It is a cold, damp and dark November night. The village smells of mist and woodsmoke. The woodburner has been going all day, although it doesn't make my fingers any warmer, up here in the studio. We have been given our first brace of pheasant of the season, and Andy has been in the dank, twilit yard, 'dealing' with them. Sounds of chopping and rinsing. I would have 'dealt with them' myself, but I have not stopped working at one thing or another for weeks now. I have been out of the village twice this month, each time to the woods, as posted previously. Can't remember the last time I went to any town or shops - not including the Co-op down the road. Which is almost a shop.
To anyone who has visited the Hovel and marvelled at my neat and tidy workspace, I display to the whole world, my recent shame...piles of STUFF everywhere as I combine finishing a Christmas tag order/doing an illustration for deadline which crept up on me while doing aforementioned tag order/packing up Etsy and shop orders/trying to find a spare moment to design two more Christmas cards, and update this poor little blog, the latter of which I seem to be achieving anyway. Some readers may recognise one or two things in my little heaps...
I may be surrounded by miscellaneous THINGS but many of them are things from lovely friends and everywhere I look I spot something which makes me smile (Tara and my SOSF partner...am saving your packs for the calm after the storm, I am a chronic hoarder, I'm sorry...)
My table! where did it go?
(Note to my Hallowe''een SOSF partner - see that chair in the bottom right hand corner? With the bluey picture on? Under that is my lovely lovely box, you can just see it peeking out beneathwhich I keep in sight (usually) to spur me on...)
The only peaceful area, waiting to be packed up tonight and sent down to Your Life Your Style, which opens today in Winchester - good luck to her and all who sail in her!
I will resurface later in week when things are more - manageable. And tidy. Must have some tidy. Tidy is good.
Deadline gone and buried. Hello freedom...narry a decent walk since Christmas and I was finally free to tramp the byways of our small patch of Paradise. The sky was a screaming cold blue, as if it were in competition with the Sun for brightness. It was only a small walk...up and out the village, risking life and limb on the twisty road, round which car drivers like to test their steering skills at sixty miles an hour. Then onto a quiet back lane, perfectly straight and lined at regular intervals with nice tidy trees.
From a distance it is visible for miles, instantly recognisable as looking like a child's' drawing of lollipop trees parading along the landscape. If I have had a rare trip to town, it is the first thing I look for as the homeward bus heaves itself over the brow of the steep hill before plunging back into the valley. For a few brief seconds there are the most spectacular views of the Cotswolds, panoramic in breadth and on a clear day, the Malvern Hills can be seen at the back, just creeping into visibility.
Some way down it there is a footpath leading back to the village. This was my humble goal, completing a brisk two mile walk before lunch. I found what I thought looked very much like the path, albeit without the usual signpost. I never do trust landowners to keep their public footpath signs in order, and I'm sure some of them would be greatly delighted if 'ordinary folks' stopped crossing their land, due to lack of pointers. Halfway down the track, I realised I was in the Wrong Place. The copse to my right should have been on my left, and the track seemed unused and overgrown. Turning back toward the road I remembered that some of the fields had set aside strips of winter fodder, and I had probably wandered down one of these, as there were plenty of dead seedbearing crops around, including some delightfully dessicated sunflowers. So naturally I stopped to take a few photos...
Returning to the road I spotted a sad little notice, collapsed from its stake, the plastic covered A4 sheet of paper blackened from ink runs and mud. It lay in a puddle, the message obliterated. The remains of an officious sign which ordered people not to venture into the field as it was a cover for game birds - I'd seen it last year, and the anarchist in me had instantly wanted to trespass...now I had done it inadvertently. I am generally careful to keep to paths, hoping that in the 21st century I will not be harassed by some swollen headed landlord for putting one foot wrong on their precious property.
A green Land Rover cruised slowly past and disappeared down the road. Minutes later, as I was heading towards the real footpath, it came up behind me and slowed to a halt. In the back trailer, hanging from a bar, swayed a few brace of pheasant. Naturally. Not many, but then, the season is almost over, and anything that hasn't been killed by now is canny enough to evade the guns. Inside were two tweedy gamekeepers. Wedged into the passenger seat, a jolly looking round faced chappie and at the wheel, a slab of cold humanity, Hatchet Face. He didn't even look at me. Jolly Round Face leaned over and enquired - in fairly friendly tones - if 'I knew I was walking through game fodder'. (Actually, I was walking alongside it, and there were no birds to scare anyway...being, as I said, dead or hiding). To which, being confident of my innocence, I replied 'yes I did know, and that is why I turned back', explaining briefly that I had mistaken it for the proper footpath over the way, pointing to the relevant hedge. Hatchet Face didn't blink, but Jolly Round Face seemed to accept this, and refrained from interrogating me anymore. I had a feeling that if it was down to Hatchet Face I would have found myself hanging with the birds in the back trailer, a garrote of orange bailer twine twisted round my neck. They drove off and I found the footpath, complete with helpful signpost.
It wasn't a particularly nasty confrontation, but it did niggle me. That they had been watching me. Did they see me taking photos of the sunflowers and think I was some kind of arty nut, idly dilly-dallying where I shouldn't have been? Lordy - even worse - did they see me wiping my cold wet nose on the back of my sleeve...that would have been shameful. It niggled me that they had come all the way back round with the intention of ticking me off - because if I hadn't answered so briskly and honestly, they would, I'm sure, have subjected me to a patronising lecture. Then I realised that I had probably been the most exciting thing to happen to them all day, bar blasting the bejabers out of the last pheasants in the county. And then I saw a tiny buff brown wren lacing its way through the silver grey fretwork of the bare hawthorn hedge. And a muddy black and white spaniel woffled up to say hello. And I realised I was jolly hungry, and there were more important things in life. Like tea and toast.
