Lying fallow

It's been nearly five weeks since I duffed my arm up - I wish I could say that I've had a nice time of it and indulged in some serious relaxing, but until recently my days have been dull and pain filled - I don't mind admitting that I've had some pretty bleak moments. I had three cracks in my upper arm/shoulder joint and it was never going to be an instant heal; using it for anything has ranged from difficult to downright impossible.

From an early age I decided to dedicate myself to a creative life - there has been no room in my life for a 'proper job' which might have made things financially easier, nor for children who demand so much care and attention. All I ever wanted was what I had until recently, even during the many years when I barely earned a bean from it. Literally everything I do revolves around a rich, image filled inner world which soaks up inspiration from the outer world. Losing the physical ability to draw even a rough scribble has been a very hard lesson in learning to appreciate what I used to take for granted; my creative mind went dead for a while, which was almost worse than the constant pain.



So far, so self pitying. I also realise that it was my own silly fault for falling off a stile in the first place and that far worse things are happening in the world. It's not terminal and I am finally getting better. More to the point, I have really appreciated everyone's kind comments and private messages - thank you so much - if they were magic medicine I'd be turning cartwheels. I have also been the lucky recipient of this gorgeous stained glass fragment with engraved hare, from the hands of LiZZie - I have long admired her work, though our plastic window panes do not do this beauty justice. She sells similar items in her Etsy shop, and they are ideal Christmas presents, so warm and glowing.

Also, huge thanks to the kind friends who took the trouble to send me cards and little gifts, all of which brought bright points to my days. What is that horrid brown lump in front of them? Why, it's my voodoo quince of course.

While we were in Herefordshire, Andy went off exploring and returned with a quince. It was a golden, bumpy-lumpy hard fruit - inedible, but beautiful to look at. My arm was colourfully swathed at the time with wrap-around bruising which has only just faded, and I pretended that the quince was soaking the bad stuff up as I recovered. It will be at least a week before I have something approaching normal mobility, by which time my voodoo quince will be ready for a ceremonial dumping in the compost heap.

Next week I have a check-up x-ray to make sure everything in my silly arm is behaving. I can't feel anything crunching around inside anymore and I can put a little weight on it. I can chop vegetables again, spread butter on toast, do my trousers up and almost clean my teeth right handed again. When I can sleep in our bed again, not the saggy sofa, when I can haul myself out of the bath on my own (thank you Andy!) and needle felt for more than ten minutes without cramping up, I will be properly well again and be a little less boring.

Herefordshire break

After our last disastrous attempt to go on holiday, we planned the next one very carefully. We booked an annex in a 15th century farmhouse in rural Herefordshire, one of the last few un-spoilt areas of England. It is just a county away from us, so not too far on the bike and the weather was set fair. Our landlady was lovely and so was the cottage. A mediaeval traditionally built timber frame with original cruck frame construction inside, dating back to the early 1400's and far older than our little 240 year old stone Cotswold home.

Unfortunately it was also on the edge of a busy road, with a constant stream of heavy traffic which barely stopped except for a few hours at night. It was a bit of a change from our own peaceful little lane. However, we had lots of outings planned, Andy had almost every detailed map of the county and had Googled the backside out of Herefordshire, so walks and little trips to historic towns would keep us busy. Neither of us had been here before and walking round the village we were charmed by the plethora of historic timber framed houses, part of the famous Black and White Trail.

For Phil Rickman fans, this is Merrily Watkins territory, the mysterious, shadowy Borderlands between England and Wales. He is one of my favourite writers, so this was a bit of a pilgrimage for me.

On our first full day last Sunday, we biked over to the pretty village of Lingen to do a big circular walk through woods and fields. It was about then that we began to fall in love with the Herefordshire countryside; I felt distinctly unfaithful to my beloved Cotswolds. Not only is it stuffed with interesting and beautiful buildings -

- but it is plumply cushioned with trees - even more than we have and most of them deciduous; nice mixed native woodlands hummocking the gentle swells of the landscape.

It was a last echo of summer and we happily strolled for about six miles, noticing the differences in flora and fauna, soaking up the warm autumnal sunshine. We stopped to share a pork pie and watch a Red Kite hunting over the ploughed fields. It had been, we hardly dared say it, the most perfect of days, full of interest and pleasantness. Life seemed very sweet indeed and we were destined to have a wonderful holiday. Oh hubris! Oh fickle Gods!

