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!

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.

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.

Prophetic Passing of the Years

'Prepare the way of the Lord' cried John the Baptist in the wilderness. Get ready! The time is coming! How many of us find that Christmas creeps up every year?  We do not see it coming, and no matter how early the shops play their inane choruses of 'jingle bells', we are surprised when we reach 'the weekend before Christmas'.

Yet, there is a meta narrative which is yet more hidden, which creeps more stealthily upon us. I read back the blog posts I have made in these last years. In 2012 I dreamed the crib would come to life, and magic, hopeful things might come to pass if only I had the courage to 'hold on' to the tiny forceful grip of the Christ child lying vulnerable in his straw filled crib. My treasured time then was the quiet I spent with loved ones, time when all the festivities had passed and peace been allowed to drift slowly in. 2013 brought the reflection that 'so many things last because of love': a hazelnut cradled a palm precious because love made it so, and made it something that would exist into eternity. I was making freezer meals for my parents that night, because they were under the weather. Later in the same year 'a weary world rejoiced' in the coming of Christmas. My dearest Dad was going to spent the feast in hospital, and I was going to sit with him and my Ma, crocheting a blanket. I remember doing just that. A day of talking quietly on the wards, cheering Ma and Da along as best I could. In the New Year I had the honour to get engaged to the most wonderful, amazing human being ever to have come into my life. We were married in August 2014. The following Christmas tremendous peace came with Christmas. Ma and Da came to our house, and together we celebrated a beautiful, gentle time together. I can still clearly recall Da saying, 'I'm just going to sit here and glow for a while', after he had enjoyed a hearty feast and polishing off an fairly substantial Irish Coffee.

And so, we come to 2015. The best and worst of years. Dad passed away in April, and I miss him each and every day. My son, Bertie, named Robert after his kind and gentle grandfather, was born in November. This year my husband and I have the great privilege of celebrating our first Christmas as a little family; the Christmas cards which decorate one wall are matched by the 'Baby Boy' cards which decorate another. Yet, what joy and peace fill Christmas Day this year will be tinged with the bitter sweet realization that I have loved and lost. It was my dearest wish that Da would meet my first born child.

To date, it is the second word of that realization that has dominated my thoughts. I have lost. But, Christmas, and the peace that it brings in its' quiet moments, the staring at the twinkling lights in the small hours, the visitation to the crib, the family time, the carols humming from the radio, I hope might bring to the fore the first word: I have loved.  

Grief makes you weary, it is true. But, what have I to rejoice in? A beautiful son carrying his grandfathers' name. It is the grace given to me, my husband, my brothers, sisters, mother, all relatives, to show this precious child the gift of love. The gift I learnt in the gentleness, patience, charity, joy, peace, kindness, goodness, generosity, faithfulness and modesty of my Da. So many things last because of love.

This year we will celebrate Christmas Day at our home with the parents of my husband. Bertie is their first grandchild and they delight in him. They too have suffered grief this year, mourning the passing of Peggy, my husband's maternal grandmother. Hope and comfort has also come to them in the new life love has brought.

All of this makes sense of one little line in a famous carol. Whether I think about faith, and the Christ child in the crib, or about home and my son in his cot, the secret of the season is writ clear, even, nay especially, in the mid-winter of grief:

 

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb;
If I were a wise man
I would do my part;
Yet what I can, I give Him -
Give my heart.

To briefly return to the beginning. Was I ready for any of this? Prepared? No. It snuck up on me. Just like Christmas always does.

PS: I used to write about food! I have got rather carried away here. But, if you have made it this far, you should know, I am making this for Christmas Eve. Delicious. Then we are going to Midnight Mass with Bertie. You may wish us luck now......

Veggie Feast Fasting

I have thoroughly enjoyed Lent this year. Mr Cloister and I have been spurning meat most days, and working our way through Hugh Fearnley Wittingstall's Veg Everyday and Sally Butcher's Veggistan - a vegetable lovers tour of the Middle East. We have cooked up some delicious new things; each evening is an adventure for the taste buds. The books are excellent inspiration, the first I bought in Oxfam for £5, the second was a generous gift from best friends of mine. Both are invaluable for creativity in the kitchen. I recommend seeking them out! Veggistan has a website, HFW has been around so long he is in the charity shops.

I have made up some new stuff too.

So far:

Chachouka -  a spicy North African Stew made with red peppers and tomatoes, baked eggs over the top. We had it with HFW's magic flat breads.

