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Summer, such as it has been, seems to have flown by. Now the tractors are up and down the lane from dawn till dark, carrying loads of straw and potatoes. Already the fields are being prepared for next year's harvest.
We cycled out spontaneously one morning, when the sun made a joyful appearance, and headed over to Venus Pool to see what was going on in the bird community.
Quite a lot, as it happened. We settled in one of the waterside hides.
The geese were gathering in numbers - flocks of them have been flying over the cottage regularly, heralding the end of summer with their haunting cries. There were the usual Canadian Geese and a crowd of Grey Geese. Keeping their distance, faraway, were three pairs of Cormorants. A dignified Grey Heron mingled in a rather aloof fashion.
I told Joe how Andy always referred to these birds as 'grey greasy fishermen', from the way they seem to slink and slide as they are hunting or flying.
There was one unexpected visitor, a Little White Egret.
Such a pretty thing, delicately picking its way past the waddling, guzzling geese.
It's on the amber list of birds, so this was a good 'spot'.
We headed over to the little woodland hide, where numerous bird feeders attract the smaller birds. Nothing unusual here (though I did once watch a rat squabbling with a pair of ducks). The birds do very well here, with plenty of peanuts provided for the Great Tits and suchlike.
One last glance at Venus Pool, with the Wrekin looming in the background, before heading home to beat the incoming rain.
Autumn is definitely on its way.
Joe spotted an old wasp nest in a muddy bank - I have to admit I walked right past it, thinking it was a disintegrating plastic bag. Exquisite constructions; delicate paper palaces which will gradually dissipate over the season, leaving nothing but a few tiny, desiccated corpses.
We picked blackberries on the way home; our summer has been somewhat mixed and fruit in general is not great this year.
But we foraged enough for a crumble.
True to form, the British summer closed in and as we arrived home, the rain was tumbling in from Wales. This was the view from the garden...before taking cover.
After a good morning of wandering, and with calories to replace, there was home made trifle for lunch. This baby had my own lemon drizzle cake lining the bottom - which gives it a nice zingy cut though the sweetness of cream, jelly and custard. And, of course, hundreds and thousands.
Out with Marjorie the other week, pootling to the Post Office which is two miles away. On the way back, I spotted a notice pinned to a gate post and, as one does, stopped to investigate.
However, it wasn't a planning application for a new housing estate (although that is in the pipeline for this area). It was a Thomas Hardy poem. Rather random, but lovely.
The Walk
You did not walk with me
Of late to the hill-top tree
By the gated ways,
As in earlier days;
You were weak and lame,
So you never came,
And I went alone, and I did not mind,
Not thinking of you as left behind.
I walked up there to-day
Just in the former way;
Surveyed around
The familiar ground
By myself again:
What difference, then?
Only that underlying sense
Of the look of a room on returning thence.
Pondering this and wondering 'who, what why and when?', I cycled on. And came then stopped.
Another country poem, pinned to another gatepost, with the brooding Wrekin just showing in the background.
A sonnet, by John Clare.
A Spring Morning
THE Spring comes in with all her hues and smells,
In freshness breathing over hills and dells;
O’er woods where May her gorgeous drapery flings,
And meads washed fragrant by their laughing springs.
Fresh are new opened flowers, untouched and free
From the bold rifling of the amorous bee.
The happy time ofsinging birds is come,
And Love’s lone pilgrimage now finds a home;
Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove,
And the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love.
The foxes play around their dens, and bark
In joy’s excess, ’mid woodland shadows dark.
The flowers join lips below; the leaves above;
And every sound that meets the ear is Love.
Really hoping for good weather so that I can reach Sheriffhales. I love these small craft fairs where I can talk to readers over a cup of tea or coffee. I do hope it will be well attended, and that the weather is kind as I used to teach in this area and might meet old friends. It will be the first book signing of the year, it is a pity that due to my husband’s illness I have not managed to complete River Dark, but hope to have this sequel ready in the Spring.