We were about half a mile from Lingen, where the bike was parked, coming along a woodland path, Andy ahead as usual, with me pottering behind. Then I came across what was to be my final hurdle. Instead of the usual stile with handy stepover, there was a cobbled together construction consisting of a wooden fence panel and a resty metal gate, the only way past being to climb over precariously or squeeze round the tiny gap at the edge. Not wishing to turn one of my ankles as I'm prone to do, I began climbing the slim posted hurdle. At some point gravity and I had a disagreement because somehow I found myself falling backwards, landing directly onto my shoulder and slamming my right arm - my working arm - into the hard earth.

I screamed twice, loudly. Poor Andy came running up the track, white and frightened. I almost fainted from the sheer agony of trying to sit up, but we eventually managed it and he called 999 for an ambulance. At this point, even though I was practically vomiting from the pain of every step forward, I was determined to get on the back of the bike to be taken to hospital, a barmy idea I quickly gave up as I stumbled along the last of the footpath, cradling my useless arm. Andy ran ahead to Lingen, coming across the dispersing congregation of the Methodist chapel, who had just finished their Harvest service.

A nice man with a soft Welsh accent drove his Landrover up and drove me back to Lingen, to the pub. Soon I seemed to be the centre of attention, with concerned villagers cooing over me. The local nurse arrived to look after me until the ambulance arrived. I have never in my life come across such collective kindness.

To cut a long and sorry saga short, I was whisked to the county hospital, (looked after by super ambulance medics) where eventually a fracture of my right shoulder area was diagnosed. As it was impossible for me to ride pillion on the bike we had to stay overnight in a city motel and the next day, after a proper sling was fitted, I somehow managed to get painfully back to our holiday cottage via country bus and taxi. With no other transport than the motorbike, I was confined to a couple of short village walks for the rest of the week, feeling terrible at ruining our holiday with my clumsiness. Andy's parents heroically drove down from the North to take me back to the Cotswolds by car at the end of our stay, which was wonderful. Thank you again - I know you read this sometimes.

Ten days on, my right arm is healing but useless. I am sleeping upright on our saggy sofa, as lying down is too painful. I can't work at anything and can barely lift a can of beans - needless to say I am bored and grouchy as hell and going loopy with inactivity. I wish I could be more graceful about it, but I am afraid I make a very bad invalid.

However the memory of the good will of the people of Lingen village is the shining bright light in the gloom and I've even managed to stay in contact. High on gas and oxygen, I shoved a Moo card in the nurse's hand before the ambulance took me away and have been able to update her and thank everyone. It was lovely to know that my recovery was toasted at the pub that evening, the Royal George and Andy has written to the Lingen village website, where his email has been posted on the front page. We have rather fallen in love with the area - and next year we will return.

(Typed with one hand and a pain killer).

Little Harvests

The garden is gently decaying into autumn dishevelment. It's been a good year; we've experienced a steep learning curve with the polytunnel and grown a staggering amount of tomatoes. We've had disappointments; too few green beans, a whole packet of Dumpling Squash which refused to germinate, not enough space to grow as many potatoes as we need. Slow Acorn Squash which are only just flowering - too late. Made mistakes; garlic which we misplanted and failed. Put courgettes in the tunnel when they didn't need to be. Planted them out once the broad beans were over and we had the space.

But these are part and parcel of gardening and no year is perfect. We hope to learn not to make the same mistakes twice (but often do). It's good to look back and see how our year went. Our once yearly pea indulgence - one whole packet scattered and grown closely in a small square.

Broad beans - we were ambivalent about this type, the Sutton; they didn't grow tall enough and the pods could have been longer. Nonetheless, fresh broad beans are heavenly, no matter what.

Growing a minuscule crop of round carrots in a tub.

They were quite small, a bit holey in places and funny shaped. Only enough for a few each, but they were the carrotiest carrots we've had since the last time we grew carrots.

Finally managing to grow one of my favourite flowers, sweet peas, in a big pot; they don't grow well in the garden and we need the space for veg. I luxuriated in having a regular posy of them to sweeten the air.

