Three Little Geese

As featured on Cuteable - thank you very much!

And this is where they started - from the comfort of our four-poster bed, on our Devon holiday.






Well, almost. The bed had muslin drapes. One night when they were pulled round and we were sharing a bottle of wine, I noticed an interesting gap between them. Which turned into these long necked bird-like creatures.






I've been putting off tackling the business of making my own patterns for years. And I managed to put it off for a few more months. But I finally knuckled down, transferred the sketches into a photo programme, did a bit of flipping and produced a rough paper pattern.






With a bit of wailing and gnashing of teeth, I cobbled together a rough dummy, which seemed to work. I was most proud of my gusset - I would never have been content to just sew together two bits of material, because I do like to make life difficult for myself.






A year ago I bought some poplin, and actually got round to tea-dying it for a nice aged effect. It has since been languishing, neatly folded, on my neglected sewing machine. I meant to make geese from it, but never did. Time to iron it out...





...and get cutting, with Andy's little nan's scissors. She's no longer with us, but I still use her sewing equipment, much of which she inherited from Andy's great-grandmother.





My old Jones machine groaned with subdued excitement (or was that me?) as I unlocked it and wiped off the dust. I breathed in that special antique sewing machine smell of old oil, cold iron and memories.





What was in the little side drawer? Nothing too interesting. Essence of haberdashery.






I had a momentary panic trying to remember how to thread up. Miraculously, I still have an original manual, which also helped me sort out the tension in minutes.





Time to bite the bullet. I got going. There is something very comforting about using an old sewing machine. They seem to stay in excellent working order despite years of non-use and my Jones clicked and clattered happily, so pleased to be working again and eager to be of use. We hummed together.




I did used to be able to sew. I learned the basics at my mother's knee, and went on to incorporate embroidery and patchwork in my illustration degree. It got put to one side, as a non-money earner, in the days before Etsy and the craft revolution. Things kept coming back. Me and the new goose got intimate.





My studio floor is littered with re-discovered fabric stash. The big bag of sheeps wool which I bought specifically for this purpose (well over a year ago) has been broached. I am exploring the gentle art of stuffing. I've gone for a primitive look, which is not a style that is common in the UK. But I like making lumpy old things, and they are not a million miles away from my artworks. Which was the whole purpose of it all.





Now we are three. I am not sticking hard and fast to the pattern, as I want each one to have a little personality of its own.






And with a shameless plug (because I could do with earning this week's grocery money) I've put two of them up for sale in my Etsy shop...this one -

SOLD - See her new home HERE

SOLD

I'm keeping the other one for me, how radical is that!?

UPDATE - thank you to the two lovely people who snapped my Gooseys up! I'll be making some more next week, but for now I must return to the slower pace of needle felting and clear some orders.

Honk for geese!

I've been sewing again, for the first time in over twelve years. My antique Jones machine is in perfect working order, if a little dusty. My own 'machinery' though, is less well oiled. It has been what you might call a bit of a battle, but I am getting there, slowly. I need to invest in a 'Quick Unpick'.

Further pictures of the uphill struggle to re-discover my textile roots to come...I used to be able to do this, once upon a time.

Browning

Everything seems to be going brown...




In the woods, mushrooms and fungi are sprouting already...






And the farmer is harrowing.

Itsy Bitsy

For me, the end of summer is heralded by spiders - as if by magic, the garden is strung with magnificent, stringy webs, and at the centre of each one, a plump bottomed garden spider. I am not a big fan of spiders, but these copper and cream beauties are so stunning that I don't mind them, even when they spin their webs across my washing. But of course, they don't just magically appear. For the last month, I have been noticing miniature versions in the cottage, and popping them outside. Today I found evidence of just how fast they grow. This tiny skin must have been recently sloughed, for I saw the owner hastily scrambling up her safety line as I approached.

Put next to a normal black peppercorn and medium egg, it is like a miniscule glass sculpture.

Here is the owner, watching me, watching her - from the ceiling. Now her body is about 2-3 mm in diameter, still a far cry from her destination size, which can be nearly 2cm - and that's just her bottom - or, technically, abdomen.