Looking forward to a warm, cosy time.
(Had to re-publish this in order to restore the blog!)
By: Carole Anne Carr,
on 1/13/2015
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River Dark - Chapter One - A Terrible Enemy
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| Copy of 18th century painting, help by Ironbridge Museum |
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If I’d known I would be hunted down like a criminal, I would have turned away from Atterley Hall the moment I heard that horrible screaming. But this was the first day of my new life, I wasn’t going to give up now, and as the wintery sunlight broke through the early mist over the parkland, I took a deep breath, charged through the archway into the stable yard, and saw a huge black stallion rearing up, thrashing the air with his hooves.
Shrieking with anger, the horse began a furious dance. Swinging his body from side to side, he tried to shake off a small, grizzled haired man who clung grimly to the leading rein, his riding boots sliding on the damp cobbles. But he was no match for the angry beast, despite his square, heavy body and big fists, and unable to control the stallion, he punched the animal’s neck, making the creature wilder than ever.
Now bellowing in anger, the horse gave a violent twist of his spine, flung the terrified groom into the air, and I watched in horror as he landed cobbles on the cobbles with a sickening thud. With a furious prancing motion, the stallion clattered the cobbles and reared again. He was about to bring his enormous weight crashing down on his tormentor, and I frantically waved my arms and shouted, ‘Thunder, don’t!’
Since getting out and about, I have found a new, nearby refuge. Venus Pool is a 20 minute cycle away, a bird watching reserve with hides dotted about and rich in all kinds of wildlife. It is here that I go when I need that 'thing' which I can only get from tramping about in the green.
There is a new area of woodland opened up - it has been well over a year since I was in woods and I had almost forgotten how deeply they touch me. These woods are cultivated; a far cry from my old woods in the Cotswolds, which nursed remnants of the ancient Wychwoods in their heart. These are more Rivendell that Mirkwood, but to a thirsty soul they were bliss.
Returning, down a long, straight track leading towards an oak tree.
Buttercup fields glisten in the sun.
There are blowsy, overladen hawthorn trees lifted straight from a Samuel Palmer painting.
There are strategically placed seats, just where you want them. With views.
Naturally, the Wrekin overlooks it all. It is never far from the background.
On the way home, I see the potato crops are starting to show through.
It's taken me a long time to get my lovely push bike (Marjorie) out and about. The day Andy surprised me with her was one of the happiest days of my life, to know that he loved me so much - as I loved him.
Since he died, even though she is my only form of transport - and the nearest shop being two miles away - I haven't been able to face riding her, a unbearable reminder of what precious thing I have lost.
But this spring I felt able to get her out of the shed and dust her off. Brian-next-door pumped her tyres up for me and we have been having little adventures, finally exploring the gorgeous landscape around us.
We're never far from a view of the Shropshire Hills.
We even found an egg honesty box a few miles away. It's hard sometimes, to allow myself to enjoy all of this, knowing that Andy never got the chance to see that we made the right choice after all. How he would have loved it.
Shropshire is proving to be more uppy and downy than the Cotswolds, but Marjorie and I are learning to tackle the hills.
It's nice to see my little cottage with its cream chimney stack, nestling in the landscape as we return home.
A much needed mini-mini-break in
Ludlow, arguably the food capital of the UK. We love Ludlow. We always buy a good wodge of local bacon and sausages from our favourite butcher. As always, it was rammed with customers; there is only a small shop space inside, so buying is a bit of a 'shouting your order over the tops of someone else's head' affair.
Ludlow is a pleasing architectural medley, not too regimented, not too eccentric. Everywhere there is something interesting or quaint to admire, Georgian and Mediaeval styles nestling happily with Victorian and Tudor.
And you can usually glimpse the generous green hills of the surrounding Shropshire countryside from some peep hole.
Tempting alleyways and narrow streets that follow the original Mediaeval layout of the town.
