. When I first moved here, eight years ago, it was populated with a small herd of milking cows, who often slept directly under my window so that on summer nights, when I had the window open, I could hear the moist huffle of their warm  breath and low grunting as they shifted their bodies to a more comfortable position. It was a friendly, reassuring accompaniment as I fell asleep.

Times change and the farmer‘s son took over the herd. The cows were  fitted with tracking collars and milked by a ‘robot’ - an amazing machine which is essentially a big computer with moving parts. Gradually the cows came out for less time each year and for the last three summers, there have been none at all. They spend their lives under cover and the field is harvested several times a year for silage, with which to feed them. I miss them, but also understand that times move on. 

My life too has undergone some radical changes since moving here, as many of you know. I am on a new and uncertain journey, with  no idea of where I will end up. The young farmer has cut a new path in the field recently, for field access. It winds gently and has a sinuous grace of its own. I rather like this new addition to my view and if I were of a mind to take it as a sign, I would see it as a good one. 

After much agonising, I have started a Patreon page. I have previously balked at paid-for content, preferring my blog to be ad-free and available to everyone, which I have done for over fifteen years. Now I am pulling all my resources together, as I am at real risk of losing the roof over my head and I have to make every hour count for something. So for a small monthly contribution,  I have set up a ‘plus’ version of this blog, where I will post every week. I realise it won’t be for everyone, however it will enable me to share a more private side of my life here; what the inside of this shabby cottage looks like, how I’m feeling and with the extra freedom, be able to get out more and share the surrounding countryside with you. As I settle down, I will be offering more tiers with extra benefits. 

Patreon support will enable me to continue with this blog, which is free for everyone, with more regular posts. With that in mind, I have left public my first Patreon post and hope that those of you who are inclined to and are able, will join me in my draughty, higgledy-piggledy, much loved home. 

‘Birds in the roof and toadstools inside’

Heading onwards with toadstools

What a month it has been. So many thanks for the supportive comments, advice, emails and messages - who knew there was so much love in the world? I’ve been a little taken aback at how much there is, but profoundly grateful, as it has been an immense help. 

I’ve had my self indulgent week of beating my breast and wailing - it was inevitable, but it’s over now and I feel cleansed and strangely calm, under the circumstances. I have spent the last week organising and planning - some plans that I was already putting in motion before things went wrong, and some new. My brain can be a slow moving animal, but with the aid of numerous lists, I am making progress and dealing with as much as possible. 

My other studio is the bedroom and it is the best place to sort out wools for add-on workshop packs. I held my first Zoom workshop last Wednesday and despite my initial nerves, it went very well. None of the participants had tried needle felting before and over the two and a half hours, with much live demonstrating from myself, they produced excellent toadstools. It was remarkably like holding a real-life workshop, but in some ways better, as I had equal access to everyone and was able to show working techniques to everyone, equally,  without constantly moving round a table. Later, I was sent this lovely in situ photo of a finished piece - 

So with more confidence than I had before, I have set up four hanging toadstool dates for October in U.K. time, with limited spaces of four people per session. 

October 9th, Friday 10.30am - 1pm

October 15th,  Thursday 10.30 - 1pm

October 23rd, Friday, 10.30 - 1pm

October 29th, Friday, 10.30 - 1pm

I’ve already had a couple of bookings, and it’s early days. All of my courses can be booked directly through myself (email me here) with payment via PayPal or booked on my page on Craft Courses here. I am also offering one to one sessions with flexible dates and timing, which should allow for overseas sessions in differing time zones. (Hello America!) 

So, that’s one thing started and a Patreon page is set up for a launch next week, which will initially be a more personal ‘plus’ extension of this blog, for a small subscription. And although I’m spending most of my time tapping away at one website or another, I am still making a little time each day to wind down with my own work. 

Discover more wanderings by supporting me on my Patreon page 

Trying to look up, not down.

 

Thank you to everyone for the kind comments and private messages, which helped so much. A month on and the first few weeks of being in numb shock have worn off; try as I might, I cannot find any fighting spirit. I had my first proper cry the other day, just as my ‘work horse’ computer permanently died, as if it, too, was tired of me. 

My eyes seem to be permanently leaking - whether from the cold, tiredness or from the all encompassing, aching sadness which fills me, even when I am immersed in work. And work I must, despite the urge to bury myself and howl for a lost future. So I pick up my brave face and attach it as firmly as I can. I try not to think about the rapidly approaching winter; how chilly and dark the cottage becomes. I spend my mornings in my studio, well wrapped up and then take my work to bed for the rest of the day, when hopefully some sun will come through the window. I force myself to eat twice a day, even though I have no appetite. I try (unsuccessfully) not to torture myself by wondering what on earth happened and how did it come to this - the lack of any firm facts has left me in a state of horrible limbo, yet somehow I have no anger, nor need for retribution. It is what it is, and despite myself, I cannot help worrying about him and whether he is feeling wretched too.

