Annual Outing - Part II

Midday came and went as we wended our way through the countryside, passed the crane’s lake, some barrows that could have housed trolls and wights, but didn’t.  Just as well really as they make a terrible mess.  In the middle of rolling countryside was a house, a soldier’s humble house, painted red and lonely on the side of the mountain.  It was surrounded by landscaped gardens and enormous barn and extensions housing a theatre, museum, baked goods shop and several banqueting halls.   I do believe that there was also a family house somewhere there as well.  We sat down and looked at each other, then at the hair of the hostess and sat in rapt admiration of the colour and set, which combined with the heels and organisational skills was absolutely awesome. Jet black beehive flick – fabulous.  It just set us up for lunch of salads and mixed fish gratin.  And then.....

Another groups of mostly women came in, some bearing knitting needles.  Well! Sorry, but there’s only room for one handcraft group in this hall.  There was muttering, there was murmuring, there was rummaging in bags. I was just about to whip out my 0.15 crochet hook when proof came that there was a God of peace.  Lo, a family group came in with the teenage daughter wearing a waistcoat of such 1970’s crochet spectacularness that we all laid down our needles in homage.  Oh, it was lurid, it was clashing and masterly in its execution.  We had our cake and left in silence, musing on the way that life could have gone.

So we rolled on.

I was convinced that this would now be our last stop. After all, how much more excitement could a body take? We turned up at a such cute house with a huge, huge extension.  It was the home of an artist with an extremely long suffering wife.  He collects. Everything. I mean, everything. He’d also just bought up an old grocery shop – everything in the shop, everything! It was fascinating how much stuff could be fitted into one extension, and as he was a TV personality too, E had arranged for him to speak to us as a special treat.  Little did I know what horrors awaited.  We went into a room as requested and stood waiting for him. I knew something was amiss when he positioned himself in a chair in the doorway. My gaze gradually took in the contents of the shelves around the room, my eyes grew wider and wilder. The chap himself then took my gaze. Yes, there were the sandals; and the socks; and the jumper; and the beard and........ the accordion.  I was in a room with millions of accordions and someone was about to play! Now I know why he sat in the door, it was to cut off our escape route – Arghhhhhh. 

As he played and anecdoted, my horrified gaze rested on the rest of the audience, but there was no rest to be had.  They were smiling, and nodding to the ‘music’. He was a master of the instrument, but we all know what price there is to pay for such a thing.

I applauded with the rest of the poor lost souls, just because it was damn good manners to do so, then escaped past the watercolours  and tottered into the sunshine to be revived by the sight of a chestnut horse being ridden under the wild cherry trees with marshmarigolds lining the  green lane.

Off we rolled down a little valley, with the cutest houses complete with sheep and random hanging fox corpses. We stopped for coffee when the valley broadened out into the graves.  There were literally millennia of them.  Thousands from various stages of history, it was so the place to be buried. Unless you were modern and died either in the last few hundred years or are intending to die. Why it’s gone out of fashion after thousands of years is beyond my understanding. I blame the young people of today, no sense of history, humph.

And on we rolled!  Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a woman in a little town who decided to collect embroidered wall hangings. Absolutely everyone in the entire country had at least one and of course, there were popular motifs and verses.  It was absolutely the best when something original come up.  Folk art at its best in my opinion.  Then someone made the mistake of asking the person in charge of the exhibition questions.  Once again I was left reflecting on the graciousness, manners and kindness of these sewing women. The teenager ‘in charge’ didn’t have a clue about anything, personally I doubt she would have been able to give her full name, and I would have ripped her to shreds, but everyone listened to her read (badly) the sheet she found in a drawer and thanked her for her time.  I am sooooo bad and she is now no doubt a better person.

After all the excitements  and as it was getting really quite late (translation for Londoners – late afternoon), we agreed that it was now time to wend our way homewards, replete with cheeses, cakes and coffee, images of cherries and primroses.  And I won a breadbasket in the bus ticket lottery. Result. Roll on next year!

Musings

How is it possible to go for a nap with a cold on Monday and get up on Thursday feeling that you've gone through a mangle?

How is it possible that in 3 days, the weeds grow at least 10m, whilst the other plants just die a bit more?

How can the ironing pile grow without having done any washing?

