And a hive for the honey bee

  I have always dreamt of bees: observing bees, keeping bees, loving bees. I thought I was alone in this endeavour, until my son also dreamt of bees. Looking back now, I know my Grandfather, Ned, who I never met as he died before I arrived in the world, loved bees, wanted bees and even made a beehive or two for others.

So, here I am...in Norfolk of all places, far from the places I was reared..and I am about to get bees. I say I; I mean we. 

We arose and came here. Nine beans rows (at least) we have here. And peace comes dropping slow.

I hope to renew my blog posting with some updates about bee keeping. Maybe I'll get back to sharing some thoughts on life, faith, cooking and family like I used to.

There is one thing about bees I do know. They are amazing, beautiful and essential to life on earth. There are some things the children have taught me: they are furry, have five eyes and are responsible for one third of the food you and I eat. 

I know also you should tell the bees all your news; they listen intently. I know that it is essential that humanity rekindles its romance with nature, possibly starting with the birds and the bees. For this is what humanity needs to survive.

But of all the things I know, I know this: the bees have more to teach me about the life I am living than I can possibly imagine. I am just going to have to listen to them, watch them and learn from them. By doing this, and teaching my family to do the same then, only then will we begin the journey from keeping bees to learning from the bees. And that journey is life long.

I add the WB Yeats poem because.... well, we did arise and come here. We didn't build a cabin, but we built a home and renovated a cottage. We have more than nine bean rows (not boasting); we have pumpkins, squashes, chard, garlic, beans, tomatoes, potatoes, cabbages, cucumbers and much still to sow. Peace does come dropping slow - when you let it - and the crickets chirrup so loud they wake you at dawn.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

WB Yeats

Pandemic in love

Two years is a long time between posts. Wisdom would have it that you should have something to say before you speak. This year has certainly given us much to think about. 

Relationships between and amongst those we love have been at the forefront of the minds of all of us as we endured one lockdown after another.

Human beings are not made for text, zoom, whatsapp, email or even phone calls; they were made to embrace, hug, kiss, to see each other eye to eye. All the technology humans have ever invented is a mimicry of the divine design. 90% of our human communication is body language, and without this as the mortar in our daily conversations the edifice of relationships begins to crumble. This year we have been forced to weigh-up the value of our body language against the risks it can pose: on the one hand we can only truly express love in person, through hugs, kisses, gestures - on the other, the risk of doing such may out-weigh the benefits.

Thinking of this, I was minded to think further on the nature of communication and human nature. I have mis-spoken to suggest that modern technology does not offer great advances. We can now share much, much more with those we love who are far away and that is truly valuable. Great love is shared across continents at an instant, between families spread worldwide, and amongst friends separated by work and geography. 

The key to touching hearts in 2020 has been effort and consistency - the old hard slog of working at relationships. It is something that comes naturally to each of us when we are with those we live or work with. Daily we re-evaluate each other and make amends. Somehow, this is more challenging over an infrequent call, text, video call or email. Each of us has needed to trust more, forgive easily, give the benefit of the doubt and ask for clarification. In my own work this has been the case: kind requests, usually delivered in corridor meetings, have been transformed into email edicts with the usual verbal courtesy lacking, and they have required more patience and consideration than might normally be needed. Listening has required an attention to detail, and sincere deliberation of possible interpretations before finally choosing the most charitable. 

Perhaps, what I have appreciated most throughout the pandemic is when I have seen and felt others make a genuine, time consuming effort: handwritten letters, long old chats, zoom meetings when everyone comes and has time to hang out, garden gate gifts given unexpectedly, home made wonders delivered through the post. There is an old adage that 'giving' is not giving until it costs you something - often this is related to the amount one might choose to donate to charity:a real gift to those in need might mean you go without. This year, however, our relationships have demanded that same of us: they have been cultivated by the time we are willing to give them without benefiting from the immediate reward of the company of those we love. I, for one, am grateful for every card, note, handmade gift, long phone call or garden gate visit.

Yesterday was the Feast of the Holy Family - one of my favourites. It would be a mistake to think that it is a feast about the perfect family living in a perfect world. It is a tale of struggle, disaster, trust, companionship, and faith: a national census, prejudice, genocide, refugees, and homelessness in the face of starting a new, vulnerable family. How much effort it must have taken for Mary and Joseph to understand each other and their own separate wills; how much more to understand the Divine will they were called to complete, and more still to communicate their situation and desires to others. 'No room at the inn' communicates more than the experience of the night of Jesus' birth, methinks. It was love, of course, which kept them going, kept them determined to find shelter in Bethlehem, throughout the flight to Egypt, on return to Nazareth years later. 

How long?

How long has it been?

My goodness, time flies by. It seems not a minute since I was nursing a baby in my arms, admiring my husband and 2 year old for their composure and soaking up the delights of newborn love.

I am returned to work now and spend my days torn between worrying for children I teach and worrying for the babes I have borne. The great disaster of being a working mother is that whilst you might hope to be all things to everyone, you feel as if you are half good to most. I have, therefore, long since concluded that one cannot be all things to all people. The very best I can do is make biscuits: my children enjoy the camaraderie of our kitchen, and my colleagues (hopefully) gain that much needed sugar boost needed when I bring our produce to school.

