Holly-bobs

By the time you read this, we will be trundling down to the West Country on the Varedero to a small one room barn conversion (with four poster bed) in Parracombe. I don't think I've stopped working since Feb 2008, when my first needle felt kit arrived, wonderously and anonymously through the post. (Thank you, fairy Godmother). It has been an incredible year-and-a-bit, but I am serious need of some non-creative relaxation, (well, just my Moleskine sketchbook...) This will be my first week's holiday since 2005, soon after I started this blog and went totally freelance.

In need of fish&chips&icecream&pinkrock&beer money, I got stuck into my neglected commissions list and fulfilled an order for our lovely neighbour, four Christmas robins.





We are going to see old and much loved friends and paddle in the cold North Devon sea. Hopefully this Saturday we will visit the Devon County Show, which is going to reduce me to happy tears; it was the one big event mum used to save up for, so that we could have a 'rural' day out together and dream of having chickens. I haven't been since I was eleven, when friends of the family had to take me, as mum was too ill from her chemo to come. She was determined that I should not miss it; she knew how much I loved it. It wasn't the same without her, but by the looks of it, I managed to enjoy myself.





Because she shielded me from the worst of her sickness, I had no idea how fatally ill she was, nor that my dad would pass away before her, only a few months after these pictures were taken. Me, in my hand embroidered 'FONZ' flares, and my hippy hat with animal badges on.






I have never felt so close to this little girl as I do now, stood atop the biggest combine harvester at the show. Her life was about to be scattered to the four winds, and yet, she survived. She become lots of different kinds of people over the years and ended up, circle-wise, pretty much the same person as she was then, with similar ambitions as she has now. Country life, smallholding, growing veg, home baking, painting and making things. She thought she would spend all her life in her beloved Devon, but spent most of it trying to get back.






I know that this time round, that young 'me' and the spirit of my mother will be with me, somehow, sizing up pigs, crooning over hens and bustling round the WI tent looking at chutneys. The ultimate aim of our trip is have a look at property prices...let's see if we can't get on the housing ladder this time round, before we reach our dotage. I've been too long away from home.

Hurrah for the Circus!

I have a quiet passion for anything circus. I've never been to one, and I'm not sure if I'd like the real thing, especially not performing animals. Of course, to see Cirque du Soleil would be marvellous, but we'd have to take out a small loan or sell our body parts to afford the tickets. So I content myself with browsing my collection of what I might grandly call, my resource material. Look...





One of my best 10p finds, from a village fete bookstall. A moment when your heart beats a little faster and you look round quickly to see if anyone else has spotted your treasure.





Battered, torn and broken in places, yet Humberto's little circus is beautiful to me.




Not so fragile - my Christmas present from Andy (very *subtly* suggested by me). It weighs as much as a baby elephant itself, and is a whopping 45cm tall (17 & 3/4") 29cm wide (11") and nearly 8cm thick (3").




It is stuffed with a smorgasbord of everything circus, hundreds of pages of pictorial gorgeousness. I could happily drown in it and frequently do.





On a (much) smaller scale, this sweetie, an open the flap booklet. Front -




Inside...



Turn the flap...



Turn the flap...



Turn the flap...




Back cover.



Not everything is on my bookshelf though. The other day I came across this, via Fern Animals and almost cried with sheer delight.







Tomorrow I take the first batch of this menagerie to the shop, which in itself is worthy of a little Grand Parade. It's been a long old seven weeks.

A BIG PS - I do not like performing animals either, unless they are firmly between the pages of books!

Work hard, play hard.

Now the winter is finally over, once or twice a week we escape with a picnic - I cannot think of many other things I'd rather do than set off with Andy, a simple bundle of food, the open road and the prospect of a few miles ahead; especially in May, when the lanes are drifting with Queen Anne's Lace and the mild wind is scented with oilseed rape.




The weather is changeable and though we may set off in bright sunshine, dark clouds bounce across from the West, threatening rain. The new leafage glows against the grey skies - that is the joy of an English spring; the moist, fresh, greeness which never fails to fill me with hope and happiness.




As we were tramping the edges of the fields this week, we spotted...




Can you see it? No? Come closer. I can see it, because I know where it is - hidden tightly - there's the clue.




