Another trip to the bear shop

Seems to be one of those times of year when things are tidied up, finished off and others started. The cottage has been autumn cleaned and yet more space cleared. I am anxiously waiting for news of a job that has been in the pipeline for months, and have begun work on a design brief.

Today I popped to town to deliver the rest of my toys to Teddy Bears of Witney. I don't know why it is that every time I visit these lovely people I am in some state of scatterbrained-ness or (as with this morning) completely exhausted. I was actually babbling when I was ushered to a chair. Lovely coffee in a little mug and a buttery teddy bear biscuit were brought to me, which helped.

What I hadn't realised was that I was to be given the honour of drawing the names out of the hat, to decide who would get my creations; some of them had multiple applications, and there are only three of each design, so they like to keep things fair by holding a ballot. In a top hat. They know how to do things properly here.

My name announcements were accompanied by delighted gasps, as the staff know so many of their customers and were happy that they had got what they wanted. Afterwards I happily pottered about looking at new displays and taking snaps. I love these skinny bears, 'Lucy Havahart' and 'Duke Havahart', created by Deb Beardsley, a Wisconsin bear maker.

I saw this chap and dropped to my knees to admire him; I adore spotty old horses on wheels. It's the kind of shop where they totally understand if you start crawling about the props. Or maybe they are just extra indulgent with me.

Bears, bears everywhere.

Although there are many many unique artist bears, they are also a major supplier of Steiff collectibles.

Oh look - down there on the bottom shelf; it's one of my favourite new models - Dulcie. She has been specially commissioned as a reproduction from an original old bear owned by one of the staff.

And round a corner, in a big, mirrored display cabinet, are some familiar faces. Not teddy bears at all, but looking quite at ease with their furry brothers and sisters.

Soon they will be on their journeys to the corners of the world, to start their new jobs. And I am going to take a day off to rest and try to get myself back together, starting with a long, hot bath.

Squash

Our poor little back garden is looking very end-of-season. Dishevelled and rotting, the lush greens of summer are slowly disintegrating. We had yet another terrible year for tomatos. The wet summer brought blight again, and by the time the weather improved it was too late. But miraculously we have managed to have a small but consistent crop of cherries, and they are still struggling on.

The purple and green string bean wigwam, a late planting, is also still cropping, despite it's raggedy appearance.

Our acorn squash were disappointing; only two so-so fruits from four plants. But we will save the seed and try again next year.

The cucumbers have been slow but magnificent. This last one has been quietly growing without us even noticing. Then, the other week, I glanced at the fence and - wumph!

Despite having many, many butternut squash plants, we only harvested five. What a satisfying crop it is. The heavy baby-heads are so solid and cold, that you really feel as if you have grown something. To save space, we grew most of them up poles and trussed them up.

At their height, they were voluptuous and triffid like. Now they are crumpled and dying, but still fruiting. I wonder of any of these tinies will get to edible stage before winter sets in?

Five fat butternut squash. One to eat now and four to store, somewhere dark and cool.

Titbits from Cotswold Peeps

We have found a delightful new walk in even more beautiful countryside.

I have been moonlighting as an informal delivery girl.

And there is a new, autumn online edition of UK HANDMADE MAGAZINE which is simply beautiful; full of projects, interviews, recipes and general loveliness. Just click on the front cover to read, and make sure you have a cup of tea and a slice of cake.

Into October

Thank you so much everyone for the lovely congratulations; I truly appreciate it. At certain stages in my life I always feel sad that I can't share them with my mum and dad. I know that they would have been so proud. But next to that, having support from my blog and real-life friends is wonderful.

Life is falling back into a familiar pattern; for the first time in a few years, I have two *proper* jobs on (not to mention 101 little chores on an ever growing list). So I divide my time neatly into work and play. I heave myself out every morning to cycle and return, refreshed, to ensconce myself in the studio. This is what happened when I was lazy and dipped my paint bowl into the water jar.

Slipped out of my fingers and sank to the bottom. Luckily it was easily saved.

On Andy's days off we go out walking. This week we discovered a nice new route nearby, in a village dripping with history, as recorded here on Cotswold Peeps. Today we have a turning - light drizzle gusted in on fresh winds. The cats know and have called a truce. This is the real sign that the weather is on the change;

Teddy Bears of Witney

We have had a little holiday from home, going out nearly everyday to find new walks and tread old ones. (For our trek round Hailes Abbey, there is a post here on Cotswold Peeps). And one of my secret 'things' is secret no longer. Back in the spring, I referred mysteriously to a large 'trade order' -

- which was no ordinary trade order; it was a commision from a well establised Teddy Bear shop in our local town. I first ventured into 'Teddy Bears of Witney' back in about 1988, when I moved here as a scruffy, odd-hair-styled art student. I don't remember much about my brief visit, but I do remember loving the Japanese art bears on display, goggling at the prices and thinking how wonderful it would be to do something similar.

When I returned to West Oxfordshire in 1994, I was delighted to see it was still there, but it wasn't until a few years ago that I had the pleasure of owning my first collectible bear. Andy had had a stroke of Christmas genius; he had taken his big 6ft 8'' self into that tiny, toy crowded shop, and bought me 'Spud', the little bear to the bottom left of the shelf below. I think I cried when I opened the bag. Never did I think I would ever own my very own special bear.

Two more joined him Tofty (bottom right) and Quimbly - top right. The traditional bear in the top left is a 1980's Laura Ashley bear from a friend many years ago. The catalogue they produce every year, showing new stock, is a little book in its own right, so lavish and highly produced that it has a cover price of £5.00. And I (or rather, my toys) are in the 2010 edition, celebrating 25 years of the shop's existence. Here they are in the British Artist Bear section, sat in front of one of my precious Moleskines.

Everyone at the shop has been perfectly lovely to me. Since my first meeting with them I have been treated like royalty whenever I have popped in. They make delicious coffee. Ian, the founder and owner, decided that my toys should be made available by ballot only, as he expects demand to be high. He has an extensive list of international customers, so with luck my little people will be going all over the place. And he has raised the bar on my prices, starting from £125/$205 - so if you got one of my early pieces for £50/$80 (or less), then you have done well!

They also stock my cards, which can just be seen in this catalogue photo, in the card rack towards the back, in the middle rails.

Needle felting is still a little known craft in the UK, but maybe this will help spread the word. And hopefully my name with it. In the meantime, I am back to painting - for one of my other jobs - my poor paint bowls were literally covered in dust...

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)