From August we have had mostly our own potatoes - not huge amounts, but just enough to keep us going. Duke of York reds -

Salad Rattes - a somewhat mean crop I thought, considering we planted two rows.

And good old reliable (not to mention delicious) King Edwards.

Our Boston Marrow squash were a big success. If a certain LB is reading this, then here are the results of your seed packet from America - thank you for the pleasure we've had with them.

We were rather proud.

There isn't really enough storage space to preserve these beauties safely, so they rest in majesty on the stairs.

We picked modest batches of strawberries all summer long.

And my new fig tree came complete with one magnificent, succulent fruit.

Tomatoes we had plenty of! What a beautiful crop it is to grow. From over-ripe sweet 'chezzers' -

- to big, bold beefsteaks. German Strawberries, golden orange and perfect for roasting -

A bountiful crop of Principe Borghese plum tomatoes - one of the best types we have grown, very prolific and one to remember for next year.

Buxom, blushing Brandywines, grown from seeds sent from the USA by Janet -

All these - and one small cucumber which somehow managed to grow in their midst, despite being crowded out.

However we grew far too many - we didn't have to dedicate the entire 14ft polytunnel to them. I think we've exorcised the memories of the last few years of blight now. Split tomatoes have their uses though.

Waiting for a cold winter's night when we will need some bottled summer.

Toy books and glass dogs

Are these not adorable? Beautifully ugly glass bauble dogs; they are a wonderful gift from my extraordinarily talented friend and cartoonist Chichi Parish, one of the wittiest, most delightful people I know. They are from this year's Paperchase range and I think Chichi knew that although I love them, I would never venture into a large town to actually buy my very own. Thank you so much, Chichi - they have been keeping me company this long, wet Friday while I have been treating myself to a browse of my toy making book collection.

I've been picking these up for a couple of years now, but sadly my pattern making has not improved. It's so much easier to pick up a felting needle and stab a wodge of merino into shape. However they are full of useful tips and one in particular is my favourite, as I used to own a copy when I was about seven years old. I was just starting to sew doll's clothes and make things when I found a copy of 'Toys for Your Delight' at a jumble sale and it soon became on of my best loved books. Seen here open with the photo of the extravagantly embroidered felt dragon.


The projects then (and now) were way beyond my meagre talents, but true to form, I always aspired to make the most difficult thing - the dragon. Sadly my first copy was *disposed* of, along with most of my other books and treasures, by people who were supposed to be looking after them when my parents died.

I have longed to find it again and found it last year on ebay - as soon as I saw this plate I knew I'd struck gold - it is so good to have it again, even though my sewing skills are still not up to making this chap.

I am not one for reading a reference book from cover to cover - I prefer to dip and dive into my favourite ones.

They range from 1920's/30s editions up to the early 1980's and show that there is nothing new under the sun. Things come around and come around - I know that there is often much fretting about whether making such and such, one will be seen as copying - but there are only so many ways of making, for instance, giraffes...

...or dear little birds with wire legs...

...in fact looking through them is a rather like looking at an Etsy front page treasury of softies. Which is not to say that everyone is copying, but doing what artists and crafters have been doing for centuries - adopting and adapting. Owls, mushrooms, birds in cages, matryoshka dolls, little houses, fish - they have their trends in the ebb and flow of crafting and design.


But it's hard not to get hung up about making things - a couple of years ago I held off making a shoal of stuffed fish, fearing that as there are so many variations on this, I'd be accused of stealing ideas. But here we are circa 1957, a Christmas decoration idea of - a shoal of felt fish.


So I think I will make some little textile birds with wire legs, as they seem to be part of a time honoured toy making tradition. Maybe I'll even be able to do my own take on them. By the way, there are many toy makers that I admire hugely who stamp their own personality all over their work; here are just a few;

Tamar Morgendoff

Abby Glassenberg

Abigail Brown

Kit Lane

Mimi Kirchner

Cary Walker

Anne Wood

Vriad Lee

Ashley Anna Brown

Astulabee

Just a few, mind!

I was terribly pleased to be featured along with other great UK needle felters on the UK Handmade blog - needle felting is still a fledgling craft over here, so we need to spread the good word of stabbing little bits of wool.