Alone in a little church

A couple of weeks ago, on a Sunday, I decided to be brave and do one of the favourite things Andy and I used to enjoy - but without him, of course. There is a little church, just over a mile or so away, which I had previously ear-marked for an expedition. 

 It has the most beautiful cropped yews.

And an interesting patch of herringbone brickwork.

 I arrived just after service.

 

The well worn handle, doubling as a sanctuary knocker.

 

I wandered about as normal, taking photos and reading the little pamphlet provided. Circa 13th century font with later cover.

Jacobean pulpit.

Retaining the old boxed in pews - nice to see, so many have succumbed to woodworm, damp and modernisation.

One of a few alabaster memorials, 16th century, if I remember rightly.

Medieval floor tiles.

A wooden effigy of a crusader, carved in oak - one of only three in the country. He was said to be seven foot, an enormous height for the time. His still, noble face and great length reminded me so much of Andy. 

I stroked his cold face, sat in a nearby pew and cried, quietly for a very long time, feeling completely alone, in a strange county where I know barely anyone. I imagined that perhaps Andy was simply waiting outside for me, as he had done so many times before. We would potter home, talk about what to have for lunch and would we eat in the garden, as it was such a  nice day?

But life is different now. I mopped myself up and pulled myself together. I left the solitary church, passed through the old lime tree lined drive and walked home,  to apply myself to sanding down the bedroom floorboards.

Cinderhill Farm workshop

My first workshop of the year, held at  Cinderhill Farm at the beginning of March. Fully booked and raring to go. We started off by making chickens.

Outside, the farm chickens clucked indignantly. No punk hairstyles on these ladies.

 

The morning session was sustained with copious tea, homemade shortbread and flapjacks.

  

After lunch (home farmed pork casserole with herby rice) people worked on their own designs - or in this case, followed my 'bunny brooch' pattern from  issue 24 of  'Mollie Makes'.  

 

Then another break for a special farmhouse high tea - all freshly baked in the farmhouse kitchen by Debs, our hostess. Two types of cake, jam tarts, rich scones with butter, cream and jam.

 

 

  It is always so rewarding to see finished designs as the day draws to a close.

 The traditional Grand Parade  - the lovely results of a very creative day - didn't they do well?

 I believe the next workshop (scheduled for early summer) is already fully booked, but if you would like to be informed of spare places or book in advance for a late summer workshop, please contact Debs via the Cinderhill Farm website or message her through the official Facebook page.

Surfacing

Dear friends - I have not felt able to return to this blog for a long time, despite the many, many good wishes and messages. The first month without Andy was an agonising madness, through which I was propped up by dear friends. I tried to sort out as many practical matters as I could, though each one took hours to work up to and recover from. There are still ongoing things, because death, especially an unexpected one, is a complicated business. So I wanted to come back and say hello when my head was in a slightly better place.  

My life was centred around two things; work and my darling Andy and the greater of these was Andy. Without him, creativity has little interest for me. Art, my life long friend, has deserted me for the first time. And yet I must work and so I do. Gradually, more and more each day.

I have been overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of you all. Without the support you gave me of your thoughts, good wishes and prayers, heart felt letters and loving gifts,  I do not think I would be here now to write this. I have had some very dark moments indeed and desperate thoughts which I would not normally have. I held that goodwill close to me, lonely as I have been and that, combined with the wonderful love of my friends, brought me through it. Little did I know when I started this blog - over seven years ago - that one day it would literally be my life line. So thank you, everyone, for being there.

All photos taken from a train, Cambridgeshire 

His Last Walk

 His Last Walk

Dear friends  - on January night, 2013 my beloved life partner and soul mate of 21 years, Andy, left this earth forever. I had been keeping a close watch on him at the cottage for six days. He had gone into a downward spiral of stress and depression which eventually tipped him over the edge. On the day he was signed off sick from work, he began saying strange things and I looked into his eyes: it was not my Andy any more. It was another person, a tortured soul who was convinced that because he could not do his job properly, that he would be sacked and we would lose the cottage, all within two weeks. Now of course, this sounds irrational, but then, he was suffering from paranoid delusions, tortured scenarios of our imagined eviction and thought that the world was conspiring against him. He believed - this great hearted man, who pushed himself beyond endurance - that he was a failure and it tore my heart in two to hear him say this. He was anything but.

Many years ago, when we were at the seaside, he said that one day he would walk into the sea and just keep walking. And more recently, when we were walking through the woods in the snow, he said that if he had to 'go', he would like to sit under a tree in the snow and let hypothermia take him. Because (he said) that way, you just get an illusion of being warm and sleepy, whereas in fact, you are freezing to death. It is an easier way to go.

