A wedding cake church and autumn showers

Autumn is truly here and although the swallows are still here, happily swooping around as if they have no intention of migrating, I don’t think we’ll be getting an Indian summer. After months of near drought conditions in the Midlands, rain has returned and the countryside is green again. The September sun provides a glorious contrast to the brooding clouds that bring in short, heavy showers, making the harvested landscape gently glow pale and golden.

In need of a little outing, I cycled out to investigate a nearby parish church, following the long, hedgerow lined road which eventually leads to the village.

It’s not been on my radar for visiting, despite being close to home, as it’s mostly built in the rather grand perpendicular style of the Medieval period.  I much prefer smaller, older churches, plain and humble, preferably with a fragment of surviving Anglo-Saxon stonework somewhere in the brickwork, or at the very least, something Norman (which might make me a church snob). This one has always reminded me of a lurid, over sized wedding cake. 

But here we are, with No.6 propped up against the red Shropshire sandstone walls. I wasn’t able to explore inside, as there is an A4 sheet of paper pinned to the (hundreds of years old) door, declaring that entry is temporarily forbidden due to there being the dual calamities of a wasp nest and a hornet’s nest inside.

That left the surrounding graveyard to investigate and it charmed me more than I had anticipated, with a jumbled mix of stones from the relatively humble to the more ornate, overgrown with long tangles of dried summer grass and dark ivy creeping over once important names. 

It would be the perfect setting for a gloomy, 1970s style children’s TV series, with a child ghost and some kind of awful, ancient secret lurking under a large, elaborately decorated tombstone.

I did have a lovely surprise though, when I spotted a mysterious gate in the back wall, with a tantalising glimpse into a formal garden. As some of you reading may know or remember, I adore topiary.

Beyond all this tangled, decaying splendour lay the immaculate grounds of the village ‘big house’. Presumably it provided a quick and private route to church services for the family once upon a time. Now it is owned by a private company offering outdoor pursuits, but the gardens are still beautifully maintained and I was able to enjoy a secret peek, enjoying the sight of immaculately sculpted trees and pristine lawns. I may have to return one day with a sketchbook.

Then a short shower began and I took refuge in the thick walled stone porch, chatting to the attendant who was greeting visitors with offers of cake and coffee. 

We discussed bell ringing and wasps for some time, until someone else arrived and the rain had passed. Time for home and lunch.

I cycled home quickly, using No.6’s handy pedal assist to get me swiftly up the hills, trying to beat the next wave of showers which were moving in swiftly from Wales. Here in this backwards look, you  can just see the church tower poking up with its tiny flag, nestling in the faraway green.

We got back just in time, with the first fat raindrops falling as I turned the key in the cottage door. Time for homemade red lentil soup, salty and smoky, with just a hint of warmth from a pinch of chilli flakes and a sprinkling of Worcestershire sauce.

Country social

 

Not living in a village it's quite rare to meet up with neighbours, unless it's a brief chat while out walking (which is usually quite enough for me). However, at the weekend I received an email asking if I'd like to join in with someone's surprise birthday celebrations. It was a small, spur of the moment gathering, nothing formal and just a ten minute walk away. I accepted and then panicked about what to make and take with less than 24 hours notice, as if there is one thing I learned from my mother, it was that under no circumstances do you visit someone empty handed.

Overnight I churned ideas about in my head, trying to fudge together a recipe that used ingredients I had to hand (because I'm a long way from shops) and that would be not too simple but not too complicated. In the end I decided to make little pasties filled with feta cheese, cumin baked crushed chickpeas with garlic and lemon juice and strained frozen spinach, encased in rough puff pastry with an egg wash and sprinkled with sesame seeds. 

