Middle of Nowhere

Round and round the garden

2026-05-31T13:30:17.738+01:00

Back to Wildegoose Gardens, for one of the regular artist meetups which I've been part of, for over two years now. Thankfully, in a week of abnormally high temperatures, last Wednesday was a little cooler, (at 26C/78 max) and there was a decent breeze all day. We started the day in the little cabin café at the top, for coffee and catch-up, before scattering ourselves around the gardens to work.

Now we are coming out of Spring, and the first summer flowers are splashing the beds with bright colour.

Wildegoose is a modestly sized garden compared to some, but it more than makes up for it in design and planting. Winding paths lead you into secret areas, and there are several seating areas where you can have a quiet moment and take in the scenery. Brown Clee Hill is just visible in the distance, long and brooding.

It's a challenge to find just one thing to paint in this glorious exuberance; I always wander round for some time, taking it all in and soaking up the atmosphere.

Today, I needed a shady spot and found a secluded archway cut into a hedge, where I sat for the rest of the morning, doing a scribbly study of light and shade. My work is normally pretty tight and controlled, so this was playtime.

Just as it was starting to get properly hot, it was lunchtime and we began emerging from our chosen spots and headed up to the cabin, like homing birds heading for the same nesting ground. At the top of the gardens is a long, Georgian greenhouse, which still has the original heating pipes installed. However, today was not the day for a greenhouse of any size, no matter how interesting.

After we'd devoured our packed lunches, chatted and had a rest, it was back to the afternoon heat for round two. I picked the pretty little white bench under some trees, where one of my favourite views lay straight ahead.

As is the way, the afternoon flew by, and I produced another pleasing scribble.

After a final wander, it was time to re-group and share our sketchbooks - one of the best parts of the day; seeing what everyone else has created and discussing the various techniques used.

Apart from the pleasant social side of these days, I find that working loosely and from real life always teaches me something new, which I can then incorporate into my other work. I've begun painting properly again, with a view to getting things in galleries, and although my art is purely imaginative, it has to have element of realism, such as the light and shade, to make it believable.

At the moment, I'm in the middle of 'Swallow's Return'. It's at the dreaded halfway stage, where it seems that it will never be finished or look as I imagined. But like a winding garden path, which goes round and round, it will get there - in the end.

Daffodils and winding lanes

2026-04-05T17:28:00.000+01:00

It’s been a very long start to Spring, and I was keen to take advantage of what felt like the first proper day of the season. Poor No.6 has been champing at the bit to get out after his Winter rest, and together we headed off along the winding road, keeping an eye open for tractors and daffodils.

The trees were still looking grey and cold, but as we approached the village, there were plenty of nodding daffodils to remind us that the season really is finally changing. It was a fairly warm day and as we passed the church, there was a man on the edge of the graveyard (well wrapped up) practising his saxophone, gentle, mournful notes drifting over the wall.

Back in open countryside and the fields are lined with delicate blackthorn blossom, frothing the hedgerow like clustered stars against a night sky.

Despite the many weeks of rain this year - the wettest in the Midlands since records began - the fields are already vibrant and lush with new growth.

Around a corner and suddenly there, in the distance, towards Church Stretton, lie the long, low shapes of Ca’er Caradoc and the Lawley, misty blue against a clear sky.

Spinning along in the sunshine, cooled by an Easterly breeze and passing dear little cottages nestling on edge of narrow, hedge lined lanes.

And inevitably, another hill, which we took slowly with a fair amount of pedal assist from No.6’s battery.

Past the creepy pond, which is always covered in green slime and surrounded by half dead trees.

And hooray for a big downhill stretch, with little yellow celandines lining the road cheerfully and trees flushed pale green with emerging leaves.

It had been nearly seven miles and we were in sight of home - a tiny, beloved cream speck on the horizon, where in less than ten minutes I would be in the kitchen putting the kettle on and No.6 will be having his battery recharged.

My batteries needed recharging too, and happily there was some old but edible homemade cherry cake to go with my much needed cup of tea.

All kinds of blue

2026-02-20T18:31:00.001+00:00

It was below freezing when I got up early last Saturday morning at 6.30 for a hot chocolate. When I returned to bed, the sun was just rising after 7, the crows were calling and I snuggled under the duvet and blanket for an indulgent lie in. When I woke later, the back field was covered in a dusting of frost and the sun was out for the first time in what feels like forever. I had almost forgotten that the sky was blue, not a dingy, cold grey, with what has felt like unending rain.