Where do dust bunnies come from? 

Is summer over yet?

just liked this.

Annual Outing - Part I

Goodness, when the Bet Sewing Mafia do their annual outing, they don’t cut corners or do anything by halves.  It’s such good value for money that this account has to be cut in two or it’ll be an epic saga in it’s own right. 

Part I

It was a cold and gray day in mid May. My loins were girded, my faithful enchanted travel bag (Cath Kidson carrier) held firmly in one hand, emptied of all but cash and a few useful items, axe, dragon eggs and so on.  And so I waited at 8 of the clock at the gate of entry to the forest.  The intrepid E, he of the uber-Swedeness, was driving our plucky, yet strangely comfortable for a saga, carriage which in the dim light was seen to be packed with sewing heroines from all necks of the local woods.  Naught but the dauntless leaders knew where we were going (and E of course), so the excitement and ferment were fermenting.

Dauntless we rallied forth to the first adventure, which was a dairy outside Fälkoping.  Twas the stuff trendy London dreams were made of, peradventure the weather was pants.  The rain slew near, the wind howled about the heads of the Valkyries as they gathered sedately under the apple trees.  There was no gainsaying the cheese sampling and and our souls were purchased as we recklessly streamed to the shop and were enchanted into having seconds. 

Forthwith, the gallant E braved the highways and byways, strewn with wild cherries, cowslips and ostrich homesteads. (yeah, ostrichs! And!!) and henceforth the bold Valkyries entered the Alphem Aboretum. After slaying the dragons at the entrance, we had coffee and cake as our just reward.  Mead, though the stuff of legends, is filled with devilish poison and saps the strength of the brave, so is not to be borne by the true warrior. (they’re like teetotal, whatever, dude).  And so, after gazing with raptness at the beauty created from the blasted heath (and the like, totally cute small house thing), we pondered the lesson that although you can teach yourself to read and drag yourself up from a backwoods small holding to be one of the world’s experts in tree growing, you too will die. That and when on an adventure, t’is best to have warm and sturdy foot coverings.

And so the noon sun rolled out and twas with upfilled hearts that the valiant band wended its way towards the midday meal and our next battle...... to be continued...

Settling down??

What a month!  I'm so sorry for having been away, but we've moved.  Internet is non-existent at our new place, so we've had to come up to the summerhouse to get connected.  how many hours do you spend on the internet? Well.... !!! no wonder I never get anything done.
Yes we've moved, Graham has made the decision and I've gone "errhh, yes, OK".  There's nothing like a firm decision to bring on homesickness.  Probably the sensory overload of all this nature as well.  You don't get anything like that in London!  We've moved to a little hamlet and have a 5 room house that you have to duck through the doorways.  It's hired, but the rent isn't that much.  Graham has sheds and a workshop, so is  a happy bunny.
He's started work again after the accident and is just finishing his first week of 2hrs/day. He'll be half time next week.
Next step - find a job for me.  The good news is that I really want one now.  The bad news is that there is a lots of reporting of joblessness etc - It's the 80s all over again!  I really am starting a new life, albeit with suspicious echoing of the past...

Peaceful Days, Restful nights

When one takes a year off, one thinks that all hassle and rush will be over.  Life will consist of swanning around with cocktails and long walks in the forest, preferable also with cocktails. Pah, and again I say, pah! After 7 months of recovering from the NHS, gazing at the walls and gibbering ,with occasional long walks on a therapeutic basis, one returns to normal energy levels, looks around at said walls and thinks, hum, they need redecoration, and that curtain isn’t straight and I’d quite like to get out now please.

Of course, what we’ve done in the last few days would have been the work of but a few hours back in the old days, but, in mitigation, we are slightly out of practice.

Last week, I got a nasty, but short lived virus, so after being sofa bound (back to the ole comforting walls) for a few days, we went to my grandmother’s on Friday afternoon and met up with my uncle and his family including a dog and a four year old.  After a few hours of that we went to help out at a local youth group.  I’ve never played on one of those dance mat things before.  Apart from the “I’ve so got to have one of these” factor, they are jolly tiring.  I randomly threw my feet around more or less willy-nilly and quite, quite astoundingly, they landed on some of the circles at the right time!  Amazing what they will come up with nowadays... Perhaps they should market a Tant Dance.  Ooh how will that translate? let’s see...... Mad Aunt Dance!  The Youth (we have youth here, not yut) were pleased to inform me that my pigtails were hyper fashionable and not too young for me – RESULT!