Of course this was not the uncomplicated plan I'd been aiming for and I was already exhausted from a long day of sitting in on an interview panel for my other outside work. But I rested in the morning and eventually started pastry making a few hours beforehand. At one point, I looked at the pastry and the bowl of filling and thought 'shall I just make one big pie?' Then I dismissed this very sensible idea and began cutting out dear little pastry rounds, painstakingly filling, crimping and trimming them into miniature pasties. It was worth the effort though, as they looked pleasingly like proper party food. I had just enough time to bake them, half an hour before I was due to meet up with a local friend who was going to walk with me to the party. I was only five minutes late.

   

Now that we are in official British Summertime, the longer evenings are a welcome break from the short, grey days of Winter. This Spring has been exceptional and so we wandered slowly down the lane, enjoying the mellowing light and long shadows.

The hedgerows are spattered with tiny floral treasures of Celandine, Primrose and Stitchwort, with the promise of tall, fronded Queen Anne's Lace to follow, later in the month.  

The field across from my cottage is just coming into flower. I love the smell of rapeseed and for me it is the quintessential smell of early summer, as well as adding a cheerful splash of citrus yellow to the landscape. Not so pleasant if you suffer from hay-fever though; poor Jean-next-door is suffering already from it.   

It felt strange to be out and socialising, but I knew several people there, including a couple of older women who have moved away and who had been ferried in to enjoy the meet-up. I was put in the awkward position of having to guess someone's age and tentatively suggested '80?', to be met with a rather pleased guffaw followed by 'don't be daft, I'm 90'.

It was a joyful occasion, with the birthday celebrant being suitably surprised and delighted. I was content to sit on the edge and chat to people as they came to me. I had a small glass of champagne and enjoyed being part of something nice. This being a British Spring evening, the setting of the sun was our cue to wind up the festivities and soon we were packing up, chivvied along by a cool Easterly breeze that had picked up as the light lowered. A short and tired walk home was all I needed to round off the day and return to the cottage, where my warm bed was waiting.

Cakes and calves

A couple of days ago, Joe went to town with Jean-and-Brian-next-door, to get his hair cut. He returned with a 'present for both of us' and produced a pretty box from Patisserie Valerie. It's been so long since we could afford a little luxury such as this that  - and was such a lovely surprise - that I found myself getting a little teary eyed.

 

We decided to save them for later and I went into the garden, to plod on with my weeding. Glancing over at the adjoining field, I spotted a large, dark lump being nuzzled by a couple of cows. My first thought that it might be something dead, perhaps a fox, but realised it was possibly a calf. Then I saw an ear twitch. I called Joe  to come and see and rushed to grab my camera.

 

They were on the far side of the field, so my zoom was stretched to its limit,  but you can just see it lying behind the hind-quarters of the cow in the foreground. I think it had probably been born within the last half hour.

I've never seen this in the six years I've lived here. Knowing that the farmer usually likes to handle such events under cover, we walked up to the farm to let them know what had happened. As it turned out, 'young farmer' was in bed, sick, so we told the older farmer's wife who was holding the household reins.

We returned to see what would happen. The calf must have wobbled to its feet, as it was now in the close shelter of the hedgerow, surrounded by other members of the herd who were obviously shielding it from potential harm. 

A farmhand came down to check things out (maybe to make sure we weren't seeing things that weren't there). He was soon surrounded by most of the small herd.

Later, he returned with 'old farmer' and a wheelbarrow. The new born was placed carefully onto a nest of straw and so began a long procession up the field, towards the farm; the calf in the wheelbarrow, a line of cows trotting alongside and 'old farmer' bringing up the rear. We could just see the head of the calf peeking up as it was wheeled up the field.

After some commotion at the farmyard gate, the calf was transported away with its mother following, where they will have been settled in a shed together. What drama!

 

I spent a quiet few hours with my laborious weeding, having hit a patch of clay which is the very devil to dig and clear. Next door, the herd continued quietly grazing in the mellow October sun.

Later, we enjoyed our tea and cake, still glowing from being the first to lay eyes on the newest addition to the farm next door.