It was pleasantly odd wandering around this time, realising that we only live on the other side of the county and this time would not be making the journey back to the Cotswolds.
The basket weaver who always seems to be on the same market corner, no matter what day we visit.
The penny whistler who has been on this corner every time we've visited was also in his usual place. He's definitely improved over the last two years.
Buying some local cheese for a picnic later on.
And some naughty
Chelsea buns for breakfast - as we are on holiday.
Eaten soon after, overlooking an appetising view of lovely Ludlow.
Shall we forget about the stress and headaches of house buying? Shall we post off the last deadline and get out for some sun and air? Let's go over to one of the famous Shropshire Hills and climb up into the blue.
Up
Caer Caradoc, which we see on our drives out and about. From the ascent we can see towards it's smooth sloped sister, the Lawley and beyond towards Shrewsbury.
After three weeks of stuffing inside trying to meet deadlines, my calves were screaming by the time we got to the top. Oh look, there's another bit to it...
So I found a sheltered spot to flop down in and gave Andy the camera, so that he could show me what it was like from the top. There is the Lawley again, but smaller and my favourite hill,
the Wrekin - a distant blue lump in the background.
Sitting in the sun, listening to the wind riffle the grasses, the faint bleating of sheep and the sharp swish of air as swallows dive low over the hillside. Finding the tiny things in a landscape of huge things. Dozing off.
Hey, wait for me Andy!
Wait for meeee!
Last Saturday I bought the novel ‘Canada’ by Richard Ford. I’d seen the book around, read a couple of reviews, happened to be going to Canada myself in the autumn – a country I’d never visited and knew nothing about – and thought I’d give it a go.
There’s something, isn’t there, about discovering a new author, especially one for the ‘Favourites’ list. People talk about remembering where they were when Kennedy died, or men landed on the moon or the first airplane ploughed into the twin towers. But it’s the first time I realized a particular book or author was wonderful that I remember.
Like A. A. Milne, at the age of nine, and Alan Garner’s ‘Weirdstone’ scaring me senseless. Then Tolkien, read beneath the bedcovers at night, and Emily Bronte [who I’d have given anything to be, in order to have written ‘Wuthering Heights’].
Then, later, there was Graham Greene, whose writing seemed so effortless, followed by Ella Maillart, crossing China with Peter Fleming, brother [of sorts] of James Bond. Then, in no particular order, Annie Dillard, Flannery O’Connor, Ray Carver, Marilyn Robinson, Richard McFarlane, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and on and on until only last month I read my first short story by the American writer, Linda McCulloch Moore, and got so excited because it was good.
Electric. That’s what these moments of discovery are. And it’s not only [in fact rarely] the sorts of books and authors making media waves that have this effect on me. It’s the ones I stumble across all by myself, blundering from book to book in pursuit of something precious and mysterious, which is impossible to explain.
Having said all that, it’s not authors I want to write about this month. It’s not even Richard Ford or his novel ‘Canada’. It’s Canada itself.
The country, I mean.
A week after we dumped a van load of letterpress gear and furniture
in our friend's barn, they returned to help us move the bulk of our things over to our new - and temporary - home a few counties away. That morning we found a mysterious bag of cheese scones on the doorstop and I nearly wept, thinking of the good friends we were leaving behind. Getting the garden dug over and pots ready was also hard, remembering the many happy summer harvests we'd enjoyed there. But not so sorry to leave behind the barking dog next door.
My poor studio - look away now, if you are ever contemplating moving your creative space after ten years. It hurts. Did you know that book cases whimper softly as they are emptied?
24 Comments on Taking possession, last added: 7/10/2012
Oh little cottage. I knew as soon as I stepped over your threshold ten years ago, that you were far too small for us. Two tall people - one exceptionally tall - and all my *stuff*. But I fell in love with your 240 year old stone flagged floor, your vintage cast iron woodburner (which has caused more than one chimney fire), your characterful beams. Who knew that we would mould ourselves so snugly into you and fit even more *stuff* into your many corners and up the walls?