Cauliflower and Chickpea Curry - Sadly, this one belies the fact that HFW does not test every single one of his recipes. He adds water where it is not necessary at all! However, the concept is excellent, and made in the traditional way - frying onions and spices first, adding tomatoes and vegetables and slow cooking, is delicious.

Squash and Fennel Lasagne - HFW prepared the bechamel with celery, onion and bay - then discarded the beautiful ingredients! We cannot conscience such wastefulness! So I fried the the celery and onions with the fennel and made the bechamel with the bay.

Mushroom Stoup - Totally delicious mushroom stew made with porcini mushroom and flat field mushrooms, flavoured with dill. I hadn't had dumplings in years, and these were amazing.

Afghan Hotpot - From Veggistan this one - A lovely sweet gloopy stew to celebrate carrots and yellow split peas. We actually made it with one carrot and the parsnips from the fridge. It was great. I am reassured that you can make the same dish with pumpkin! The basic ingredients are onions, garlic, chilli, ginger, cumin, tumeric, coriander, cloves, tomato paste, tomatoes, white wine vinegar, vegetable stock, carrots and yellow spilt peas. Served with fresh flat breads.

Prawns and Parsley - Okay, I made this one up, but it turned out well. I cooked tagliatelli in a pot with half a fresh fish stock cube. Fried garlic and red chilli in olive oil and butter, added white wine, lemon juice and prawns, then basil pesto. Loads of fresh parsley at the last minute. Garnish with black pepper and parmesan.

Onion and Courgette Quiche - Again, made up. Easy really. Fry onions, and garic in butter with fresh thyme leaves. Roll out short crust pastry to fit pie dish. Whisk up 6 eggs with a splash of fresh double cream. Pour in the fried vegetable mixture to the pastry, add eggs, garnish with dried thyme, and artistic left over pastry strips. Bake for 25 mins at about 180 - 200C. I made a variation of this with leek fried in butter with thyme. I had tallegio cheese and scattered it over the top of the cooked leeks before adding the eggs. Both dishes were scrumptious.

Butternut Squash Pasta - Made up again, but it has turned into rather a favourite. Bake a butternut squash with butter and fresh thyme for 1 hour (ish). When it is cooked, fry onions, garlic,  thyme leaves and chilli in butter and olive oil. When translucent add a tablespoon or two of plain flour and a pint of vegetable stock to make a thick sauce. Peel the baked squash, chop it roughly and add to the pan. Cook paste of your choice. Add cream to the sauce if you feel. Add pasta to the sauce, stir all together, garnish with thyme, pepper and parmesan.

Black Eyed Bean and Lemon Hotpot - This was an eye opener and no mistake. Based on a blend of Greek lemon lemonato sauce and Persian casserole wizardry, Veggistan amazed me. Celery, carrots, lemon, dill, basil, tumeric, black eyed beans, potatoes - all flavour and warming, packing comfort and a punch. Life changing. Served with flatbread.

Pinto Bean Chilli and fresh Guacamole - From HFW. He did his track of wanting to add water when it is not needed agin, but was duly ignored. A delicious, flavoursome and comforting meal. Mr Cloister told me he didn't really like guacamole before we began. He loved it by the time we finished. I made that, of course, to my own, time honoured, recipe. Two avacadoes, two tomatoes, half a red onion (rest in the chilli), one garlic clove, cumin, paprika, squeeze of a lemon, salt and pepper. Mash it up a bit, Blend. Serve.

Vegetable Pastries - These were made up, but proved a good lunch too. Roasted parsnips, onions, potato. Fried onion in butter, with thyme. Mix together with cheddar. Fill puff pastry rounds and form traditional pasty shape. Bake for 25 - 30 mins. Serve with bake beans or salad.

That's the journey to date. I have chosen three new things for this week, and learning through Lent has never been more enjoyable. Fasting from meat, buying fresh vegetables from the local farm shop, not throwing anything away, and avoiding as much as possible any supermarket.

Oh! We planted the first veg in the garden too! Tom Thumb and Bingo peas, and Robin Hood broad beans. I drew a plan for our tiny little space. There is a 'walled garden' viz. 6 pots lined up on the wall in front of the fence; a 'herb garden' - pots of delicious things on old apple crates, a'hanging garden' - stuff growing from macrame pot hangers, a 'vegetable patch' - 4 broad bean plants, and about 3m of lawn, 2m of path and room for the tiniest table and chairs money can buy. It is going to be our patch of paradise.