And so it goes. The only thing I have is work and trying to prepare for an uncertain future. Beyond that, I cannot see. But I am strengthened by the sympathetic wishes left; I am not the first person this has happened to (it is as old as history) and sadly I won’t be the last. So I am trying hard  to shake off this unattractive self pity and to keep on looking up, not down, as a wise friend advised. Because down is very scary indeed and I’ve never been good with heights.

Discover more wanderings by supporting me on my Patreon page 

Alone on a new path

 

The past several weeks have been difficult. This is an awkward post to write, considering that I am a very private person and not given to spilling my emotions publicly. So the fact is, Joe does not live here any more. He left, three weeks ago, with what he could fit into a few bags, offering no credible reason and departed without even bothering to say goodbye (or sorry). And while I’d sensed (with some confusion) the night before, that he could barely stand to be in the same room as me, I had not expected this. We never argued and as far as I was aware, had a good relationship. But it seems he’d planned it all for at least three weeks and even had a room in town pre-arranged. So I had been living in a fool’s paradise. Had I not confronted him that morning, he would have stayed for a bit longer, until it suited him. 

I kept my dignity and retired to my studio to let him pack. After all, what can you say? Since then, I’ve joined a few dots up and it’s left rather a nasty taste in my mouth. But thank goodness for my dear friends  - my  ‘sisters of the heart’ - who have been my constant support throughout.

 

When he left, I was cold with physical shock. But as the days went on, I realised that this is not the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Once the numbness had worn off, I tried to hit the ground running, sort out what finances I could and  began working ten hour days in my studio, in an attempt to earn enough to keep the roof over my head. I’m bruised,  but not broken. As someone once said, ‘people have died, but not for love’ and I find I am enjoying my new found freedom and the space to do whatever I like. The old ‘me’ is returning - I’ve missed her.

Here’s the thing - long time readers of this blog will know that three months after moving into this cottage, in 2013, my darling partner Andy decided to leave this world, and took his life. Nothing can even come close to the pain I suffered then.

 

 

When you’ve stayed up all night because the love of your life has gone missing on a bleak, snowy winters night. When you’ve seen the sniffer dog following his scent across the fields and heard the rescue helicopter thumping overhead, doing a search and sweep. When a kind faced police woman tells you that a body has been found and you sink to your knees, wailing, wishing that a hole in the ground would swallow you up. When you survive the months of misery and loneliness afterwards - when you have been through all that and can still find joy in life. When all that happens, it seems that being lied to, deceived and manipulated are really, by comparison, quite small hurts. Although they are, of course, hurtful.

The last five and a half years just seem like a terrible and sad waste of time.

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The last drops of summer

Summer is quietly slipping into autumn and there is a hint of exquisite melancholy to these last golden days.  We remember things; things that we said we would do in the early, hopeful days of Spring. Things we still might do, if we are allowed a few more precious days of benevolent weather. And underlying it all, a lurking fear of winters approaching with cold, dark creeping fingers.

And while the gold and the green will all too soon be replaced with turgid grey skies and bleak, bare naked earth, we will embrace this final little ‘inbetween’ season and tell ourselves, like children repeating a protective rhyme, that it is not too late. 

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The storms

The strangest summer many of us have lived through is coming to an end. In Shropshire, we have had a couple of long, stormy nights after days of humid heat. The world - including our little secluded one - seems an uncertain place and I have found it hard to find words to place here, certainly nothing of note. I take refuge in my work, inconsequential as it is, finding small comforts in colours and textures. So have many women coped, during difficult times - the distraction of handiwork providing fleeting respite from troubles throughout the centuries. Despite everything, there is always this. 

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All the lane awash

After the spring drought, we have had several days of regular rain, and not just regular - one shower so torrential that it was almost a 'white out' and a bout of storms, which was very welcome. There is nothing like like a good storm. A few days ago, we watched from my studio window as the thunder cracked overhead (leading to a brief power cut) and the lane outside swiftly became covered in a few inches of rapidly moving silty water.

Dramatic as it looks, once the clouds had passed, the lane was almost back to normal, thanks to the cottage being on a hill and good drainage. After a rather exciting evening, we had just sat down to dinner, when there was a scuffling in the wood burner flue and a muffled thump. We knew what it was at once. Despite a top cover, a starling had managed to get into the chimney. It flew straight to the window and seconds after I took this, was fluffing itself up on the fence, before flying off over the fields.