As my long term aim is to be painting properly again, I have been sorting out my watercolour tubes, some of which I’ve had for over 30 years. I’ve been painting up new samples of what I have, so that I have a visual reference to help my poor memory. About 25 years ago, when I was painting regularly, I instinctively knew, through long practise, what to mix up for the exact colour I needed. Now I accept that I need to be able to see exactly what is in each tube. Which oddly is what made needle felting so accessible for me; I had all the wool colours to hand, in clear bags and it made it so much easier to create exactly what I had in mind. Knowing how my ADHD affects me, this makes perfect sense; if it isn’t in front of my nose, I won’t remember it.

The front room was bitterly cold, but I got the wood burner going and began a sheet of blues, to go with the greens I painted up the week before.

The morning music was provided by Midlake - one of my favourite bands, but who have been off limits for years. These two CDs were part of the musical backdrop to our move to Shropshire; Andy discovered them and we both loved them. They reminded me too vividly of that last, happier life. I have my therapist to thank for encouraging me to face things like this, and now I can dance around the room to ‘Roscoe’ with crying. Although I did cry the first time. Another thing reclaimed, and music which brings me such joy and inspiration.

One of the blues I was sampling was a generous present from a kind friend, and it’s the most expensive paint I own; Sleeping Beauty Turquoise by Daniel Smith. It actually cost more than I spend per week on food. It is made from pure pigment, from a mine in Arizona, hence the price, and is the most perfect turquoise I have ever seen.

I’d been trying (unsuccessfully) to capture this exact shade for a new hare decoration. As you can see here, in these two first drafts, it wasn’t working at all.

It’s a little like Daniel Smiths’s Cobalt Turquoise, but is just a smidgen more subdued, with an exquisite, subtle dullness. I have yearned for this colour ever since discovering its existence and I feel very lucky to own my own tube of it now.

Although the fire made the room bearable, it was still cold enough that I was chilled through by the time I’d finished. Happily, I had a pot of bean and vegetable soup ready, with a new batch of bread rolls. Time for a hot water bottle, bed, and an afternoon nap.

Cooking for the future

2026-02-03T20:02:00.001+00:00

I was glad to get this January out of the way - it was the 13th anniversary of losing Andy, and while it doesn’t hurt as it used to, I still felt lighter once the 21st was out of the way. This January was also packed with lots of work in my role as an ‘expert by experience’ trying to make up for a lack of hours in December. I’ve taken part in all day interview panels, role playing with interviewees and several Teams meetings from home, followed by the inevitable need for recovery time afterwards. With the delightful combination of ADHD and autism, I get social exhaustion very easily and my work is often intense, leaving me utterly drained. There are days where I’ve only been able to lie in bed, napping and listening to podcasts, while my ever busy brain rages that I should be doing something productive. Needle felting! Painting! Blogging! Cycling! All of it, all at once! But I can’t. I simply have to rest and recover, and be completely, blissfully alone.

Once I’d recovered from my last work session, I spent three days batch cooking for when I can’t face making a meal, or when I am in the office all day and only just have enough energy left to put something quick in the oven before crawling into bed.

I’ve never been into fast or ultra processed food; I can remember at the age of 15, spending my babysitting money at the local health food shop. I had to buy my own granary loaf there, as my foster family only ate white sliced bread and were, to say the least, suspicious and resentful that I preferred to buy my own food and be a vegetarian. As well as reading books, a special crime in itself, earning me much ridicule. Which is one of the reasons I left after my 16th birthday and had to learn to survive on my own, on next to nothing. But I am wandering off topic, and it was a very long time ago.

I only became aware of the phrase ‘cooking from scratch’ last year, and was confused, as I have always followed (another catchphrase) ‘clean eating’ by choice and to me, cooking is just - well, cooking. I have had to economise throughout my life and I can cheaply batch cook something healthy for under £3, which can be turned into several meals for the freezer. Incidentally, I have only recently discovered baking a whole tray of potatoes at once, which can then be frozen for warming through when needed - how did I not know this before? They were a godsend when the power was off a few weeks ago, and I was able to put a couple of them on the fire.

I steamed, cooked and baked, producing a large red lentil and sweet potato traybake, thickened with porridge oats and made delicious with extra veg, various seasonings and lots of garlic. Also, a pot of rich, earthy mushroom and brown lentil soup, a batch of plain bread rolls, a big bag of mirepoix, for quick soups and sauces, extra chopped celery, onions, carrots and leeks to freeze. I peeled and steamed a bag of white potatoes and used little kitchen scissors to cut a 1kg pack of cheap smoked bacon offcuts into tiny cubes, as a substitute for pancetta, for soups and risottos.