My peace I give to you

This time last year I wrote about 'celebrating a future that had yet come to pass', it was busy time and I was running here and there, looking after my parents, travelling to see my loved one in Yorkshire, working in a busy school - but, amidst all of this, there was peace. My reflections revolved around a quote from All This Life and Heaven Too: Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark. I was rejoicing, quietly, in anticipation of a time to come..

This year I am fortunate, peace has been easy to find - not in the past, or the future - but present here and now. 

In January of 2014 Mr Cloister proposed marriage. There have been many Christmas' when he and I have been unable to be together but, this year we have been resting in each others love. And, I was grateful for it. On December 21st we made a short journey to the local village of Fingest, where, in the 12th Century Church we sang traditional carols with the congregation before retiring to the The Chequers pub for free mince pies and mulled wine. So began our first Christmas.   

Christmas Day Mass was at Stonor Park House. The chapel of Holy Trinity, Stonor, is currently being restored, but for the last few weeks Lord and Lady Camoys have been kind enough to invite the congregation into their home. I love turning into the long driveway leading to the house, there are deer in the parkland that surrounds the property, and most specially at the moment, a white hart grazes distinctively amongst the herd. Mass is celebrated in their Hall, a space large enough for 40 people to sit comfortably beside a great roaring fire. It is an historic setting for the celebration on Mass: Edmund Campion hid there, and had his printing press in the attic in 1581, from where he printed his 'Ten Reasons' why people should keep to the faith. Mass has been celebrated here every Sunday, without exception, for 800 years.In contrast to last year, instead of sitting on hospital wards with my parents, we invited them to dinner for Christmas Day. Roast Goose with damson jelly, spiced braised red cabbage, brussel sprouts and  bacon, honey roast carrots and parsnips, roast potatoes, bread sauce and lashings of gravy donned our table; Christmas pudding I prepared in October, served with brandy butter and cream; Irish Coffee; wine, sherry, brandy - all were taken and enjoyed. Red striped candles, homemade napkins, and paper crackers decorated the table. It was beautiful.

The crib took pride of place in our sitting room, two candles lit before it to show the faces of the holy family, the shepherds and their animals; the wise men travelled on the high road, on top of the bookcase. Sometime ago I wrote about a moment, kneeling next to the crib in church I had wondered, as the Christ child reached out a tiny hand, what would happen if I had the courage to hold on? Well, I have an answer now. My peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you.

This year, with a mind to pass on that peace to those I love, I got creative in the kitchen. Not, this time, to make tasty treats, but to indulge in another luxury - the hot, bubble bath! Mixing together essential oils from those herbs which had graced my wedding bouquet I made white solid bubble bath, decorated with rosemary from the garden, and lavender seeds from a hen party gift. Rosemary oil is excellent for beautiful skin, curing headaches, healing bruises, cuts and scratches; thyme oil appeases chesty coughs and helps you to breathe easy and lavender oil cleanses, eases tired muscles and restores. By crumbling a little bar of this deliciousness under hot running water a fragrant heaven in which to contemplate the season was conjured up, and a compulsory hour of solitude and heaven was prescribed. Happy Christmas to everyone!
 
7ml Rosemary Essential Oil
7ml Thyme Essential Oil
7ml Lavender Essential Oil
50ml Castor Oil
210ml Liquid Glycerin
285g Bicarbornate of Soda
210g Cream of Tartar
75g Cornflour
20g Tapioca Flour
165g Sodium Laurel Sulfoacetate
Dried Lavender Seeds
Sprigs of Fresh Rosemary
Rubber gloves 
Greaseproof paper

Pour all the liquid ingredients into a bowl and mix them carefully until they are thoroughly blended (this can take a little while). Sieve each of the dry ingredients into a large bowl, in order. End with the Sodium Laurel Sulfoacetate - this is very fine, and very light, it easily gets down your throat. I did not sieve it, but place the measured amount on top of the other dry ingredients all at once. Put on your rubber gloves, lay out a large sheet of greaseproof paper and dust it with bicarbonate of soda, as you would dust a surface if you were making a pastry. Gently mix the dry ingredients together. Make a well in the centre of the dry ingredients, and pour the liquid into the centre. Gradually, and gently bring together the dry and wet ingredients until they form a soft dough. This does take a little while, use your gloved hands to knead the dough. Turn out the dough onto the greaseproof and continue with your kneading. Use the greaseproof paper to roll the dough, as if it were sushi. Keep rolling it tighter and tighter, until you have a compact sausage shape approximately 8cms round and 40cms long. When you are happy with the shape, use a sharp knife to cut the roll into attractive slices. Place each slice on a greaseproof paper covered baking tray. Decorate each slice with dried lavender seeds and a sprig of fresh lavender. Place the tray of solid bubble bath bars into the 'hotpress' (airing cupboard) for 4 - 5 days. Once they are dry they are ready to use. Crumble them under running warm water to create a bath of fluffy bubbles. Light some candles. 