And now, Advent.

For a season that is all about waiting, it doesn't half sneak up! My hearts' desire is to be at peace (not rushing around trying to do things). Ironically, there is much to achieve to make this happen. #

I look back through my Christmas posts and realise I have changed so little! I always long for Christmas, but ultimately,  I am waiting patiently for the business to disappear because:

When all the crowds have gone, I love to creep down the side aisle of my local Church to visit the beautiful crib scene. The figures there look real to me, I am child enough in my heart to make-believe them alive. The Christ-child reaches up a tiny hand, and I imagine that if I were to place my finger near he would grip it tightly, the way babies often do. I wonder what would happen if I did such a thing? What would happen if I had the courage to hold on? 

Then there are the other quiet moments of Christmastide. The night I get to stay up later than everyone else and look at the tree. The winter walk with a loved and treasured friend. Time to sit and crochet little granny squares for the blanket of my dreams. I adore those moments, when all the talking has been done, and there is time to settle down with loved ones and say nothing. Too much of my daily routine is spent amongst hustle, bustle and noise. I like to turn off the telly, the radio, and yes, even the internet.

The year I wrote that, 2012, I was hoping to go an adventure of love - and I did -  I married that 'loved and treasured friend'. Now I am filled with happiness to feel the grip of tiny hands each day. I know they are going to take me on a life long adventure.

But, what of this year? If I were to take courage once again, and creep down that side aisle, and grip that tiny hand, what then? My dreams are still wild: I'd love more children, to travel, to settle and make more of our amazing garden and become a little self sufficient family, to explore our country and the woods on our doorstep, to laugh and teach our children to laugh, above all to love.

Meanwhile, shall I crochet?

Months passed

I didn't see the seasons,
I missed the glistening, powder puff snow
that lay on the ground
only fading away at Easter.

Crashing thunder and a deluge
passed me by completely,
new green leaves unfurled without
my usual  acknowledgement.

The sun beat down hot for months on end,
yet I heeded it not.
Summer clung on in warm strong winds,
conkers fell all at once, as if to rush past
the scant attention I gave them.

All I saw was you.
Then I looked up and winter was coming.

Last Day of Maternity Leave

It didnt go to plan,
much was left undone. 
Your arrival tore me in two
and made me the one
to care for you
in every waking hour, 
to mind you with your brother, 
to teach you two to love each other. 

And whilst now i must be torn again
and divide myself between you three, 
my husband and my boys, 
and another thirty three times three, 
I hope the one thing I did not leave undone

was to pass the love, and peace and gentleness
you gave me at your birth
back to you, and to our family.

Woodland Resurrection

At Epiphany I started the journey - the woodland CAL to create a double bed blanket for our cosy home.  I set out to turn my project into a mini pilgrimage - my days of walking the hills and plains may be temporarily on hold, but that doesn't stop the journeying of the soul.

My maternity leave started on Monday 26th February, and I was due to have our second child as we approached that great feast of Lent, St Patrick's Day. My first born boy was delivered early, so in my mind it seemed likely that in the first few weeks of March we would welcome our new addition. Thus, time was pressing and I had a long list of things to accomplish: exam papers to mark, remaining lessons to plan, baby clothes to wash and sort, a cot to set up, etc. Life was busy.

And so it was that I began part 6 of my woodland pilgrimage, a section of colour transition, looking up towards the sky through the treetops, colours that remind us the breezy fresh air which feeds the earthy woodland floor. As throughout the crochet journey I took time to think about each colour and set of stitches, seeing what reflections surfaced. 

Pistachio - sometimes known as the 'happy nut' because it looks like they are smiling, pistachios are associated with good fortune, health and happiness. They are mentioned only once in the Bible (Genesis 43:11) - the gift that Jacob sends with the 11 brothers to the man Joseph, in charge of the food supply. The best gift that could be taken, that which was most longed for. That story, of course, ends with the best gift - the reunification of Joseph, his father and his brothers. The bringing together of a family.

Duck Egg -  an appropriate colour for someone who could now rest a cup of tea on the belly as if it were a tray. This colour brought reflections about the life developing within. Who would our little person be?

Silver - a colour with many meanings, but often associated with feminine energy, with intuition and natural energies which flow with the tides; the colour of the moonlit night. I was beginning to think carefully about the birth of our child now, expecting that any day our newborn could arrive.

My pilgrimage through the colours of my blanket was repeatedly interrupted, my stitches were not flowing freely. Sickness came to our house, my husband and son were both struck with flu and I developed a hacking cough. My Ma also was struck by an awful flu. Meanwhile, each night I had bouts of strong, almost regular contractions which made me think 'tonight is the night', only for them to dissipate to nothing, leaving me exhausted the following day. A trip to the midwife reassured me that all was well with the baby, that the contractions were being caused by malpositioning and that some yoga exercises and careful focus on posture and activity should sort everything out. I was not yet due and so should relax. This advice was wholesome and served to be very effective. Contractions stopped, I rested and recovered.

Storm Blue made me think of that beautiful passage in 1 Kings 19: 11 - 14. Elijah is feeling alone and without support. The Lord tells him to go and wait for him on the mountain. 

Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave. Then a voice said to him, 'What are you doing here, Elijah?'

