Seasonal Changes

Last match of the season

Things are changing. Throughout the summer it has been my humble goal to earn a minimum of £50/$80 a week. Just to get by with food, bills and the odd bottle of beer. I managed that. Many, many thanks to everyone who supported me and purchased my bits and bobs. Now I find that the handful of 'seeds' I have been secretly planting are starting to sprout; an ongoing job which has been stop-starting since February has started again. Another seed sown two years ago has finally put forth shoots and to my delighted surprise I was summoned to London for a business meeting last Friday.

Our country train station, not as sleepy as it looks.

If all goes well, I will be working on projects that fulfill my wildest dreams, with (for the first time) the freedom to indulge my imagination completely. But, that is as far as I can say; as is usual, these things remain confidential until they go public. What it does mean is that making things for sale will take a back seat and I can cease worrying about earning that £50 a week.





What it also means is that I am stretched to my limits time-wise. I am keeping up the exercise though, although I rather overdid it yesterday; a nine mile cycle followed by a four mile walk in the sun has left me exhausted. For those of you who do not get bored with my endless ramblings, it is recorded on my Cotswold Peeps blog (not too much text and lots of nice pictures) My morning cycle was happily diverted by a village yard sale. I restrained myself from visiting all of the venues, but found an excellent haul for only a few pounds.

An enamel pot, a nutmeg grater and only-slightly-chipped hare mug = £1.20p/$2.00 the lot. The pot and the grater still had their Daylesford price stickers on; the uber-upmarket, organic, lifestyle (sorry, 'farmers') shop, just up the road. They originally cost an eye watering £9.99/$16.65 and £12.99/$21.65 - and were barely used.

A useful box for 50p/.83 cents. Because you can never have enough useful boxes. And best of all, for a princely £2.00/$3.00, a wonderful little etching of Bertram Mills circus, signed by the artist 'Gould' - whoever they were. In a vintage frame.

I did much Googling, but failed to trace them. It is so skillfully done and with such lovely composition that I am sure it was rendered by a trained artist.

Next week I will be able to show a fully grown 'seed', planted earlier this year and now grown to fruition. For now, I must try to keep on top of everything; game over, and back to the pavilion for another winter.

Morris men, beer and cricket

Our cricket season draws to a close, heralded by the annual President's Match and beer festival. For the last seven years, since leaving our old home, we have commuted back to play cricket. Andy thought about joining another club, but our hearts and friends are here; they are not things you drop lightly. It's about 15 miles away via the lanes, and as it was a special occasion we stayed the night over with a lovely friend.


The President's game is a friendly between old and existing members of our cricket club; the President picks what he hopes will be a crack team of retired or moved-away players, and the Club - mostly the youngsters - play them. This year the Club wore silly hats. It is a light hearted affair, bolstered by beer and good humour.

Naturally, this being a summer game, held in August, it was cold and windy. We were joined by Eynsham Morris, who usually dance in the tea interval. Eynsham Morris has been in recorded existence since 1856, and is thought to go back beyond, to the 17th and 18th centuries. Cecil Sharpe, the renowned collector of folk dances, witnessed them dance in the now closed Railway Inn, in 1908.

“The dancers met me, I remember, one dull, wet afternoon in mid winter, in an ill-lighted upper room of a wayside inn. They came straight from the fields in their working clothes, sodden with mud, and danced in boots heavily weighted with mud to the music of a mouth organ, indifferently played. The depression which not unnaturally lay heavily upon us all at the start was, however, as by a miracle dispelled immediately the dance began, and they gave me as fine an exhibition of Morris dancing as it has ever been my good fortune to see.”
(CJ. Sharp, The Morris Book, part III, 2nd edn. 1924)

The Eynsham Morris website is full of the team's fascinating, rich history and well worth a browse.

They are one of the things I still miss about our old village. They trickled in one by one, standing to watch the game and get an early beer or two in.

When the first innings was over and everyone trooped in for tea (or beer) and to partake of the good spread provided by the President's wife, they began dancing.

The highlight was the village 'in-joke', whereupon a pretty young lady volunteer becomes the centre of the dance; 'Maid of the Mill', otherwise known as the Eynsham Morris fertility dance. Various sweet and, one suspects, suggestive things are whispered to her, as the dancers 'court' her, to the barely concealed amusement of the onlookers, most of whom know how the dance ends.

I spent most of the second inning sat in the pavilion with friends and had one of the most disgusting pints of real ale I have ever had the misfortune to imbibe. It was called 'Grunter' and tasted as if someone had put several cigarette butts in the barrel. Should you come across this revolting and thankfully rare beer - avoid.