First, a big thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone who rallied round and ordered cards after my little winge...I was overwhelmed by your kindness, and especially from other artists who I know are in the same leaky old freelance boat as myself. Thanks to you all, I will be able to get a new range of cards printed next year, hopefully without any silly mistakes. Nelliephant arrived and I have re-ordered a couple of designs which to my utter amazement sold out. I am now re-stocked and having a final push, capturing unwary friends and villagers with the cry 'have you bought your Christmas cards yet??"
I've been bunkered down, sorting out dreary admin-thingys and sorting out the small stuff of life. Waiting, like Billy Bunter, for a mythical publishing cheque (or in his case, a postal order) which only arrived last Friday. Thankfully we were given a generous load of wood by some kindly souls, who heard we were rummaging about in the forest for wood ends. A couple of weeks ago they turned up with smiling faces and a few sackloads of logs, leaving me quite speechless and on the verge of tears at such generosity. 
After being given two brace of pheasant (shot this time, not roadkill) we were able to repay the good turn. We made them casserole ready - plucked, drawn, quartered and cleaned. Imagine us on a darkening, chilly November evening, reverting to caveman regime - Andy doing the macho, yukky business in the yard, me at the sink doing the womanly titivating and cleaning and Clover hovering in the dark, yellow owl eyes aglow, waiting for the main organs to be tossed her way, like a true cave-clan cat. So I was able to take a box of jointed pheasant and a jar of chutney to our good neighbours.
Eventually and in the nick of time, another illustration job has come in which will tide me over Christmas. Drawing is like any activity, if you don't do it for a while, you get rusty. For the last 3 weeks I have been sorting out Red Flannel Elephant amongst other things, and very little art work has been done. Getting going again, especially with a tight deadline, was like exercising lazy muscles. The first day I was in despair, convinced that I'd lost it forever. The next day I hid myself in research, always a good way to procrastinate with a clear conscience. I was getting a bit down in the dumps at my feebleness, and in the end, I bit the bullet, scribbled rubbish for a day and dragged my inner draughtsman out kicking and screaming. It's going ok so far.
My unexpected reward for perseverance was darling Andy buying me the dvd set of 'Planet Earth'. - he'd noticed my glumness and thought it would inspire me. Not having a television, we had no idea of what to expect, and I sat throught the first episode with my mouth literally open, stunned at the sheer magnificent glory of it all. I adore nature programmes, and it is the only drawback to not having a 'gogglebox' as my old dad used to call them. I am indeed inspired, and how lucky I am to have such a kind partner who notices when the grey clouds set in.
Tomorrow I am being visited by a fellow blogger, so I will have to fish out my best corduroys, brush my hair and try to remember the art of civilised conversation. We may go to the woods and there might be cake...
That's a lovely recipe, I'm going to give it a go, as pheasant is one of our big favourites.
I usually prepare mine in a bin bag, but my butcher told me that he used to go into the woods and do it, leaving the feathers and mess behind, and it was always gone in a few days!
Kim x
Brave Andy!
You don't know how useful this entry is. My first brace of this year was left on my door the other day, and I've completely forgotten what to do. I shall be following your instructions carefully!
Eww! Rather you than me ;)
I hope you kept the feathers to draw, they are so pretty.
Very helpful.
It's interesting to see how it's all done, and if one day we actually get 'presented' with a brace of pheasants I will know where to look for instruction (or I'll know where my other half should look for instructions for this part of the job ;-) )
-Gail X
Bring back the cute felted toys and beautiful pictures ;-) ... how brave you are - I've always left these kinds of things for the boys to do.
Oh my god.. those pictures are disgusting!
Poor birds.. :-(
Dear 'Anonymous' - I am assuming you are a vegetarian or vegan, or your comment would be a little hypocritical - I'm a meat eater and I take responsibility for where my meat comes from.
1) If you don't like it, you didn't have to look at it. There is a great big warning at the top of the post. No one forced you to look.
2) The birds (if you had bothered to read the actual post, instead of just reacting rather hysterically to the pictures) were discarded by the shoot they came from. I personally don't like organised shooting, but it is a fact of life round here, and these birds would have gone into a pit and been buried. At least they served some useful purpose.
3) This is my blog, and I will post whatever I like here; many people find this kind of post helpful; you don't have to read it, and if you are going to post such silly comments, I will simply delete you.
4) It is not clear whether you object to the eating of birds or the cutting up of them. I get tired of the squeamishness of people who are happy to by nicely prepared meat in the shops and then go faint when they see the reality of the source.
5) You obviously have strong views on this; if you really had the courage of your convictions, it would have been braver to leave your name, rather than cowering under the ubiquitous 'Anonymous'
I see what you mean about Anonymous. Is the problem that the birds are dead or that you're going to eat them? My birds were also leftover from the shoot and I'd rather they were eaten than discarded. And as we know the "poor birds" wouldn't in fact exist at all if they weren't bred for shooting. Actually if you want a laugh, check out this post on Musings from Stonehead: Can't you have pork without killing the pigs? Jaw hit floor.
Bravo! Everyone should know where their food comes from and how it is prepared.