Visiting the Hermitage

I don't often take my rudimentary mobile phone out with me on walks. Good job I did yesterday though; we were over in the woods for a little impromptu picnic, when I received a text. Rima and Tui of the Hermitage were passing through West Oxfordshire in their gorgeous home, en route for Wales and would we like a cup of tea if they could find anywhere close to park up?

Yes. Please. We had our picnic, deep in the woodsy undergrowth, and by the time we got home, it was time to go out again. There was some initial confusion on our part, which took us halfway to Banbury before a phone call ascertained that by taking the scenic route we had completely missed them, only 10 minutes from the village. But eventually we found the famous van, parked on the edge of a nearby scenic A-road. Rima and I have known each other for over four years now; pre-blog days. We met at a gathering of illustrators, on one of my rare trips to London, and have been friends ever since, having a shared love of things-on-wheels.




It was Rima who looked after the cottage and the cats when we went to Greece, just after I'd started this blog in 2005, and I blogged about it (in the days when my posts were often short and sweet, instead of lumbering behemoths like this one). What a long way we have both come since then.

When everyone had said hello, we somehow got our tall bulks up the little ladder and were swallowed up in the cool, dark cocoon. Tea was made. Even on one of the hottest days of the year, there is always a place for a nice cup of tea. Chatting began and undiluted admiration for one of the most beautiful homes I have ever seen. I have to confess, that apart from wanting to meet Tui and see Rima again, I was aching to see for myself the home they kitted out themselves, setting off on their travels last December, having seen its progress through their blog.

Not the largest home, not the grandest, but absolutely wonderful and crammed with treasures.




A place for everything and everything in its place.

Our familiar patch, looking like a little green jewel through the porthole.

Rima and Tui are a brilliant team of artistry and musicianship. Rima is one of the finest, most original painters I know, selling her prints through her Etsy shop.

Tui has another incarnation, as musical artist Orla Wren. I am not even going to attempt to describe his delicate work (apart from that it is extraordinary). I suggest - strongly - a visit to the Orla Wren Myspace page, to sample his incredible creations. Or visit his website, where you may recognise the artistry on his latest CD cover. Everything he needs to make his music is either in his home or outside in the natural world.

Time ticked on, and we knew they had a long, slow drive to Wales ahead of them.




We said cheery goodbyes and zoomed off on our two wheels back to our own dear little (firmly set in the ground for 245 years) nest. I am far too fond of being in the same place to wish for their lifestyle, and yet it is a wonderful thing to have friends who choose to live their dream, no matter how tough it can be.

Rima and Tui are always on the lookout for friendly places to park up in. It's not easy being on the road, and it's nice to know you are heading for a warm welcome and safe, quiet corner, instead of a fume filled service station. If you do have a small patch which could be spared for even just a night's rest, they can be contacted via their blog; what they do, in here.

It's a jungle out there!

The UK basks in what we like to call a heatwave. Yesterday morning, 7.00 am, before it became unbearable. A fat ginger cat, a vegetable garden going mad and cricket whites...yes, whites. Well, almost. After my washing disaster, a lovely lady from America sent me some Rit colour remover, to see if it would remove the stains. And it pretty much did! We don't get Rit over here, so I am going to have to be very careful not to have any more absent minded moments. They have been deemed wearable, and suprise was expressed that something, for once, did exactly what it said on the box. Thank you so much to the kind hearted soul, who has been responsible for re-juvenating Andy's second kit.

While I wilt in the heat, our little backyard garden has gone crazy with the humidity. Each night it drinks between 20-30 large cans of water. We long ago gave up trying to make neat beds and lines; now we cram as much in as possible, feed it with heaps of homemade compost and let it all get on with it. The peas have done splendidly again, planted in just one small square of earth, with my scatter-gun method (chuck 'em on, cover 'em up, feed 'em and let them grow)

BEFORE

AFTER

Inbetween the patches there are tomatos in a bag, more salad and strawberries in pots, broad beans, butternut squash and the edge of the Potato Army just seen on the right...