To put her into perspective - there she is, a little dark speck in the top right hand side of the picture. Since then she has been relocated to an outside shrub, where one day in early autumn I may find her catching the flotsam of dying summer insects, her web sparkling with dew diamonds.

Blowing away the cobwebs

We have found a new walk, almost on our doorstep. My cold (not helped by getting caught in a shower) needed a final nudge to send it on its way. It's given us a whole new aspect of our village, somewhere over there, in the middle of the greenery. It was a blowy day, and a fledgling bird of prey was testing its wings. Andy thought it was a kestrel as it was quite small and had a similar flight pattern. I thought it was a buzzard, because of the markings and lack of grey hood on it's head. We Googled images and emerged even more confused. Any expert opinion (as opposed to our amateur guesswork) is most welcome.




Naturally there had to be a picnic. And a picnic needs a view. Ideally there should be fizzy pop, boiled eggs, Mr Kipling cakes, and rolls or sandwiches. We were greedy and had sausage rolls as well. Don't forget the Maldon sea salt for the eggs. (Andy's knee is not compulsory).

If it seems as if I spend a lot of time going out for walks - well yes, I do. And we are lucky to have so many on our doorstep. My life - in the summer - is pretty much compiled of needle felting, walks, watching cricket matches and little domestic things, such as cooking and tending our veg patch. In the winter it is the same, but without the cricket or the veg patch. Much of this is from choice, but I have no disposable income, and all of these things are free or cheap. It is quiet, but it suits me; it makes up for the first twenty four years of my life, which were - well, not exactly ideal, by a long chalk. Some people see their childhood and youth as a golden time in which they had their happiest time. I was not so lucky, so I am very appreciative of what I have now, and bless every day in which I have Andy and the small things of life. Which are not so small really.

Rather like my cucumber - what a whopper!

Butterflies & Summer showers

My walks and cycling have been curtailed for some weeks, thanks to something I did to my ankle (not sure what but it stopped me going anywhere far) which took forever to get better and then getting a nasty little cold. But yesterday, after days of patchy rain, the sun shone and we went across the border to one of our favourite circuits. We had the usual quiet adventures which make us happy; ogling an empty (and gorgeous) old stone house and imagining what we would do with if it were ours...spotting fat brown trout in the crystal clear waters of a stream...finding a Victorian bottle bank on someone's land, naughtily trespassing to investigate and the ensuing disappointment of discovering it all broken.

However, these little joys were eclipsed by the proliferation of butterflies, enjoying the muggy heat. This estate leaves strips of 'scrub' for wildlife and they are havens for once common species, now sadly not-so-common. I haven't seen so many butterflies in one place for a long time, and set about 'catching' them - in the nicest possible way.

PAINTED LADY

RINGLET

SMALL TORTOISESHELL

PEACOCK

CLUMSY IMITATION

Today I was not so lucky with the weather. It was nice enough, when my trusty/rusty old bike, Hercules and I set off for a quick jaunt round the lanes.

We are so close to the county border that I can switch in and out of Oxfordshire/Gloucestershire within a few miles of cycling. By the time I was in Gloucestershire, the monstrous dark clouds which had been glooming behind me, finally caught up and the skies opened. Not much to do except keep pedalling. The clouds chased me all the way back into Oxfordshire.

Despite being soaked through, I still enjoyed the contrast of the brightly lit landscape against dark skies. By the time I was nearing the woods, there was a bit of thunder and lightning thrown in, for extra excitement.

Had to get off to walk round these puddles. The holey tree on the right is what we call the 'hornet tree' - where we once watched the goings on of busy hornets, and a couple of years later found the remnants of honeycomb which had dropped down the trunk.

Drenched as I was, I felt a pang of sympathy for the farmer trying to cut his hay; like me he must have started when the sun was out, and like me, he'd been caught out.




The wind decided to get up, and if anything, the rain came down even harder. I cycled the last couple of miles home soaked to the skin and water almost blinding my eyes.

Naturally, by the time I was back in the village, it had stopped.