Ah, he's been rumbled - there he goes!




Mr Hare, you are a shy fellow - but now we know exactly where you are!





Choosing the right picnic spot depends on the mood of the weather. Sometimes it is best just to find a sheltered spot and watch the rain clouds roll in. There must be good eggs, and a thermos of watery hot chocolate which tastes ever-so-slightly of mildew.






We shared our breadcrumbs with an excited ant, who had never seen such riches in his microcosmic world. He staggered off, his little back laden with this wonderful new bounty. Somewhere below the earth, in a patch of West Oxfordshire, a new religion has been born. Centred around bread.

Turning the circle of our walk, we headed into the reserve. It is a bumper bluebell year in the UK - our woods are carpeted with acres of them stretching out of eye's reach. And I would hate to be the only British blogger not to show a picture of them.




The woodlands never sound so pretty as in Spring, when the birds are singing their hearts out and the cuckoo is doing what all respectable cuckoos should do.






After a good four hours, it's home to a small queue of impatient geese, demanding crowns. This mega order is almost done and they go off for their photoshoot next Friday. There are little gangs of animals dotted around the studio, waiting to be packed. At times I feel as if they are plotting something.

Marching mice

"We are the marching mice,
We march from Here to There,
We marches up and marches down,
We do not have a care!"

"We are the marching mice,
We do not give a fig,
For bears or geese or silly dogs,
Although we're not that big."

"We are the marching mice,
We marches all night long,
And when our tails begin to fail,
We sing this little song."

PS - many thanks to CUTEABLE , for giving the Mice Brigade a mention.

Dorchester away

THWACK! It's the cheerful slap of leather on willow as we start another cricket season. Last year was frankly miserable, weather wise, but we were blessed last Sunday with near perfect Spring weather, as we opened with a friendly match in Dorchester-on-thames. I love watching cricket, but sometimes six hours or so sat on the boundary can be a little too much. So I sloped off with my camera to investigate the village centre. Dorchester has it's very own Abbey - and on this Sunday afternoon I had the place entirely to myself. It is small, but ancient; there has been a place of worship here since Saxon times, circa 635. The first altar you see on entering, displays some rare 14th century paintings which miraculously survived Cromwell's thugs.




The floors are paved with memorials and burial stones, from the sublime -





- to the sinister...




...this one being the most heart stopping I have ever read.





'Reader! If thou has a Heart famed for Tenderness and Pity, Contemplate this Spot. In which are desposited the Remains of a Young Lady, whose artless Beauty, Innocence of Mind and gentle Manner once obtain'd her the Love and Esteem of all who knew her. But when Nerves were too delicately spun to bear the rude Shakes and Jostlings which we meet in this transitory World, Nature gave way. She sunk and died a Martyr to Excesive Sensibility. Mrs Sarah Fletcher, Wife of Captain Fletcher, departed this Life at the village of Clifton on the 7 of June 1799 in the 29 year of her age. May her Soul meet that Peace in Heaven which this Earth denied her'.


I wondered (as must have so many others) just what 'rude shakes and jostlings' the poor soul had endured, and sent her a kind thought, because she died so young and so lamented. (EDIT - I've found an almost identical photo on Flickr, with the full and tragic story, here).





Every pew displayed an exquisitely colour co-ordinated set of kneelers and the still Sunday afternoon air was drenched with the heavy scent of lilies from elaborate displays. Quietly I wandered into the Shrine Chapel, where a thirteenth century Crusader knight lies, not on his back in pious prayer, but unusally poised for battle action.





Here too is the shrine to the founder, St Birinus, with bright carvings hidden in the upper niches






The Chancel and the East window are spectacular, but too grandiose for my taste. I prefer the simplicity of stone and paint.




Outside, the sweetest of cottages, sitting slightly wonkily behind the gravestones.






I headed back to the ground, my peaceful touristing done, and returned to a rather more earthly entertainment.




As usual I came prepared with the bare necessities and some work.




It was the first properly warm day of the year and in my sheltered corner I kept half an eye on our chaps, while getting on with the penguins. We won. Andy was 57 not out. He acknowledged his half century with a modest twitch of the bat.




If only it stays this way for the rest of the season.