I then made a crustless quiche with a base layer of potato slices, cheese, frozen spinach, 5 eggs and various bits and bobs, and a jar of pickled carrots which are good to go in soups and salads. Finally, I made soup stock from all the vegetable peelings and gnarly bits.

I was all out of executive function by the time I was finally finished, and needed another rest day. But I was pleased to have a fully stocked freezer, for the days when I have zero energy. I live far from any shops, without a car and I don’t have the option of ‘just popping out for something’. Fun fact; I haven’t had a takeaway meal for ten years. (This last fact has amazed my colleagues at work).

February and snowdrop season should be lighter in many ways, and I aim to get a lot more of my own work done, as I plan new things for the future.

Hunkered down

2026-01-11T17:06:00.001+00:00

Shropshire unusually made the national news his week, as the Midlands took an overnight battering during Storm Goretti. Just after 10pm on Thursday night, there was a local power cut, then the snow arrived - brief but heavy, and fierce winds. The temperature has been barely above freezing for days, so I huddled under my quilt and blankets, trying to sleep and hoping to find the power back on when I surfaced in the morning.

It hadn’t. So the first thing to do was to get the fire going. The cold was a nuisance, but as I don’t have central heating I am quite used to being a little chilly. Of course, the first thing to do was to boil some water for some much needed coffee. I sacrificed a little old enamel pan to the glowing coals, deciding to worry about the soot stains later.

So with a fire going steadily and a hot drink inside me, I popped out to see how Jean and Brian-next-door were doing. They had a fire going that put my frugal effort to shame and were cheerfully getting on with things. Another neighbour called while I was there, to check in and make sure we were all ok and had the means to heat water and enough food. There aren’t many households here, so we stick together at times like this. Thankfully, phones were just about working, so many of us were chatting over WhatsApp. As far as we knew, we might not be reconnected until Saturday or even Sunday night.

I had cooked a tray of baked potatoes the night before, so I wrapped a couple in foil and left them to one side of the fire, to heat through for lunch, while I went out for a little walk and to visit another neighbour. What happiness, to return to hot potatoes, adding butter, sea salt and a little cracked black pepper for a simple feast.

Later, I unearthed a futon mattress and made up camp in front of the wood burner. My main concern was occupying myself while the light was poor and dwindling. Full of buttery potatoes, I had a nap and then spent a couple of hours working with my sketch book until late afternoon, when I could barely see. I had a couple of candles, but nothing that would give me enough light to read or work by properly. Then my phone started bleeping with jubilant messages; a nearby village had been reconnected and soon our individual households were restored, to much rejoicing and relief.

In the end I decided to stay downstairs by the fire for the night, as upstairs the cottage felt like a fridge; during the really cold weather, I leave a portable heater on in my bedroom. It’s set very low, so as not to use too much electric, but enough to take the edge off the chill. With a hot water bottle, this gets me through the winter. But I decided I would sacrifice comfort for warmth on this night. And indeed, my back was aching in the morning, after a restless sleep, on a thin mattress on top of hard quarry tiles. But oh, the pleasure in being able to boil the kettle for the all important first drink of the day, drinking it by the fire, while being watched by the robin as it peered curiously into my ramshackle home.

A town for all seasons

2025-10-23T17:20:00.008+01:00

English Bridge, seen leading out of Shrewsbury

The River Severn winds, snake-like around Shrewsbury in a large loop which almost encircles it, so that from above it has the appearance of an island. It’s easy to see how this made such a seemingly modest town so desirable in times of trouble between Wales and England over the ages.

It has been, in its time, part of Wales and then part of England. Originally, it was thought to be the capital of the Welsh kingdom of Powys, and was called Pengwern (meaning ‘hill of alders’ or ‘swamp’ in Welsh), before being annexed in the late 8th century by the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Mercia and becoming English. Situated so near to the Welsh border, it was a valuable asset to both sides, particularly when these two countries were at war in the 13th - 15th centuries. Well placed for trade, with a thriving population and large working Abbey, it had excellent defences and all round access for barges and boats.