It was a nightmarish six days of trying to look after my darling, as he tormented himself and he had been unhappy for some time before. The last year, with so many changes - for a man who hated change - was too much for him. It had not been a happy year for him; it seemed to me that every week brought a new thing to bring him down and add to his load. And he did not deserve that.

On the night he left me forever, it was a freezing, snowy Shropshire night. I had seen him go into the kitchen minutes before and when I went to ask if he wanted to eat, I saw the back doors wide open and I knew what he intended to do. I ran into the garden, in the dark, screaming across the countryside that I loved him, and to come back to me. But there was no answer except the thin wind  blowing across the snow.

He walked out across the back fields, in nothing but day clothes and without boots. His disappearance was a matter of minutes and it was not until  daylight the next morning that we found his footprints on a side wall, out of obvious sight. The Shropshire police put out a full team that night, and a new team in the morning. There were dogs, Search and Rescue and the Mountain Rescue team. They did everything they could to find my sweetheart, but I knew from the start that he had gone to end his tortured thoughts.
'I just can't do this any more' was a phrase he repeated time and time again.

He was found a couple of miles away, the next day, in a small river two miles from here. He had walked across country - by which time he must have been completely frozen - and I think (I hope) that in the end it was a gentle way to go. A falling asleep in icy running water, surrounded by the countryside he loved. My beautiful Nature Boy, with nature at the very end, surrounded by trees. Going in both the ways he had mentioned before. 

I am slowly picking my life up and trying to get back to work. Because ironically, now that he is gone, the future of our cottage may very well be in jeopardy and I must work as hard as I can to earn a proper living. But oh, my friends - it is as if part of me has been ripped out. I can take some small comfort knowing that shortly before he vanished, I put my arms around him and kissed the top of his head. I told him I loved him, and he told me that he loved me. The one thing he could still say with clarity. 

 

Dear Lord, the suffering is unbearable at times but I am blessed with such wonderful friends here and around the world and they are looking after me here and afar. Without that, I fear what I would do. But the real Andy, who promised me he would never 'do anything stupid' - because he knew he was all I really had - would not want that. So I must go on, for him, for my friends and bear this agonising grief as best I can. For Andy. Forever.  

 

Andy Macauley April 23 1971 - January 21 2013

New studio snaps

'Mollie Makes' calendar with the clean, fresh sheet of January beckoning.

One of Jack kangaroos, before he was boxed off and sent to America.

Some of our peeled hallway wall seen beyond the door.

 Much nicer - treasure.

Toy making books and badger skull.

 Lovely  1920's cocktail cabinet, perfect for displaying the 'Puddletown Tales' toys.

Everything piled up because there is never, ever, enough storage space.

Favourite cards and ephemera.

I am having a work overdrive, so watch this space for more shop updates, new designs and news of my March workshop in the forest of Dean (or click here for more details).

Kangaroos & birdy things

Just before we moved (again) last year I created my most complicated pattern so far - 'Jack', a kangaroo for the Australian magazine 'Felt'. I had to make an initial one to work out the basic pattern and then a second one in order to do the demo photographs. Haven't had anyone contact me yet to tell me they've made one though! You can buy the magazine as a back issue here, if you want to try making your own.

Jack one *SOLD*

Jack two *SOLD*

 Another couple of little things left over from last year, a little button wheel goose -(*sold*)

- and a vintage style owl clip. Despite their small size, each one took around four hours to make. So for the first time in ages, I've been able to update my shop with needle felt, not art. 

 

A little folk

We are delighted to discover that our favourite Shropshire pub, the Bottle and Glass at Picklescott has reopened under new management and has kept on the 48 year old tradition of a Christmas singing session. Many people choose to walk to this event, (which is in a tiny village miles from anywhere) so there were lots of red faces and waterproofs.

It was a wonderful afternoon, full of song and laughter, not to mention beer - for the non-drivers of course. With a log fire, stone hearth and old beams, this is the increasingly rare English pub at it's finest - no pomp or ceremony, just a warm welcome and a well pulled pint.

 

Although everyone knew each other and we knew nobody, we didn't feel at all left out, certainly not after belting out all the verses to the folk version of 'the Holly and the Ivy'.

The oldest there was in hearty voice and gave us some fine accordion playing too. 

 

The last seven months of upheaval and moving to a strange county have been very lonely and I admit now that I have struggled with an aching homesickness for the Cotswolds. That lovely afternoon in good - if unknown - company and a few hours of singing gave me the happiest time I have had since moving here and I can almost believe that maybe next year I might feel as if I can settle here at last. 

So for anyone not lucky enough to have a fine old English pub nearby, here is the very nice folk version of Auld Lang  Syne. In the manner of all amateur home movies, there is the inevitable 'noises off' as a tanker driver intervenes because he can't get his tanker up the lane. So forgive the brief appearance of Andy's head as he goes to move the jeep. And as they say at the end, a Happy New Year to all.