What with everyone being under the weather, preparing for the baby and the 'false labour' I was tired, and feeling a little frayed around the edges. My twin sister said to me, 'Ina May (the great midwife) would be asking you, 'what is stopping you having this baby?' The truth be told, with my support team unwell and snow on the ground, I felt I needed spring to arrive and people to mend. So we approached 40 weeks, and I waited on the still small voice within.

I finished my blanket! I was so delighted with it, I looked beautiful spread out on the bed and would be perfect for our little family to snuggle under.

So along came Thursday, March 22nd. My mother, husband and boy were feeling better. My brother was visiting from Ireland. I was relaxed. The contractions grew through the afternoon, I called my husband and made arrangements for my boy to stay with my Ma. At home my husband and I lit the fire and the candles, put essential oil of sweet orange and frankincense in the diffuser and relaxed. I arrived at the John Radcliffe Hospital in established labour. Having delivered by first born via C-Section, we were hoping that this baby would be delivered naturally. However, after a short time attached to the heart monitors it became clear things would not be so simple. Baby's heart beat dropped each time a contraction came. Soon the room was crowded, and my husband was having to make tricky decisions as I was unable to respond to questions.

I had a spinal anaesthetic at 9.55pm and our little boy 'cried at birth at 10.03pm'. It was a category 1 C - Section, an emergency caused by a rare complication: the complete rupture of my uterine scar from my previous section. Our little lad had taken a wrong turn and entered into my abdomen, bringing his own and my life into danger.

The midwives and doctors at the hospital diagnosed and managed this difficult labour expertly. They remained calm throughout, and guided myself and my husband through the situation with care and reassurance. To them I will be eternally grateful.

I returned home on Palm Sunday, 25th March. And, I finally got that Ta Da! moment I had been waiting for: our little family all snuggled under our woodland blanket in our cosy home.

Happy Easter to you all!

In like a lion, out like a lamb...

The meteorological winter ends on the 28th February this year, whilst the astronomical winter will officially end on the 20th March 2018. Usually, I would feel more inclined to yield to the former, but this winter has been a fair margin harsher than many in recent years. In fact, it seems to be showing little sign of relenting as we continue to hit -3 or more regularly during the night. Nonetheless, I do want it to be spring. I want warmth, and light, and growth. Perhaps this is why Mrs Cloister and her mother regularly declare this season over before it seems to have begun.

The January Snows

In preparation for the hallowed day when I declare spring - probably somewhere mid-way between the two official measurements - I have been making preparations for our garden. The hedges have all been cut, a not insignificant matter, and the compost heaps are coming on well. Most of the beds have been dug over and I’m trying to impose some order on the barn and lean-to where we will bring on our early sowings.

Of course, last year was our first full growing year at the Lodge. When we had finally cleared swathes of bramble and scrub and dug out the growing beds we had a good and varied crop. Some things worked better than expected, and others not so well. Nothing was declared a disaster, which is rare, though the parsnips and carrots weren’t a roaring success! The stored potato crop has just given way, as have the cabbages, but the leeks are still going strong. Not bad for a first year and I think we can be satisfied with our efforts. We had to tame the wilderness indoors as well as out, which took a fair bit of time.

May 2017

This year, I’m raising the bar a little and hoping we can build on the efforts made thus far. We’re getting to know the soil and a little of what can be expected by way of pests and so forth. Overall, the garden seems fairly forgiving, though perhaps this is a result of having been so long dormant. Rotations will be key in trying to keep it that way. Though the hedges and adjacent woodland provide some weather protection we are relatively high up for the area and exposure to wind and cold can be quite marked. In fact, the woodland hides an iron age hill fort which once would have dominated the local landscape.

We’re lucky that the Lodge gardens have the space and I feel we’re ahead of the game when compared to last year. Previously, I had to create beds; now I’m just digging and prepping them. Whilst there is a lot still to do - and the vagaries of the weather, pests and disease to be navigated - I have every hope that we can edge that little further along the line toward a more self-sufficient life. Of course, the real pleasure comes in simply growing and enjoying your own food for its unique taste and quality. After all, why bother if the stuff produced looks and tastes like everything else in the supermarkets? Rarely have I found anything as satisfying. Conversely, a little hard labour is also good for the waistline.

Woodland Epiphany

The old oak swing, near home

Epiphany is one of my favourite feasts. I did not make it to Mass this Sunday - that happens so often now I have the small one to care for, I used to be able to count on the finger of one hand the number of times I had 'missed Mass'. However, the feast and the wise men were repeating on my mind. Little snippets of the liturgy, poetry I remember, hymns and scripture popped up on the soundtrack of my thoughts and helped me remember the Magi on their journey. My boy helped to - pointing out the wise men in the crib scene and telling me what they were up to.

It began early. On Friday I was unwell. I should have been in school teaching. I was in bed instead. But, I has less cover work to set than usual because the school would be celebrating the Epiphany Mass during the middle of the day. Confined to bed and feeling foggy in the head I was only good for a little crochet. There was a little project to finish - a storage bag for the bears, made out of odds and ends before I could embark on my new adventure - the woodland Crochet A-Long (CAL) blanket from Attic 24. As it happened, between sleeps, I finished the bag and could read the introduction to the woodland crochet blanket.