Looking back as I pack up my thousands of beloved books, I find it incredible that we've managed to live in such cramped - if picturesque - conditions for so long. There is no way of stretching or moving with ease, no comfortable head height. Indeed, there is an ancient original beam (I think it basically holds you together), which has knocked poor Andy's head many a time.
Not forgetting the time I fell down your quaintly narrow, winding stairs and almost broke my neck one Christmas Eve.
My book collection seems to have mysteriously doubled in size. Ten years of
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Fab snaps Gretel. I lived in Ludlow for a year as a newly qualified nurse in the dim and distance past and have very happy memories of back then. :-)
Hugs,
A x
So lovely to visit a town I haven't seen in more than 40 years.Thank you for the gorgeous photos.
I was at school in Malvern and really miss that part of the world.
Greetings from much too hot New York!
I can feel the atmosphere of this town - cosy, calm and somehow friendly. To meet the same people at the same places where you have seen them last - isn't this exciting! I like especially the narrow streets looking to the green countryside...
I hope you and Andy are feeling better and better at your new place, Gretel! xx
It is years since I visited Ludlow. Thank you for a walk around this lovely old town. That cheese stall looks very inviting!
Ludlow is lovely. And I fell in love with Chelsea Buns when I was in England. Actually I really like all the pastries I ate there.
Sigh. I also love the bacon and cheese baps I had in London.
Gretel...can you believe that we are already in September? Shocking!
Ludlow is a place that I have never visited but have read about for years. I can see why you and Andy would like having it handy.
There is a street not far from where I work called Ludlow Street. A song writer/singer called Garland Jeffreys once wrote a song about it, called Ghost Writer. Do you know that tune?
It offers nothing as beautiful as the views in your post. Still your post brought it to my mind.
xo
Chelsea buns look remarkably like what Americans call cinnamon rolls. Mmm.
What a lovely place! And glad to know you're now close enough to make a visit there relatively easily.
We love Ludlow too but we don't get there very often these days although it's not that far from here (Malvern). Nice to see it looking busy and reassuringly the same.
I had a lovely stop at Ludlow on my moped tour of England back in my teens; bought Evelyn Waugh's 'Decline and Fall' in the bookshop, and slept under a hawthorn bush on a pile of bracken, on a hill looking across the river to the town below. What made the night especially memorable was the cockchafer beetles that fell out of the tree during the night and tried to take off, and got caught up in my bedding. Beetle armageddon it was in the morning.... still, happy days, eh?
...away on a train there. Thank you!
Now I know what is meant by the term The Malvern Hills. How amazing they are. good place to walk off all the cheese I know I'd eat! How could anyone resist?
xx
julie
How wonderful that now you will be taking us on magical ours of Shropshire - I'm really looking orward to all the things that will pique your interest! Thanks for the mini-tours!!
Lovely you could get away for a break Gretel.....great pics.
Every which way you turn there's different architecture
to be admired, what an interesting place.
It's great to see a basket weaver in business and keeping those skills alive.
Claire x
so glad you are enjoying some sights and sounds of your new area.... and at least don't have to drive many miles to get home now...what a treat....
Not somewhere I know, so very interesting to share your visit.
Okay, so I'm wondering if EVERYWHERE you go is lovely?? Seriously. It's like a storybook with those photos!!!
Gees, I'm living in Ugly Town.
What an unspoilt little town - lovely.
Hello, ....emh, I' m italian, my english is really scolastic, but I hope that you can understand me.
I have read many part of your blog, and I think that you are a really fun artist, very ironic, I love yours drawings and yours toys.
I live between Pompei and Ercolano, and I have recently bought a home on the mountain for make a b&b, and I restructuring this for artists.
I wish to you an happy week, kisses Elena
Your post made me smile from ear to ear because we live in Ludlow! There's nothing like a nice warm Chelsea bun from DeGreys on a chilly morning :-)