 After several hours of hangin’ (oh it took me back!) we all trooped upstairs for a gig with a chap playing a guitar and his dad talking about Forgotten Children. At 11pm we trooped downstairs again.  I thought that everyone here went to bed at 9.30!!  What happens? Does everyone suddenly get a sensiblesness transplant when they reach 21? There’s probably some sort of government department with regulations and own bureaucracy.

AND THEN the next day we trotted off to view a house, went to the local market for plants and got some tickets for a concert that evening!  What??? What were we doing?? Still he did very well for a white boy from Norway singing jazz soul.  In fact, the bass player was almost as good as Ben Reed, but not quite, obviously! And it was the first time I’d danced since coming here (yesterday could not be described as dancing, I’ll have you know).  Just as well I’ve reached the age where I don’t care what I look like; such a relief.

The Sunday service next day made me wonder how such a musical people can come up with and stay with such crap for their worship songs. So that was something to talk about with God as I sat on the sofa and downed tonnes of painkillers for the muscle induced headache (too much flinging, it would seem).

And as a grand finale, we had the Beth Sewing Mafia with Added Grandmother around here on Monday evening.  So that entailed a complete redecoration of the house and relandscaping whilst cooking a pavlova and slicing fruit, veg, meat, cheese, bread, random cats and anything else that strayed across the worksurface.  (the cat won’t do that again!).

I tell you, when I got my glasses muddled up and downed a pint of wine as I sat and breathed again, I said Never Again...... quothe the raven...........

The Perfect Home...?

We’ve been here 7 months now and I’m quite sure that I’m not yet a captain of industry because of the inordinate amount of time that housework seems to take up.  There’s the sweeping, rug shaking, dusting, composting, washing sinking as well as hovering and scrubbing.  I’m sure I never did this much in London, well, I didn’t cos I had a cleaner. But it took me about 25 years to realise that the skies would not fall in, volcanoes wouldn’t explode in the street and the entire Western civilisation would not collapse in a smouldering ruin if I didn’t wash the bathroom at least 3 times a week.  This is because ‘doing housework’ is genetically programmed into Swedes and the houses are generally immaculate and incredibly neat, if a little, errh, frou-frou (depending on the class).  Back in the 50s, my mother was learning how to clean a house properly, in sixth form college, in between her astrophysics and eugenic gene manipulation classes.  (Incidentally, if you do a lot of housework properly, quantum does begin to make sense).

The average Swedish woman (ASW) would love Martha Stewart’s website, if they could get over the complete insulting patronising implications of the word “homemaker”. Most houses I’ve been in in London would be used as a practice house for the ASW as a ‘before’ example.  They are what my grandmother’s was like when she couldn’t see and had her heart complaint.  My house is cleaner than most in London, but I feel hopelessly inadequate here.

I can’t help but feel that this obsession with ‘house-work’ is self-inflicted by women. When they weren’t allowed to work, the state of the home was the only way they had to display their marvellousness, together with handiwork and cooking.  My grandmother tells of a woman who was forgiven for only shaking her rugs once a week because her lace was so wonderful.  Forgiven? Forgiven by whom?  It was the women of course, who bought into the myth given them by men that it was the only thing they could do and so had to do it incredibly well to justify their existence.  Implied in this myth is that the family or the Man needs to have the house ‘looking good’.  Pah!  The average man wouldn’t know if something hadn’t been dusted for a day or a year.  And what of today, where we do have other things to do, like full time employment?  It comes down, of course, to doing what is comfortable for yourself, which also means not noticing what others do in their homes (oooh not so much fun there!). 

Here, I keep the dust bunnies from getting above adolescence and shake the rugs a couple of times a week, but I haven’t yet got back into the once a week major clean, which includes the attic or the twice a year wall washing etc or the daily dust.  So I have been corrupted by the UK, where the standards of housework are, quite frankly, slovenly, but there is so much more interesting stuff to do than dusting!

Just don’t get me started on the word “House wife”....