Something to celebrate!

At last I can sleep properly again! The last few nights have been spent fitfully listening to the radio in the dark, while England thrash Australia in the final Test Match. Our television reception is so bad (and we don't have Sky) that we only get to see a few minutes of highlights on the BBC news, so the radio is our only way to follow the games. Last night England not only retained the Ashes for a third time, but did it away from home, against an often hostile Australian Press and home crowd and, more importantly, accomplished it with sweet skill and unity of team spirit.

Last summer, near Oxford

The film clip comes from inside the loyal England supporter's camp, the Barmy Army, with Billy Cooper, the trumpeter playing - appropriately - the Last Post - as the last wicket falls to general mayhem and riotous chanting. It's the first time in 24 years that we have won the Ashes on Australian home turf, so perhaps a little jubilation is not uncalled for.

Away match at Swinbrook

For my American friends, who have misty images of English teas, church bells ringing in the distance and gentle clapping to the soft thunk of leather on willow - that is village cricket; this is war! Well done England!

(Hello and welcome to my lovely new followers - normal craft and country blogging resumes next week).

Autumn Cycle

So often when I am out and about the countryside, I wish I had a direct link from my eyes to the internet, that I could share with my friends the glorious part of the country I am lucky enough to live in. Especially this last Sunday, when West Oxfordshire glowed with the melancholic gold of late autumn sunshine. As I trundled along, I was hit by one of those 'Eureka' moments, and shortened my camera strap so that it was nestled aroung my collar bone (actually, to be truthful, Andy shortened it for me, as I am rubbish at that kind of thing). The results were kind of 'Blair Witch meets the Cotswolds' - lots of crazy camera angles as I cycled along, trying to hold myself upright and not fall down potholes. There is much juddering and wobbling - a combination of my bosom and the not-very-well-maintained country roads. But here is a shortened version of our jaunt, dedicated to my dear friend Tara, who is on the other side of the world, but often in my thoughts on these occasions. And suitable music to accompany my meanderings, so do turn your speakers on if you like Mr Vivaldi.

A day of grace

It was one of those really special summer days, with a kindly warmth and a cool, perfumed wind. The kind of day when you venture out of your cramped studio to get some milk and the day says -
'hello - where've you been? Let's go and have an adventure...'
'Oh I'd love to, but I can't, really, there's artwork to be done, e-mails to write, not to mention the garden and the hoovering'
'Ah yes, but how many days do you get like ME? There'll be enough cold, grey muddy winter days, when you'll look back on this as a day of grace - and smile at my memory, when I am long gone.'
So, like Moley from 'Wind in the Willows', I kicked up my heels, and set off on my old bike Hercules...

the open road

The farmers were literally making hay while the sun shone.

golden days

Swinbrooke is one of the prettiest villages in West Oxfordshire - a fairy town decked with flowers and threaded with chuckling streams.


Cycling through Swinbrook towards Burford - this is the village church, where the Mitfords are buried.

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...and past the dear little old chapel nearby. It is humbler than its grand sister, but there is more a sense of peace and old sanctuary.

Burford was swarming with people admiring it's charms. After the obligatory 'potter' and window shop, I found a pub which, being off the main street had a deserted patio garden and a decent range of beer...time to sit down with my book and recuperate.

A pint of 'Henry' and Walker's finest.

And so the journey home. Back past the gentle Evenlode, past the cricket match, now in it's last desperate 'come on boys!' throes.

Evenlode river near Swinbrooke

I'd done about 14 miles now, by taking the 'scenic' route. The shadows were lengthening and the swifts diving low over the hayfields. The light was taking on the 'old gold' shade which seems to bathe everything in storybook atmosphere. The landscape was almost purring, like a warm, contented cat, sleepy with sunshine. It had been a wonderful day - but I was glad to get to the top of Swinbrooke Hill and head for home.