The woods of home

Lucy, the designer of the blanket, spoke about everyone participating in the CAL as embarking on a journey, taking a walk through the woodland, beginning an adventure. In my sleepiness this appealed to me. I have made many journeys through woodlands. I have vivid memories of crossing the border between France and Spain, high up in the Pyrenees, alone and on foot, beginning a long pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela. I remember the musty earth smell of the damp trees the in the mist, a sense of apprehension, fear of getting lost. I rang my Dad and tried to explain where I was. Later in the pilgrimage there were the eucalyptus woods - highly perfumed, medicinal, dark trees which only just allowed the heat of the sun to penetrate to the leaf littered woodland floor. Their bark was sticky and sweet. 

Boy in an old oak tree

Of course, the camino de Santiago is not my only memorable journey through woodlands - just the longest. There are many memories fixed in my mind that have the trees as central characters in the landscape. The fir tree woodland near my Bedfordshire home, Chicksands woods, we used to play pine cone war games there. Wytham Wood in Oxfordshire, where my husband and I courted and learnt to love each other, learning each of the trees by name as we walked along. And, the woodland in which we now live with our young family. Now I have that young family I am unlikely to be found, like a wise man, packing my bags for a journey which will will have me travelling miles on foot, carrying all necessities. But, it does not preclude little fun filled adventures into the trees, armed with flasks of hot chocolate and time to play on the great oak swing a few miles from the old lodge house in which we reside. And, maybe this woodland CAL can be my longer adventure, a pilgrimage without ever leaving home. 

On Saturday Evening I began to make preparations for the CAL journey. I was to make a 'sample' - call it pilgrimage training, if you like - it needed to measure 17cm across and I needed to learn the pattern of our road. I failed on the first attempt, of course. Who wouldn't? I was also being tempted by all sorts of 'needs': all of a sudden I needed stitch markers and a new set of crochet hooks. Like a walker who needs new kit for a trip, I just felt I couldn't resist. However, after a firm 'word' with myself I started again, with the simple kit I have, a couple of old metal crochet hooks (3.5mm and 4.5mm), a measuring tape, scissors, and scraps of yarn for stitch markers. My second sample (it was Sunday by now) was 'near enough', so I started the journey.

The Linden (Lime) Tree

The foundation of this pilgrimage was to be made in lime (the yarn colour). Lime trees, or Linden Trees, mark the approach to ancient churches. They are the 'holy tree' which the Baltic women spoke to as if they were human beings, asking for luck and fertility. It is underneath this tree that the truth can be found (and ancient court sessions were often held in their shade for this reason). It is on the wood of the Linden that Orthodox Icons, such as Rublev's Icon of the Trinity (the hospitality of Abraham) were painted. It seemed a good place to start a meditative journey of counting and crochet.

On the camino the way was marked by yellow arrows. On this adventure tomato strands of yarn showed that I was on track - one every 17 stitches, the pattern repeated.

Cypress

Lime and Cypress,
with MopMop and the Gruffalo,
residents of the woodland

Cypress was the next phase of mountains and valleys in the ripple pattern. A tree that also graces many churchyards. This time it is often symbolic of death, re-birth, birth and new life. In the Bible Noah built his Ark from the wood of the cypress tree. 358 stitches (x2) - I'm making a double bed sized blanket - of thoughts about the things that need to be let go of, returned to the earth, renewed or brought to life.

Meadow, it was Monday by now and I was still ill, confined to bed with a hacking cough. Meadows are the place of refuge in the Bible. A space in which you are cared for and looked after. Meadows are associated with beauty and a place of rest, a time and space to think about all those who love and care for you and who you love and care for.

Woodland Meadow

Mustard  comes next and I can't help thinking of that short parable from Mark in which the smallest shrub becomes the greatest tree and birds come and rest in its shade. My blanket looks like a small shrub right now, but I hope it will grow and grow - and, that when it is made there will be room for all our small family, including the newbie due in March, and the cat, Moppet.

The Mustard Tree

And so my journey continues. I am not sure what tomato will hold. Perhaps a little reflection on the fruit of our labours here at #lodgehousechallenge. We have been here more than a year, and our efforts to grow our own vegetables, live a sustainable life, make and mend, refuse to waste, use less plastic - it's all an ongoing journey, a pilgrimage - but, we are beginning to see the benefits.

Home and Boy

So it is, that my journey through the woodland, has become a little epiphany pilgrimage. The Magi went of on a journey and found peace in an unexpected stable. They didn't have an easy time of it, as T.S Eliot reflects in his poem, and they had to start, re-start, turn back, get lost and find their way again. My journey with wool will be little different, if more comfortable. But, I am hoping I too will find a little peace in the unexpected places of the woodland, most especially in my home with my boy and my husband and our child yet to be born.

Happy Epiphany!!

Light the Advent Candle

Christmas is doing that usual thing of being too far away for ages, and then arriving all too quickly - sneaking up at the last minute.