My peace I give to you. Happy Christmas!

Blackberry Picking

Late August, given heavy rain and sun 

For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. 

At first, just one, a glossy purple clot 

Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. 

You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet 

Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it 

Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust for Picking. 

Then red ones inked up and that hunger 

Sent us out with milk cans, pea tins, jam-pots 

Where briars scratched and wet grass bleached our boots. 

Round hayfields, cornfields and potato-drills 

We trekked and picked until the cans were full, 

Until the tinkling bottom had been covered

With green ones, and on top big dark blobs burned 

Like a plate of eyes. 

Our hands were peppered 

With thorn pricks, our palms sticky as Bluebeard's.

We hoarded the fresh berries in the byre. 

But when the bath was filled we found a fur, 

A rat-grey fungus, glutting on our cache. 

The juice was stinking too. Once off the bush 

The fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour. 

I always felt like crying. It wasn't fair 

That all the lovely canfuls smelt of rot. 

Each year I hoped they'd keep, knew they would not.

Be gentle when you touch bread

Be gentle, when you touch bread,
Let it not be uncared for, unwanted.
So often bread is taken for granted.
There is so much beauty in bread,
Beauty of sun and soil,
Beauty of patient toil.
Winds and rain have caressed it,
Christ often blessed it;
Be gentle when you touch bread.

Be loving when you drink wine,
So freely received and joyfully shared
in the spirit of him who cared;
Warm as a flowing river,
Shining as clear as the sun,
Deep as the soil
Of human toil,
The winds and air caressed it,
Christ often blessed it,
Be loving when you drink wine.

Attributed to David Adam, a former miner and Canon of York Minster.

Bees

Spring has sprung. My herb garden looks wild and very healthy. Everything is growing and growing so fast I can almost see it. 

I wish I had time to stop and watch it. 

I have been busy. Not, I'm so self-important and stressed out busy, but wonderfully busy. Like a bee.

That reminds me, since it is still the Easter season, of what took my attention at the Easter Vigil this year. It was the bees. 

The Deacon sings the Exultet at the beginning of the Mass. In the second half of the hymn he presents the Paschal Candle, or Easter Candle, which burns in the Church all through the Easter Season, and through the year on Solemn occasions such as Baptisms. This is what he sings. 

On this, your night of grace, O holy Father,accept this candle, a solemn offering, the work of bees and of your servants' hands, an evening sacrifice of praise, this gift from your most holy Church.  

But now we know the praises of this pillar, a flame divided but undimmed, which glowing fire ignites for God's honour, a fire into many flames divided, yet never dimmed by sharing of its light, for it is fed by melting wax, drawn out by mother bees to build a torch so precious. 

O truly blessed night, when things of heaven are wed to those of earth, and divine to the human. 

Therefore, O Lord,we pray you that this candle,hallowed to the honour of your name,may persevere undimmed,to overcome the darkness of this night. Receive it as a pleasing fragrance,and let it mingle with the lights of heaven. May this flame be found still burning by the Morning Star:the one Morning Star who never sets, Christ your Son, who, coming back from death's domain, has shed his peaceful light on humanity, and lives and reigns for ever and ever. Amen.

Although I have heard the Exultet many times, this year was the first year I have ever paid any attention to the bees. But, here they are in a starring role, honoured for their hard work and dedication in the greatest hymn of praise and thanksgiving the Church has to offer! I thought that was very cool indeed.

I am getting married this summer (*glee and joy*), and recently I was visiting my husband-to-be and his family in Yorkshire. We found a very sleepy bee sitting on the window sill. Honey was fetched and the little chap took his fill, then he was gently carried to the back door and laid down outside. It was dark and chilly, and we all waited to see what he would do. After a few moments of recollection he took off high into the air, straight up! Then, after hovering for a few seconds he flew off, hopefully to home. Maybe, when he got back, he did a special dance that said, go up the hill to that house fake a sleep and you get fed honey. Soon there will be a steady stream of bees snoozing on the windowsill. 