We - that is to say, the Club, for whom Andy was playing - lost, pretty rapidly, and not before time. All this cold, grim day was lacking was rain, and sure enough, it arrived. As is customary at the end of every match, everyone shook hands like gentlemen, even though they were all familiar and close friends.

With the near end of the season and the beginning of autumn proper, I have been frantically tackling tasks and chores in preparation for a new batch of commercial work which arrived, as I thought it would, this week. I am almost at the end of my commissions list. Including this chap; a portrait and a little different to what I normally do.

With my new exercise regime still going strong, I have begun recording my almost-daily wanderings in a new blog, 'Cotswolds Peeps' - more for my own pleasure than anything. It's a kind of record of the countryside, and the tiny things that happen in the natural world, which I find interesting. And, of course, the ever-changing weather.

I like to ride my Bicycle...

Our village green this morning

My x-rays are clear. I am disgustingly, bouncingly, 100% fit and healthy. If I were a cat, my nose would be wet. But still, I am compelled to lose some poundage. My weight gain has not been accumulated by gluttony or unwholesome foods; I am the annoying kind of person who can (and does) keep a Lindt chocolate bar in their desk drawer and eat a couple of squares a week. I enjoy oatcakes and unsweetened muesli and feel no temptation towards cakes or snacks. No, my pounds have built up from the unbelievable hardship of having my studio next door to the bedroom, which I enter first thing in the morning and (previously) did not leave except to do the odd walk or pop-to-the-shop. Thankfully, being 6ft tall, it doesn't really show, but the scales do not lie. So, for the first time since I was fifteen, I am taking daily exercise. I have lost half a stone and am feeling bizarrely fit - my skin is almost glowing and my cheek bones are cautiously emerging. Even Andy has noticed, and when your long term partner notices change, it must be change.

One of my favourite lanes

At eight am in the morning there are few places I would rather be than on one of my regular circulars; a seven mile round trip to buy the Saturday 'Times'. It's downhill and uphill and gets my cardio-vascular thing-a-me-jigs going nicely. The roads are fairly quiet, as most people are indulging in a weekend lie-in, so I cycle in blissful solitude.

We are enjoying a golden end to summer and the fields glow warmly with browns and golds. The occasional leaf drifts through the sunlight and through gaps in the hedgerow I glimpse church spires poking up from the landscape, the countryman's map markers.

I take a detour to one of the prettiest villages in our area, and visit the little shop. As well as my paper, I pick up burgers from Foxbury Farm, cottage rolls from a Gloucestershire bakery and cheese. The cheese - Crudges - is new to me and is one of the few to be produced in Oxfordshire from locally sourced Jersey milk. If you weren't tempted by it's provenance, then the blurb on the label would utterly win you over;


"Now made with raw milk for a fuller flavour, Haddon Gold is smooth and has a buttery taste derived from the rolling organic meadows of Hutton Grange Farm, Great Rollright. Meadow Fescue, Cocksfoot, Timothy, buttercups and dandelions, all gently swaying in the breeze, amidst the dappled shade of Horse Chestnut trees and the gentle sound of rumination from these beautiful Jersey cows."

Mr Crudge - for, unlike our favourite cake-baker, Mr Kipling, he really does exist - is a locally born farmer. For those of you who take an interest in such things, he rents his premises from ex-Blur member and newly-turned country boy Alex James. And if you are thinking that cheese is an odd thing for someone losing weight to be putting in their shopping basket - all things in moderation.

My aching knees have lost their stiffness and I almost whizz back along the narrow, straight lane and through the side of the woods, calling out a cheery hello to the drowsy herd of Dexter cattle. The sun is getting up and crickets are chirping in the dried grasses. People begin to emerge in their cars and it is time for me to be home.

There are, after worse ways to shed a few pounds.

No time to honk!

Not only geese come in threes; the planets span against us and we had a sprained ankle (Andy, from cricket, but recovered now), chest x-rays (me, hopefully nothing to worry about) and a persistent furball (Pumpkin, who is now bright as a button since I spent all my goose-doll earnings on his vet's bill).

It has been a never ending list of - cottage-cleaning, potato harvesting, blight-ridden tomato bed clearing and subsequent green tomato chutney making, jam making, cricket weekends and somehow finding and extra hour or two every day as it has been decreed by my young, not-exactly-svelte-himself doctor that I need to lose a stone. So the surrounding villages have been having me as a regular visitor as I cycle the pounds off. My normal work schedule has been thrown to the winds and I am trying to frantically rein it in. I do not consider three new geese to be an acceptable week's work. Noses will be pressed to the grindstone, if I can summon the energy.

(So yes, for the people who missed the last lot,
I have three new geese for sale, on Etsy)

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.