It is a time of year when, of course, I think about my Da a lot. He and Ma spent his last Christmas with Graham and I - a memory I treasure. The following year, still grieving his loss, we cradled our newborn son in our arms. Bertie is two now, and our second baby is due in March. Time seems to hurtle by: birth and bereavement affecting all our loved ones and the world never slowing down to stop. Except, it seems to me, in precious moments of Advent and Christmastide

One weekend not so long ago now, Bertie and I went to Sainsbury's. Not an unusual event in itself, but we were making a special trip to buy the makings of Christmas Puddings. I had explained this to B and he was very excited about the thought of cooking. I handed him each ingredient and he threw it lovingly with reckless abandon into the trolley. I made the Christmas puddings with Da every year for as long as I can remember, including 2014 - his last Christmas. In 2015, with Bertie as a newborn, I had the emotional experience of digging out the well-thumbed, annotated, 'Christmas with Josceline Dimbleby' and making the puddings solo. This year, with Ma looking on to ensure fidelity to Tradition, Bertie and I threw everything into the giant festive pot. Bertie is old enough to play an active role in mixing and the feeling of passing on a family secret is palpable.

Meanwhile, the role of crochet in birth and bereavement has been sneaking back to me also. I was making a blanket for Ma and Da the year he spent Christmas in hospital; I was crocheting a blanket for a new nephew when Da passed away quietly at 3am in April 2015; the making of Bertie's blanket helped me through some hard times after he was gone, the therapeutic concentration numbing, soothing. Since then I have made blankets for various purposes, and enjoyed each of them: one for a new niece, one for my own new unborn. Now, in January 2018 I am going to be embarking on a new project. A woodland blanket for our #lodgehousechallenge home. I am so excited it is silly, and it feels much like the day I bought the wool to make our newly wed honeymoon blanket. A new era almost, time passing, changing; new life, new adventures.

It is only Advent that gives rise to these reflections. It is a quiet time. As Justin Welby says: a time for listening to that which can barely be heard -  the heartbeat of an unborn child. This year, although the future is as yet unseen, Advent is whispering all change, prepare for change. I do not yet see clearly why this is, but I am sure something will transpire. In the meantime, faithful and joyful hope fills the season. We will have Ma and my sister and her family with us at #lodgehousechallenge Christmas. The house will be full, and the fire lit. We have taught Bertie the nativity story and he delights on crib scenes with that child-like delight I aspire to. So, bring it on. Like I said once before, when the newborn Christ-child reaches out for your finger, hold on.

Harvest and Archangels

Michaelmas. I can never explain how much this feast means to me. It is the name of the home of my parents, the feast of the school in which I rekindled a teaching career, a moment at the crux of summer and autumn. Michaelmas. The Feast of St. Michael and the Archangels, closely followed by the Feast of Guardian Angels: a time to remember those we care for and those who care for us.

Having rocked my boy to sleep, quietly singing, as everyday. the Angel of God prayer, I headed out to fetch wood from the barn. I stopped just outside the lean-to door. The Michaelmas Daisies were in flower. They were not there yesterday, they had flowered today - on time. I ran inside to fetch my phone and take a picture. I would later send it my mother from whom I had taken the plant earlier in the year. I smiled from ear to ear and felt an excited fluttering of butterflies in my tummy.

We have been just a shade more than a year at #lodgehousechallenge. We have accomplished so much and been so blessed: the garden whilst still untamed in large areas, gave us a fabulous harvest of potatoes, tomatoes, chillies, sweetcorn, cabbage, peas, beans. carrots, parsnips, beetroots. Where fir trees once grew we have planted a herb garden with rosemary, thyme, sage, lavender, loveage, sorrel, mint, lemon balm, woodruff, parsley, Greek basil, and basil. Inside all our main rooms have been cleaned, painted, decorated and transformed by the hard work of Mr. Cloister and his Dad. Mopmop, our mouser and pet has arrived. In short, #lodgehousechallenge has become a home.

Last year I wrote of the work still to be done, now I know the list is endless, but I do not mind. The pheasants have returned, and the geese still fly overhead each evening; the owls hoot in the woods each night. We will order wood for the winter soon, and put many of our 'allotment' beds to rest. I am beginning to learn the rhythm of this house: it is hectic and peaceful all at once

Next year new life will come again to us: in spring as we plant seeds for the season we will welcome our second child. Baby Cloister will be 2 and a half when he becomes a big brother and begins a journey of love and caring for his sibling - becoming something of a guardian himself. I thought of that today - and the care I receive from my own siblings. I hope #lodgehousechallenge will be a place the Archangels and Guardian Angels are not only welcomed, but copied.

A Proper Job

I recently remarked to Mrs Cloister that Spring seems to be hurtling by at a very unforgiving rate. We’re just about keeping pace but the garden seems to be mocking us for our ‘days off’ during Winter or time spent on other tasks. ‘Ha-ha!’ it says, ‘Still clearing ground, are we? Should have done that months ago when you had time!’ But when is time ever abundant? There is, however, no escaping what needs to be done and no quick way to do it. That’s the rub with gardening; there are few shortcuts and fewer still that won’t come back to bite you. There’s no computer that’s going to dig and manure the beds or help us drill line after line of vegetables. There is no labour-saving device that will help to pot-on seedlings or turn a compost heap. Preparation and hard work is all, and I believe in getting things right.