...they have romped away. They are a mini-habitat all on their own, with foot-soldiers of frogs living deep in the dark cool under the leaves. When we water, there are happy rustlings and squelches as they anticipate another dusky evening of hunting snails and slugs.

Dark patches in the wall are damp or bee holes, and the shadowy machine
seen against the window inside, is my neglected Adana press.

The batch of spuds nearest to you are commonly known as 'volunteers'. They sprang up of their own accord, from the ones we didn't find last year. Most of them grew in situ, a few we have transplanted from other beds. You aren't supposed to repeat them in the same place, but Mother Nature makes her own rules, and they are the healthiest plants of all.
It's been a good year for volunteers - maybe a few too many. This untidy bed is a huggle muggle of potatoes, properly planted tomatos, woody leeks which have outstayed their welcome, butternut squash, (more) a new bed of peas and various seedlings which have self sprouted from our own compost.

This sunny patch is one of our most productive - it is bravely (and successfully) supporting six different close planted veg; yellow tomatos, cucumbers, acorn squash, potatoes, the peas and mixed salad, again just scattered in a square and left to grow as it will, for 'cut & come again'. Which we do, often.

There are chilli peppers, sweet peppers, more cucumbers, more courgettes, even more tomatos. There are tubs of flowers and herbs, succulents and sweetcorn. Some waiting to be potted on or planted out, when there is space. We bung them in plastic pots, nice old earthenware pots, buckets and broken crocks. We are not, by any stretch of the imagination, a show-garden.

The spinach has become a monster, though it can't compete with Andy's strawberries, growing behind them. For the last few years he has been building up his squadrons; the runners creep everywhere like weeds, and we leave them be. They are now so numerous and vigorous, they crowd the real weeds out.

They grow along the sides of the beds, up the fences, in the cracks between the flagstones, in pots and in old barbeque stoves. Every night when he comes home from work, he goes straight out to inspect the garden in his shirtsleeves, tie and stockinged feet. He cossets his strawbs with the tenderness of a doting mother.

They are not shop-perfect; they are often mishapen, and sometimes a bit slugged or pecked. But they are ours.

We are on the waiting list for an allotment.

Lowbrow but not witless

These young swallows were watching their parents hunt insects over the green barley fields. They seem quite grown up, sat demurely on the wire. But whenever the grownups passed by with a mouth full of food -




They started squawking and screaming, demanding to be fed - even though they are quite capable of catching their own. Seconds later they flew off, as a sweaty, panting runner thumped past without a word of apology. I dedicate this little insight into teenage behaviour to all my friends who are having problems with their own fledglings.

The book purge is done. Nothing valuable or beautiful was sent away, certainly not the nature books that people were worried about! Only piles of tatty paperbacks and unwanted reference books. I've been lugging many of these around since I was a teenager and I have either grown out of them (various fantasy, sci-fi and horror), got bored of, know I will never read because they are dull or unfathomable to me (Virgina Woolf, Edmund Crispin, William Blake, Stevie Smith) or already have at least one copy of (more than you'd think, I have so many books I do often forget what I've got). Some authors simply irritate the pants off me or I only like certain of their titles. So I kept the brilliant 'IT' by Stephen King and culled one of his less accomplished efforts. I read Uncle Tom's Cabin twice in my youth, and will never read it again, worthy though it is. There are titles here I have no idea why I picked them up...knowing that I am not the only book nerd, I have left these photos at large size. There are some of Andy's in there too (no, I have never had an interest in boxing).




I confess without a shred of shame to having a pretty pulpy taste in fiction. As a rule I don't like modern fiction unless it is crime or some kind of Da Vinci code genre. Except Jilly Cooper and Phil Rickman, my two favourite authors and both sneered at by the literary elite. Anything which vaguely taxes my brain or emotions is a no-no. I read for pure escapism, and nowadays I read very rarely, as I don't have the time. Just five minutes before I fall asleep. So, from the under-the-stair piles of not-very-worthy titles, these were kept; some fantasy and horror which still passes muster, most of my crime collection. Old Penguins, even if the titles are obscure and we will never read them. Because they are objects of beauty. (Which is another reason why I pick up some old books, simply for the cover). A few of the less smug Aga-sagas. The only Virginia Andrews ('My Sweet Audrina') I still like to read (see, I did say I had pretty low brow taste...) My childhood copies of James Herriot.

