Goodbye Mouse

Goodbye darling Mousie, most precious of cats. You were born into my hands thirteen years ago, one of Clover's kittens. She sat on you a lot and I was constantly rescuing you from suffocation . You were 'my' kitten and I loved you deeply  from the second I held you.

 You were the runt, a wee grey blob, only a few inches long. I called you 'Mouse' and whispered it into your ear so that you would know your name, still damp from the womb. 

Once, after a car accident, you went missing  but you somehow found your way home, clawing away for dear life at the conservatory door a week later.  I'd been broken hearted and resigned to you never returning.  I had lain on the sofa for days in a dark pit of despair, weeping with joy when you came back to us in the middle of the night.  We called you 'the Mouse that Returned'.

Thankfully that was your last big adventure. You had ten quiet and happy years at our tiny cottage in West Oxfordshire. You went skedaddle in the April winds and basked in the sun. In winter you retired to the sofa and slept, a plump mouse waiting for spring. 

You never demanded attention, nor caused a nuisance. You were quiet, unassuming and humble -  a mouse who knew her position in the scratching order and was happy there. You loved your head being scroffled and scraps of Marmite toast.

You hated our recent move but as usual, you were quiet in your corner. Maybe too quiet. When you started being sick, we thought you had furballs. You were sick so much that we took you to the vet and in the end you were put on a drip. You behaved as always, sweetly and gently. The mouse who purred until the very  end.

It wasn't furballs. It was a 'mega-esophagus', more common in dogs then cats. You couldn't get your food down your throat, hence the last few weeks of sickness. We would gladly have paid for an operation, but there is nothing to do with this, except try to manage it - and you had pneumonia setting in too. So thin, so weak and already elderly. As I broke down over the phone, the vet said that you had been 'a sweetheart'. You were comfortable and asleep and I gave consent for the last injection, so that you wouldn't know about it.  I haven't hurt so much for a long, long time.

You were a small, rather plain cat, precious to no-one except us. I don't have enough tears to shed for you, though God knows I've been crying all afternoon.  You have left a huge hole in our lives for such a quiet creature and a piece of me has gone with you.

White Hare Hill

 

I think, because I have so much physical living space around me for the first time in a decade, I am starting to dream of big landscapes. Wouldn't it be great to invent a landscape which had huge chalk hill hare figures, instead of the normal white horses?

So one afternoon, when I was in the interminable hell of having no internet, I began creating one - just a preparatory pastel sketch for a large oil painting. Time to get back to work. 

Old studio, new studio

The final moving day was just too traumatic for words - I'd been cleaning for days and still hadn't finished packing when a very hot and bothered Andy rolled up with a van which was too big to get up the lane. So we had to hump the last annoying odds and sods down to the main street, with an audience of various neighbours. It was humid, frenetic and exhausting. There were a few swear words uttered. We ended up leaving one or two things behind out of sheer frustration with it all. I said a last goodbye to the garden - the new tenants will find some healthy potato plants and Swiss chard.

Goodbye to my my old studio space - goodbye to the mouldy corner too!

Final packing - the cats.

Last one out, lock the door!

 

 

Goodbye to you at last, tiny little cottage - we had ten cramped but happy years in you, though Lord alone knows how we all managed. 

The hot weather finally broke as we left the village and the first rain for weeks started to fall - thank goodness the cab had excellent air conditioning. The cats howled all the way to Shropshire.

But they settled down later that evening, in their new quarters  - the kitchen, which is actually bigger than our old cottage drawing room

After all that, I only needed one thing, and could only find one thing to drink it out of.

 

Andy had already been here for some days on his own, and had unpacked what he thought were my most important studio things. My work desk, of course.

 

And some of my best treasures.

 

But there was still all this to deal with -

 

- which is now sorted. Most of my stuff is staying in boxes, as we hope to move into our own place before Christmas. (Famous last words?)

 That's better. Hello new, temporary studio.

And hello to having no proper garden - although I do have tomato plants, thanks to Andy's kind mum - whether they will come to anything in the wet, grey summer we are having, remains to be seen.

And - hello Shropshire! From here we can see Wales - there's nice.

Taking possession

A week after we dumped a van load of letterpress gear and furniture in our friend's barn, they returned to help us move the bulk of our things over to our new  - and temporary - home a few counties away. That morning we found a mysterious bag of cheese scones on the doorstop and I nearly wept, thinking of the good friends we were leaving behind. Getting the garden dug over and pots ready was also hard, remembering  the many happy summer harvests we'd enjoyed there. But not so sorry to leave behind the barking dog next door.

 

My poor studio - look away now, if you are ever contemplating moving your creative space after ten years. It hurts. Did you know that book cases whimper softly as they are emptied?

Our friend the fantastic Frank also gave up a day and loaned us the use of his van to help us. He is brilliant; a stylish cricketer, meticulous furniture restorer and all round good chap. He's shifted a lot of my junk around over the years, including helping me to collect my letterpress studio a few years ago.

 

This next shot describes why we are never again living in a 'character' cottage with twisty stairs.

 It is amazing how a huge pile of boxes...

...can go down so quickly...

...when there are many pairs of helpful hands...

...to clear it all...

...within less than half an hour! It was reminiscent of the famous Amish barn raisings, which have always made complete sense to me.

Naturally it was one of the hottest days of the year, but better than rain.

Strapping the futon base to the van roof.

And off we went in convoy, Custard the dog leading the way by nose.

Finally - our new base for the next few months. We made it!

While the vans were unpacked, we went off to collect the keys from nearby Market Drayton. We have left behind honey coloured Cotswold stone and gained black and white half timbered architecture.

We returned to this. Oh dear. That was just one van load.

And then we opened the doors. That's Andy's dad down there - more helping hands. 

Look - a corridor! Not had one of those before. And see the height of that ceiling - no more bumped heads.

Of course, I have the biggest and brightest room for my makeshift new studio.

Andy's lovely parents were there and his mum provided tea, served on my proofing press. They were splendid and stayed behind to look after the place.

While we drove back to the cottage. Again. Across the winding River Severn -

- to collapse with the cats. Still confused, but maybe not as confused - or anxious - as we were.