This is where an element of frustration comes in. The inevitable tension between the time available and the need to do ‘a proper job’. Of course, time must also be spent acquiring the knowledge and skills applicable to each task, and for novices like us, this takes us all the longer.

The concept of ‘doing a proper job’ is not new to horticulture. It’s always one that I associate with our Victorian forebears and the pre-war, ordered walled gardens of the English country house. It’s also one I associate with the amateur (not amateurish) gardener, on their allotment patch or private garden, whether ‘digging for victory’ or growing for pleasure. When visiting my parents, I still like to thumb my Dad’s worn copy of the late and great ‘Percy Thrower’s Every Day Gardening – In Colour.’ Yes, in colour! It draws one into a methodical world of horticultural wisdom, laced with practical common sense. The pictures also allow one to muse on such thoughts as; how long could I double-dig for in a jacket, collar and tie without expiring?

Pig Row recently posted on the thirtieth anniversary of the airing of the Victorian Kitchen Garden, a gardening classic full of charm and insight. The late Harry Dodson with his engaging Hampshire burr takes the viewer effortlessly through the seasons and back into a seemingly forgotten world. The encyclopaedic knowledge, the correct techniques, the right tools for the job – and the time to do the job properly. It’s hard not to feel some sense of nostalgia for this world and a desire to stamp upon one’s own garden a good dose of Victorian order. In fact, I bore Mrs C with just these concepts most weekends. But there is a serious point to be made; there is reason behind neat rows of beans and correctly spaced drills of carrots. The aesthetically pleasing spectacle of a well-ordered vegetable garden is often only a by-product of the hard-headed science and geometry that ensures a garden meets its productive capacity and is accessible to tend and maintain. I don’t enjoy numbers per se but a garden is all numbers, a rich tapestry of practical mathematics. If you can count, the chances are you can begin to grow vegetables successfully.

Few of us have the time (or perhaps inclination) to replicate the exactitude of the Victorian Kitchen Garden even on a small scale, but that doesn’t mean we don’t want to do a proper job. Our rows may be a little wonky, our soil not quite as conditioned as we may wish for; we may yearn for a tenth of the knowledge of a Victorian journeyman gardener, but the desire exists to bring some order from the chaos and use our land as productively as we can. We still want to learn new skills and develop existing ones, and we want the satisfaction of downing tools at the end of a day and being able to say that, come what may, we’ve done a proper job.

Growing Season

If there is one thing that makes Mr Cloister happy, it's growing things. And, now that 'growing season' is upon us life at the Lodge House is chaotically delightful. 

We are not in danger of waking up with frostbitten toes, for starters. 

In the lean-to there are a multitude of plants. There are three types of squash: Turk's Turban, Potimorron, and a squash I call Avis, after the wonderful lady who gave me the seed. Every single seed has sprouted, and I spent the afternoon potting on and re-homing them to a hand crafted cold frame, viz. old IKEA bookcase with Velux window found in garage.

There are three types of tomato, chilli peppers, brussel sprouts, purple sprouting broccoli and sweetcorn. For me, there is hollyhock and lavender. And, for immediate use we have thyme, basil, parsley, chives and mint. Next to be sown are the carrots and beetroots, the peas and beans, as well as some salad crops.

It is delightful to come home to a house full of growing things. We are all growing too, especially little B. For each new seedling, or for plants we have not grown before, we have to research, learn and put into practice our findings. Added to that, you can build some muscles digging a half acre! It is good to see barren land being brought back into cultivation.

We have now planted three long rows of Wilja potatoes, my favourite variety of spud. They make the most delicious roast potatoes in the world. I cannot wait to dig them up!

Leeks and savoy cabbage are starting off in the nursery bed, and broad beans are sprouting under our cloches too. In the end we dug our vegetable patches out of part of the back lawn. The clearing of the original kitchen garden proved too large a task for now, and we wanted to have a harvest this year.

Where the Wiljas are sown will become, in time, my medicinal herb garden. It was covered with St. John's Wort. Never before have I seen such tangled root systems. It was a nightmare to clear the area and get the potatoes in. After breaking our garden fork, Mr Cloister bought a mattock - a heavy duty tool like a pick-axe for breaking up tough soil and woody roots. Once we had the right kit for the task we made better progress, and finally, finally, we have cleared this patch to home the spuds, rhubarb, asparagus (maybe, not yet in) and sweetcorn. 

Where the old conifer trees have been cleared I have followed the advice of my Ma. I dug holes from between the old stumps large enough to hold herb plants. These plants have now been bedded with good compost to create a lovely border: lavender, thyme, lemon balm, marjoram, loveage, rosemary, bay, forget-me-not, sweet woodruff, sweet cicely and chives. It looks as though we have a cared for garden as you drive in. I am very proud.

Bertie has started to enjoy gardening. He crawls around after us and gets in a pickle: with mud on his face, his hands and his chest! He seems idyllically happy. When there are tasks he can help with, like planting potatoes or helping to collect stones from a cleared patch of earth, he approaches the task (game) with enthusiasm. Under instructions from Mr. Cloister, he crawled around the lawns picking every Dandelion. I made him a daisy chain crown.

Visitors come and we love to have people over! Bertie seems to think the best days are when we have 'visits'. There is always a good meal to be had, we buy car loads of vegetables at the market and love to find good cuts of meat and fish when we go into town. It is great to share a good feast with friends and family. Soon we hope to substitute the home grown for the bought.