Bees are so little, but we cannot live without them. They dance around, barely noticed by us, but without them we would have no food, no flowers, no candles. The things of heaven are wed to those of earth, so it is an easy jump, in my thought anyway, to go from bees to the little things I cannot live without, things no one else might notice: a hug, a touch, an 'I love you'; a 'thank you', a phone call, a message, a letter; time with family, time with friends, a meal shared together. Such are the things I thought about when the Deacon sang about the honey bee at Easter. Such are the things I am still thinking about now.

A herb garden explained

I should be marking Year 7 projects. I've been meaning to do it all day, but procrastination has won again.

Yesterday I raided my Ma's garden, and adding to some herbs I had bought previously that week and some plants generously bought for me by my twin sister, Gemma, I made a herb garden. I was so happy. I only have a small pavement covered space at the back of my flat. I miss terribly my two great allotment fields in Bedfordshire. One day I am going to have an allotment again, or better still, a garden of my own. In the meantime, paradise has to spread its rays from terracotta in the yard, and it does so as if it were the sun shining after rain. Most of my 'lost time' today was time spent sitting and looking at my newly loved herbs and flowers.

Let me tell you about them. First, by the door in a macrame pot hanger I made (it keeps the '70's vibe), is trailing verbena, tumbelina and surfinia. Verbena, medievalists amongst you should know, wards off ghosts, goblins, vampires and other evils. It brings good fortune and is called the 'holy herb' for its gifts of healing, compassion, gentleness and love to the household. Tumbelina and Surfinia are both types of trailing petunias. I know of no great tales to tell of their significance, but their purples and pinks will be beautiful next to the gentle gold of the verbena flowers. Above these great specimens, also in the hanging baskets, are violas - the symbol of the ancient city of Athens and of constancy. The Romans made wine from their flowers, and later wound the blossoms into great garlands to cure hangovers, but I am not convinced that is either tasty or effective!

Next, in the pots, there are two Rosemary plants, one a bush planted into a blue strawberry planter, and the other standing tall in a terracotta urn. The flowers of the Rosemary bush were said to have been white until the Flight into Egypt, then the Blessed Virgin dried Christ's clothes upon the shrub and ever since they have been blue; or, perhaps, she cast her cloak over the bush and hid from passing Romans? Either way, Rosemary is said to ward off evil: a sprig under the bed cures bad dreams, a sprig in your bridal bouquet brings faithfulness and, a sprig on the doorstep keeps thieves at bay.

Thyme sits in the first large blue pot. It is an ancient symbol of courage and was worn sewn into the shirts of the Crusaders with this in mind. Marjoram, called 'joy of the mountains', grows next to it, a symbol of happiness in the home and life everlasting. Cats love it, and the medieval herbalists used it as a treatment against fleas. Actually, modern flea treatments use it too (not that I have a cat, or fleas!). I planted 'forgetmenots' in one of the terracotta pots that is decorated with the shell of St. James. I did this just because I am an old romantic, long more that anything to return to the Camino and hope I will never be forgotten in prayer by good old St. James. But, the forgetmenot has a history in folklore too: Somerset travellers would not leave the door without it, for it imbued them with fortitude for the road ahead.

Sage comes next with its' peculiar tale. Sage is a symbol of fertility and fecundity. It is said that where it grows daughters will be born to a family. It brings a spirit of rejuvenation and eternal youth, 'he that would live for aye, must eat sage in May'. In the pot next door Oregano lives, an ancient symbol of honour and happiness. Chives and flat leaved parsley grow in the same tall pot beyond that. Chives have a dual symbolism of dreams and practicality, the essence of their message being, 'why do you weep? Get up and live'; Parsley is another symbol of fertility, an aphrodisiac with many superstitions surrounding its' transplanting. It should only be moved on Good Friday, I read. I hope a Tuesday in Lent will do! Mint is the final herb, and according the folklore it invades every corner of household life. Where mint flourishes, so does love, health and happiness within the home. Plant it in pots though, for if it is out of control so is everything else!

There is one more pot, and in it are tiny trailing lobelia plants. Lobelia is used to 'call the butterflies', through it comes the rare, transitory beauty of the seasons. Lobelia is a symbol of 'the moment', and a call to appreciate each day as it comes, looking neither to the past nor the future.

So, there it is: my herb garden. It doesn't look much yet, but it will. And, if it reaps all the fruits of its' symbolism it will be the most amazing herb garden ever planted. I will use every herb in that garden, and will be sad when the season is over and I must let the plants sleep. In the meantime, I am going to make the most of it every day, and if that means a few hours are lost watching the plants grow, so be it.