Shrewsbury Food Festival

My birthday treat was this year's Shrewsbury Food festival - it first started three years ago, with immense success, but (as some of you may know) I haven't been in the right mental place to enjoy such things. There were also wonderful birthday presents from Joe, including a Swedish whittling knife, of the type recommended by Ian the Toymaker. And a humungous bottle of my favourite (and rather expensive) perfume.

 

Summer had finally decided to arrive in the UK and we were glad we got there early - the Saturday country bus deposited us in town before 10am, so we arrived before the crush. The festival was held in Shrewsbury's beautiful Quarry Park, where the legendary Percy Thrower was the Superintendent gardener for 28 years.

 

We wandered about. It was crammed with mostly local small producers  There were cheese and pies and pickles and fudge and cider and bread and meat and stuff. And more stuff.

 

And rare lop eared pigs, from nearby Middle Farm.  This was part of the 'farm-to-fork' section, enabling people to make the connection between what they eat and where it actually comes from.

This is 'Beckfoot Damica' and her new calf, from Great Berwick Organics. She's an English Longhorn, one of the oldest breeds in the country, dating back to at least the 16th century.

We stopped for handmade venison pies, and in my case (what with it being my birthday and all) I had a pint of 'Steam Punk' beer from Shropshire's own Three Tuns Brewery. Dark treacle-y and delicious.

By now, the crowds were building up and as neither of us do people en masse, it was time to head off. So Joe bought some sausages...

 

...and I bought some bread. And we headed back to the cottage after a lovely day out. Full of pie.

Goodbye lovely Shrewsbury Food Festival, you were great - and good luck for next year!

Brooding topiary at Longner Hall

  

Is it just the British who have a penchant for pottering around stately homes when the so-called summer weather is typically 'iffy'? Not too far from here is the lovely Longner Hall, who were having a garden open day. 

So Brian and Jean from next-door, Joe and myself all crammed into one vehicle and bimbled across the lanes to have a little look and admire the topiary.

I do like a nice topiary bird.

 

 

But I like even better, sinister green domes who seem to be watching you as the rather grandiose 'big house' looms overhead.

 

 Some people like grand houses.

I am more taken with the ramshackle.

Such as this sweet little conservatory nestling between shapely hedges. 

 Or intriguing secret paths leading to who knows where?

And cunning doors which beckon you to enter...

 

 ...revealing the most beautiful Victorian walled garden.

 

And then the rain descended, as it had been threatening to since we arrived.

We all took shelter, packed like sardines in a funny little theatre shack and I passed round mints some found at the bottom of my bag. Jean found them a little strong and had a slight coughing fit.

 

Once order was restored and the rain passed, we carried on admiring the neat and orderly rows of vegetables, lined up like soldiers on parade.

 One of the old glass houses has been restored.

And already filling up with tidy rows of geraniums.

In the manner of these things, just as we were heading off, the clouds cleared to reveal beautiful Shropshire.

Back along the ever-so-long drive. It's time to return to our own humble but much loved homes, full of grandiose ideas for schemes which may one day come to fruition. Who knows?

Wool, automata and cake

Sometimes I am asked to do private workshops and it is always a huge pleasure. Apart from the fun of going away visiting, I am always treated like a visiting princess and thoroughly spoiled. This month I stayed at the home of Ian Mackay, maker of exquisite automata and Fleur Hitchcock, the children's writer. Here is Ian, making a needle felt version of one of the chickens on his amazing pecking chicken machine. Needless to say, as a skilled craftsman, he picked it up at once.

 

It was a fairly informal workshop, and people pretty much free ranged their designs, which was interesting for everyone and made me think on my feet.

There are wonderful examples of Ian's work all over the house, with intriguing handles which beg you to turn them. And when you do, magical things happen.

Driftwood houses are so much the in thing now, with so many people making them,  but Ian was one of the early originators and I loved this little wooden street.

Lunch was pretty darned splendid.

 Amazingly, after all that, people carried on working. This was a particularly splendid guinea pig.

And the youngest member of the group produced her own version of Totoro from Studio Ghibli.

I am always thrilled to bits when someone who has never needle felted or indeed crafted much, produces something lovely. Often they start out with a little trepidation, but at the end of the day, they have made something beautiful, and in this case, entirely their own design.

Naturally, mid-afternoon, there was cake.

The next day, I myself tried my hand at creating something outside of my own comfort zone, in Ian's workshop, but that's another story for a later date. Thanks so much to Ian and Fleur, for making my weekend really special and reviving my own creative batteries, which have been a little flat for the last few years.

A little poetic mystery

 

Out with Marjorie the other week, pootling to the Post Office which is two miles away. On the way back, I spotted a notice pinned to a gate post and, as one does, stopped to investigate.

However, it wasn't a planning application for a new housing estate (although that is in the pipeline for this area). It was a Thomas Hardy poem. Rather random, but lovely. 

 The Walk

You did not walk with me

Of late to the hill-top tree

By the gated ways,

As in earlier days;

You were weak and lame,

So you never came,

And I went alone, and I did not mind,

Not thinking of you as left behind.

I walked up there to-day

Just in the former way;

Surveyed around

The familiar ground

By myself again:

What difference, then?

Only that underlying sense

Of the look of a room on returning thence.

  

Pondering this and wondering 'who, what why and when?', I cycled on. And came then stopped.

Another country poem, pinned to another gatepost, with the brooding Wrekin just showing in the background.

A sonnet, by John Clare.

A Spring Morning

THE Spring comes in with all her hues and smells,

In freshness breathing over hills and dells;

O’er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings, 

And meads washed fragrant by their laughing springs.

Fresh are new opened flowers, untouched and free

From the bold rifling of the amorous bee.

The happy time of singing birds is come,

And Love’s lone pilgrimage now finds a home;

Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove,

And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love.                        

The foxes play around their dens, and bark

In joy’s excess, ’mid woodland shadows dark.

The flowers join lips below; the leaves above;

And every sound that meets the ear is Love.