I've done all the Jane Austens, years ago and enjoyed them, but it wouldn't matter to me if I never read her again. Shakespeare eludes me, and yes, I've tried. I do like Kafka, H.E Bates, L.P Hartley, E.F. Benson and Dumas. I adore Henry Williamson and Elizabeth Goudge. Am very picky about poetry; Dylan Thomas, James Reeves, Edith Sitwell, poor John Clare, Ted Hughes - his nature poems - Gerard Manley Hopkins. But those poets I do like, I love without reserve. Thinking about the eclectic jumble of the thousands of books I have stashed away, I realise that am a literary magpie, and as indiscriminate in my tastes as one. I would probably pick the tin foil cap over the gold ring any day; after all, they are both sparkly.

It is quite remarkable how happy we are now that we have decided to stay here - and the realisation that if we had somehow managed to move, we would probably have regretted it forever. While the weather is glorious and the evenings so light, we have taken to dusky walks round the fields, marvelling anew at the tranquil beauty of our patch. Bats buzzed us, and as we returned past the church, we surprised old Mother Toad lumbering up the pavement.

The poor dear made a hasty, if undignified retreat - mind how you go, mother!

For most of my life - since I was twelve - I aimed to move back to Devon. But as Andy gently pointed out, Devon in 1978, when I lived there and my parents were alive, is not the same as Devon now. Nor will moving there bring them back. In truth, I was wondering how I could bear to leave this little Cotswold sanctuary which has become home. Now that we are staying I feel an immense sense of relief that we have found some kind of contentment and had the wit to realise what we have before we left it behind.

Can you see the sickle Moon?

Mothwoman

I loath carpet; it is up there in my pet hates, along with central heating, as being one of the more self indulgent and unhygienic of modern household innovations. But as we rent, we don't have much choice about it - Landlord has decreed that upstairs we will have wall to wall beige nylon stuff, and on the stairs, a chintzy green runner that I suspect was in place when he acquired the cottage in the early seventies. Imagine my mixed feelings when I discovered a thriving moth colony inhabiting the suburbs of this matted, slippery monstrosity. On the one hand; oh my God, my wools, my fabrics, my leather books, my toys...on the other hand...

I rang our landlord and explained the situation; would he mind if I ripped it up? And so I found myself embarking on my first dabbling in DIY. It was certainly hammered in well, and as I hefted and heaved, it became apparent that moths had been making merry in the underlay for generations. I also discovered - possibly hidden by the original carpet fitter - two pennies, dating from 1971 and a plastic cracker charm of a lucky horseshoe. Which confirmed my suspicions about its age.

Another little surprise were these -

Grippers! Apparently they are commonplace, at least everyone I met that day knew what they were, from nice Mr N, the Post Master, to the girl at the Co-op. Who knew? Not me. I'm a council house kid. Anything which went wrong in the numerous cruddy places we lived in was supposed to be repaired by the Authorities, though it never was. And after that, a succession of equally badly maintained rentals, where neglectful Landlords happily take your money and ignore the damp, the mould, the - oh, don't get me started. Anyway, delightful old cottage this may be, but I'll be surprised if it is here in another 250 years. Back these gripper things, which were nailed flush against the boards; I was ridiculously proud of myself when I worked out how to jemmy them up, using a hammer and screwdriver, and delighted when I discovered what a claw hammer was for - isn't it clever?

It took about 6 hours, and a lot of sweating and swearing; my dainty artist hands aren't used to the rough stuff. But at last, the manky thing was disposed of, and the nice, smooth wood stairs were exposed, moth free and so easy to sweep clean.

After liberating myself from the cactus, I have been on a major stuff-we-don't-want-or-need purge. The village jumble sale benefited hugely. Instead of going to the sale and buying back other people's stuff-they-didn't-want-or-need, I watched our lads get thrashed at cricket by Wantage CC. This being Britain's summer sport, it naturally rained halfway through.