Mr Five Wickets

Although England are doing their very best to stuff things up and let the Aussies keep the Ashes, in other parts of the country,** things are looking a little more fiery. Last weekend, Andy took five wickets in quick succession in a league match (so now we no longer languish near the bottom). It was a joyous occasion, though I heard a very rude comment indeed from one disgruntled batsman as he sulked off, dismissed. It was unrepeatable in polite society, so I won't share it. Co-incidentally, the T.Gherken just above him is the chap being roundly (but amicably) abused by our lot in the little video I posted a few weeks ago.




Despite the poor opinion of his victims, Andy came in at number nine in the bowling table this week. He was also headline news in the back pages of the local gazette, though they spelled his name wrong and that is not him in the photo. And I discovered for the first time in 12 years that he is a seamer, which shows how much notice I take of anything.




In the midst of the hurly-burly I managed to combine a few of my favourite activities; bit of beer, bit of chat with friends, bit of cricket watching, bit of needle felting...




One little chicken on it's way to America...




One little chicken on it's way to a birthday girl...




One little five-wicket-taking match ball, snaffled for posterity.




**EDIT - apologies to England, you played a blinder this afternoon.

Menagerie

SOLD

Do I still needle felt? Of course I do. It's my job; without it I have no money. I have tried a little experiment of making several things over a month and re-stocking my shop all at once. But I think I'll be going back to just popping things up for sale as I do them: I really missed what we used to call the 'retail buzz' when I worked in a Real Life shop. And my blog starts reading like a domestic bliss magazine.

I didn't get as much made as I hoped, it's taken me a while to get back in the swing of things after my mammoth trade order but I'm back in the zone at last and even started making inroads into my commission list. The shop which I am supplying wants more one-offs; they anticipate selling out of the ones they have as soon as their catalogue is published (which is flattering). So I need to clear my commitments.

SOLD

I've started making everyday little clips and ornaments which 'only' take a day or so to make and that I can price affordably; I had to raise my prices on my larger animals, just so that I wasn't working for myself for sweatshop rates.

SOLD

My geese take at least 3-4 days to make. It's hard to explain why unless you know how needle felting works. There is a lot of putting on and taking away. The final smoothness that I like takes hours of minuscule poking and trimming. I am often asked *how* I get the finish that I do (merino wool is very hairy and fly-away). There is no magic answer; just patience. It is, after all, a craft; I think sometimes the word has lost a little of its meaning nowadays.

SOLD

I've also been using my new-ish (Christmas present) wire twisters; oh how I love them! They came without instructions, so I had to trial and error, until I found a You Tube video demo. But the possibilities are endless, and they are so very pleasing to use.

SOLD

Thankfully, things are shifting steadily. My dwindling store cupboard breathes a sigh of relief; I can go shopping again.

Gingerbread

This is not really a blog post, just a fully blown boast-fest. May the gods of baking forever burn my pans for such pridefullness. Against the odds I have managed to bake the perfect gingerbread cake.


We don't really have a kitchen, just a tiny square matchbox about the size of a small entrance hall (we don't have one of those either). The original cottage was a one up one downer for farm labourers, and all the cooking would have been done on a range in the main fireplace. Naturally the last thing on our landlord's mind when he inherited the cottage was to provide adequate cooking facilities. (Or adequate anything really). So for the last seven years, I have baked, roasted, fried and grilled on this. If the kitchen door (just seen right) is open, you wouldn't even know we had a cooker.

In fact, this is the second cooker we have had here; I killed the first by using it. I think I'm going to kill this one too, as it is a rickety tin-box with heating elements. The knobs claim that the two hotplates go from 1 to 5, but they lie. There is only one temperature and that is hot; unless it times out and you have to wait another five minutes for whateveritis to start cooking. Now the fan oven seems to be going the same way and to my eternal shame I burnt a fruit cake the other month. So it is a minor miracle that last night I produced a perfect pillow of gingerbread.

Even though I dickered about with the recipe, from my old trusty 1950's Good Housekeeping book. (First port of call for everything).

I made a half and half mix of black treacle and golden syrup, put in less milk and baked it using only the bottom of the oven heat. It rose slowly and majestically, a big bronzed belly of a cake with barely a crack in the top. Overnight it has gone slightly sticky and a big slab has mysteriously been cut from it. Not me. I don't even eat the stuff.