The next creatures to call our place home will be the chickens. We have the coop, but need to find the time to build a run that will keep Mr Fox at bay. Of course, Bertie will be in charge of collecting the eggs.

Of things which do not matter and things which do

#lodgehousechallenge can be a hard station, as my Irish tongue would have it. The reference to a 'station',  particularly apt in this season of Lent, not that we are quite at Calvary yet. I merely mean our present circumstances force from within realisations which, altough true, we wish we didn't know. Like the fact that we cannot make ends meet, for example. We have tried, failed and tried again. And we will keep trying, but we have now come to know that it cannot be done without taking up additional work.

When we feel a little overwhelmed and that we cannot manage we ought to think about the things which do not matter and the things which do. I make mental lists. Things which do not matter comprise: bills, cars, money, possessions, fashion, holidays aboard (that's hard). Things which do are: family, caring for Bertie, friends, planning future fun together (like parties and such like), making the dream work and sticking together like glue.

This month when we ran out of money weeks before payday we went out and bought seed potatoes (wiljas, since you ask).

Then we sat down and worked out a way to ensure that next month the same doesn't happen. 

Meanwhile, we are making progress in the garden! And spring is springing. Today we sowed pumpkin, sweetcorn, tomatoes, broccoli, brussel sprouts and chilli peppers. We have fresh herbs already growing. Outside the vegetable patches are marked out and being dug through stage by stage. 

We have cleared fourteen years worth of bramble from the 'herb garden', and will plant potatoes there soon - enriching the soil for the medicinal patch which is to come. You can see from the 'before' and 'after' pictures the work we have been doing: the fir trees have been removed, the lean-to rebuilt, a new gate fitted, brambles cut down, dug out and burnt into oblivion. By harvest time this little corner will have transformed to a life sustaining heap of spuds.

The garden gives us hope that our new life, the dream for which we came, is still growing, unfurling, coming to life as slowly as the tree top leaves in the cold, fresh sun of a new gardeners' year.

And Moppet, the cat, catches mice.

Advent approaches

"Advent fast approaches and I've accomplished nothing", so says my husband - but he doesn't mean it. It is just that living in a #lodgehousechallenge# is, well, truly challenging. Take for example, getting an extractor fan fitted in the bathroom...

We lease the property, so we must ask the estate people to come. Six weeks later they arrive, but fit an extractor so basic it is Neanderthal, open to the elements, the perfect nesting site for birds, and filters an icy gale through the bathroom. So we get back on the email. Everything is fixed, eventually. And we are thankful. Right now our lean to is being re-built. I mean, it was a danger to all those near by in high winds. And the chaps that are rebuilding it are brilliant, skilled carpenters. We are thankful, truly.

 

The compost bins were meant to have been built, by us, in September. They are now done! Hurrah! It happened by happy/unhappy accident. G was in our old banger trying to drop B to childcare and get to work. The car broke down post childminder but pre work, leaving him stranded near home with 'nothing' to do. Nothing. Ha!

 

In a moment of inspiration we have asked a lad from the nearest village to help us at weekends when he can. It makes the world of difference. Progress gets made.You see, one of the biggest challenges we have faced is that we thought there would be two of us working outdoors, but there is not. Bertie, who turns one this weekend, doesn't like watching gardening from his buggy. He wants to do other one year old stuff, like play and crawl and giggle. Who'd have thought? So, with the best will in the world, only one of us gets to garden. I want to dig my herb patch, just outside the lean to. G wants to get started on the 'kitchen garden', viz the jungle. Somehow or other we needed to work a way of pleasing us both. Getting a little help has proven the miracle solution. We thank God for Archie.

To keep chipper we have to keep reminding ourselves why we have come, and what we are aiming to achieve. We have to keep thinking about how much we have already achieved. Inside, we have redecorated half of our small home. Outside, we have cleared the old barn. Tools have been organized, cleaned and oiled. We have started to dig a herb patch. The compost bins and leaf pens are built.  The gates have been painted. Wood for winter has been split and stored. Plans laid for the season ahead...

 

Money is not easy, and we are struggling to make ends meet each month, but, as my Ma would say, 'the struggle is all'. And, my Da would have said, 'it's only silly old money.' We have come here because we want a simple life, filled with fun and family - and that's it. Family comes first, all the great concerns of the world, like Tellies and iPhones and Shopping and Clothes and Bank Balances and Stuff, come later. Much later. So much later in fact that getting a haircut needs advanced planning at the moment. Maybe I'll buy scissors? And we still can't afford bedroom curtains - just as well there are no neighbours!

Ironically, the simpler you try to live, the harder it seems to get. Sometimes the task seems too much. In such moods, we light the fire and give each other a pep talk about how everything that people think matters doesn't really matter. That helps. Then we buy wine. We are going to have to give that up and start making booze. Such is the self sufficient life.

 

As Advent does approach we know one thing...we haven't any money for Christmas. And we have faith in another, we are going to have the best Christmas ever! We have wood for the fire; enough for a hearty meal; I've saved for a new toy for little B; last years tree is growing in a bucket; I've made the puddings; and loved ones will come and we will visit. Maybe we will buy ourselves some curtains...