Even the towering book piles are being culled for the village fete bookstall; every saved inch of space makes a huge difference in our little matchbox and as we have decided to stay here, we need to get it just-so, as far as we are able. We've been a bit more out and about this year, and realised that not only can't we afford to move, we don't really want to. Home, even if it is damp with bees living in the walls, is where the heart is. And you can't beat the Cotswolds in summer.

White stuff

Ooops...another little forgetful moment and Andy's last remaining cricket whites are white no longer...looked at in real life, they are a delicate aquamarine. The trousers are a dainty blush pink (I managed to ruin them last season, they are on the line courtesy of my Beloved to point out the rainbow effect). We have two matches at the weekend, one against West Midlands Police. He may come in for some stick. Or as his Facebook entry today read;


"Andy now has some turquoise grey 'whites' to go with his 'peachy pink' whites, I fear it may be a long weekend in the sledging department"

For those not in the know, sledging is the banter used in the field by teams amongst each other and aimed at the oppo. It is often obscure, unless you know everyone, and frequently sweary. Especially our lot, Eynsham CC, seen (and heard, at volume) at Stanton Harcourt village last Tuesday night. An apparently 'friendly' match at a neighbouring village, with the Stanton Harcourt batsman 'Gherko' getting a bit of ribbing. There is something very funny about the way he is got out, but you have to know about cricket to appreciate the joke. It's a bit beyond me. It was all very good humoured, even though we lost in the end. Andy is the very tall one seen on the right hand side, in the pale cap - a tender reminder of how pristine his whites once were.

(EDIT - bleaching doesn't work, sadly - it just makes it look worse).

The great cactus massacre

This neglected motley crew of cacti (one with brewer's droop) and aloe vera have been sat on our bathroom windowsill for the whole seven years we have lived here. Previous to that they were on various other windowsills. We (I) have been carting the cacti around since 1992. I was, frankly, sick to death of them. The conversation this morning, before I set off for my walk went something like this;

ME - "You know those cactus in the bathroom?"
ANDY - "Yes..."
ME - "I want to get rid of them, I can't stand them anymore."
ANDY - "Me either, I hate the ****** things."
ME - "So, the cactus can go in the compost bin and we'll let the aloe vera take their chances in the garden" (as the aloe vera have the saving grace of being useful for treating burns)
ANDY - grunted.
ME - (cheerfully putting my jacket on and collecting my camera) "So, you'll do that for me, while I'm out?"
ANDY (becoming alert and looking gleeful) "HA! You don't want to do it yourself - you feel guilty!!!"
ME - "Yes. That is exactly it. I don't want to be a cactus murderer." (Then followed a rather silly imitation of high pitched cacti voices crying out for mercy).

So I went for my walk, noticing that someone was selling gooseberries up the road, and cursed because I'd not brought my purse with me. When I returned, there was a sorry little line of dusty pots lined up like condemned men, in the back yard.

ME - "You didn't put the cactus in the compost"
ANDY - "No. Why don't YOU do it?"

I looked at them. And realised I couldn't, having visions of bewildered, scared cactus lying in the dark smelly bin, fearful of slugs and wondering why I had abandoned them. But neither did I want the ugly things. This dilemma occupied a corner of my brain for a few hours, until I popped out to the Co-op, and on my way home, had a stroke of instinctive genius. I went into the library, because they, surely, would know what to do? After all, it's not just any old library: it's the village library. I approached one of my favourite librarians, crouched on the floor, surrounded by reference books.

"I have a problem". She stood up and brightly asked how she could help.
"It's not your usual kind of question..." an enquiring gleam came into her eyes. I explained, finishing off with the admission that I could not bring myself to commit cacticide. And, as it happened, she did have just the answer. The sickly cacti, in need of much TLC, would be perfect for her father, who used to grow them in his garden abroad, but sadly lost them all when he moved back to England. As he is poorly himself, it will be nice for him to have something to look after. And she herself would be more than happy to take the big aloe vera; she has been looking for one after someone told her they were good for burns, and she has a burn now that needs treating. So, I bagged them up, keeping the smallest aloe for us, and now they are off to new and better homes. No cactus were harmed and everyone is happy. Which is why I love village life...there are usually answers to most problems.