 

A year in my arms

One year.
One year you've been in my arms,
not counting the months
you grew inside me.

One year and nine months -
let's face it -
you didn't know
you weren't me,

until one day -
you became you -
 - and I became I
once more.

But I am still you,
defined by love,
my image remoulded
because you're enfolded

in my arms.

Peace at Michaelmas

  

Hallo all. It has been a while, but #lodgehousechallenge is going strong! We have a very peaceful life in the woods. Even when we are both working we come home, cook the dinner, light the fire and cuddle under a blanket to listen to 'story' before bed: SJ Parris' Heresy, since you're curious, we love a bit of historical fiction.

I adore, yes, adore, the feast of Michaelmas - the Feast of St Michael and the Archangels. It is my favourite, frequently marked by Michaelmas daisies growing in the garden. But there are none this year! The garden is new to us and whoever loved it before did not share my passion for this little delicate flower. Ah well, in years to come it will grow abundantly. In the meantime, each morning at 7.30am forty to fifty pheasants graze on our lawn before passing into the adjacent field, and well they are quite a sight to see! Geese fly over in the evening, making a journey to their night resting place. I've never seen them, but they are quite a thing to hear!

G and I have worked out a few domestic things, as well has making excellent progress on making our lounge the cosiest place ever, and improving the facilities in the bathroom. Our biggest victories have come in the form of food and drink. We were spoiled in Lane End with Lacey's Guernsey herd producing creamy milk just down the road. I did not think we would meet their match. But we have landed on our feet: North Aston Organic Dairy has a little herd of 12 - 17 milking cows, and we are in lactose heaven. Next door North Aston Organic Farm organise us a veg box to pick up each fortnight, full of delicious fruit and vegetables - a surprise each time - enabling us to get creative in the kitchen. Both of these local sources of sustainable food are admirable businesses and fascinating to G and I. On the alternate weeks, I am off work on the Thursday and pay a regular trip to Witney fruit and vegetable market where I happily stock up on all our needs. We have even had some amazing organic beef from the North Aston Dairy, osso buco, and little Bertie certainly did enjoy the stew we made from that!

Amidst the peace of the house, there is the chaos - boxes still packed, jobs still to do, tasks which seem overwhelmingly huge, but slow and steady wins the race! One of the jobs that is on out mind is to make the place ready for Autumn and Winter. This weekend we will sweep the barn and lime wash it, and on Tuesday we expect a delivery of two tonnes of logs (and a man to get rid of the moles). Next weekend we should build a leaf pen and compost heap (but we have an appointment with the bank manager, hey ho). In the mean time, well, tomorrow I might make Orange Cake and tea, just for the Archangels, me and the family.

The Garden Journal

Everyone says we should keep a garden journal. The purpose I suppose is to record progress, and have a record of which plants went where year on year, and how they performed. I am a prolific keeper of notes, diaries and records, and there will be, no doubt, an old fashioned hand written school notebook with spidery scrawl and pencil line drawings, but for now I thought I'd start here. With pictures. To show exactly how much imagination G and I are going to need to make this place happen.

The Kitchen Garden

The Kitchen Garden needs to evolve slowly, it will provide all our basic staples as well varieties we enjoy which are not easily obtainable. Potatoes (Cara, Wilja, Charlotte, etc); Roots (Parsnips, Carrots, Celeriac, Beetroot, Turnips); Onions (Bedfordshire! (It's where I'm from!) Pinks, White and Reds); Brassicas (the usual suspects to feed us year round); Summer Veg (peas and beans); Squashes (Pumpkins!); Salad crops;Tomatoes; Everything Else.

This should be an idyl, the perfect productive garden (Nine bean rows shall I have there...).

Herb Patch

With herbs we need all things. Herbs for cooking, herbs for healing and herbs for bathing: rosemary, thyme, sage, parsley, marjoram, angelica, fennel, sorrel, bergamot, lovage, chives, mint. You name it, it will live here.

Wild Garden

The wild garden remains a bit of a mystery. We would like to eradicate perennial weeds such as bindweed and establish native species to attract even more bees and butterflies. We will research and take advice on the best plants to flourish in this little tended 'wild' patch.Ultimately it should be largely self sustaining.

 Blind Alley 

The previous occupants had the conifers drastically cut back outside the lounge window, now the view is a brown dead mess. We hope it may green up, but in the meantime we aim to treat the weeds in this dark area,and put down a weed suppressing mat and some gravel to join our driveway and brighten up the whole damp sorry patch.

Concrete Paradise

I have visions of an eight by eight checkers board; G has visions of a greenhouse (large), with compost bins conveniently located behind. We shall see. He may win on shear practicality.

Lavender and Rosemary Borders

G brought home sixteen half-dead lavender plants from Homebase. They were free. Now they are nearly all dead. Still the precedent lives, and the front garden will be a lavender and rosemary garden. In fact, all around the house, in the borders underneath the windows there will be lavender and rosemary to waft in refreshing and soothing smells. We need to take cuttings from the Ma's.

And so endeth the tour of the work that is to do in the garden.. The visions are big, the labourers few and the work is much...,but paradise beckons. We live in eternal hope.