The River Severn seen from English Bridge

Occasionally I am at work for a whole day, and as I am near one of the two major bridges which go in and out of Shrewsbury (there is one on either sides of town, the other being Welsh Bridge), I like to wander down in my lunch break to admire the river at English Bridge. (Locally it is always called ‘English Bridge’, not ‘the English Bridge’). It looks beautiful all year round, but especially when it is flowing so gently that it barely seems to move and the surface reflects a soft mirror image of the river bank.

Towards Coleham from English Bridge

On a still, autumn day in the 21st century, the town is still active and busy, but the transport is now motor vehicles and the trade is very much the same as other medium sized English towns. Although there is, thankfully, no longer a McDonald’s in the centre - you have to drive to the outskirts for that. Better still, visit one of the many independent eateries or smaller food chains, and support a local business.

Barracks Passage, leading to the Henry Tudor Inn, parts dating back to the 1420s

The other day I popped in to the town centre, to visit Music Bros. and look at the acoustic guitars; I don’t need a new guitar, and I certainly can’t afford one, but it is a very gentle and enjoyable form of window shopping. I bought a couple of new plectrums and chatted to the nice young man at the counter about thumb picks and the growing popularity for narrower guitar necks.

Returning to work, I was struck, as always by the sheer variety of old and new architecture; at head height, Shrewsbury seems to be a fairly standard commercial town. But look up, and history reveals itself in the pleasingly jumbled architecture of shop fronts and roofs.

An opticians, below a early 16th century timber framed building

Circa 16th century, originally a dwelling

Seen from Rousehill, Mardol, leading down to the other stretch of the river

Shrewsbury has nearly 800 listed buildings, 15 of which are the very highest grade 1. Despite some rather questionable developments in modern times, the core still retains the feel and appearance of a historic, Mediaeval town.

High Street, dating back to 1709, with older building parts incorporated

Costa Coffee underneath a grade 11 c1575 building (previously the Cross Keys Inn)
on the corner of Grope Lane

My walk back to the office took me through Wyle Cop, starting with this gorgeous side view of a lozenge brick and timber frame. Once a house, this structure has its origins in the late 16th century (1500s) with later additions.

You can see the old tiled roof seems to twist upwards to meet the building next to it, Shearmen’s Hall, which also has a patchwork history.

Shearman’s Hall on Milk Street was built in the 14th century, for the wool finishers of the Mediaeval and later Tudor period. Wool finishers would raise the nap (surface) of wool sheets with teasels and then trim the raised wool with large shears. Since then it has been used for various other things, culminating with a rebuild in 1891, leaving only the cellar as a last remnant of the original building.

My final stretch of the journey and leading back to English Bridge; Wyle Cop, a large jewel in the crown of Shrewsbury. It is an ancient thoroughfare lined with small half timbered shops and pubs, which is the southern entrance road into the town, as it has been for hundreds of years. This stretch of road, less than half a mile long, boasts 39 listed buildings, many of them dating from the 15th and 16th century. In keeping with the rest of Shrewsbury, it is very much alive and working, despite being steeped in so much history. It is said to be the longest stretch of independent shops and businesses in the U.K.

The ‘top of the Cop’ leading back down to English Bridge and out of town.

It’s difficult to imagine the sheer amount of conflict, politics and bloodshed this modest and picturesque town has seen over the years. A resident from the Middle Ages would be astounded to see it today, still thriving, despite financially hard times and now a popular tourist destination. The River Severn has seen it all and continues to flow 220 miles from Mid-Wales to its final destination, the Bristol Channel and eventually, to the sea and the world beyond.

(All links are non-sponsored and are provided for extra interest and potential benefit to the local businesses mentioned).

A wedding cake church and autumn showers

2025-09-19T05:49:00.000+01:00

Autumn is truly here and although the swallows are still here, happily swooping around as if they have no intention of migrating, I don’t think we’ll be getting an Indian summer. After months of near drought conditions in the Midlands, rain has returned and the countryside is green again. The September sun provides a glorious contrast to the brooding clouds that bring in short, heavy showers, making the harvested landscape gently glow pale and golden.

In need of a little outing, I cycled out to investigate a nearby parish church, following the long, hedgerow lined road which eventually leads to the village.

It’s not been on my radar for visiting, despite being close to home, as it’s mostly built in the rather grand perpendicular style of the Medieval period. I much prefer smaller, older churches, plain and humble, preferably with a fragment of surviving Anglo-Saxon stonework somewhere in the brickwork, or at the very least, something Norman (which might make me a church snob). This one has always reminded me of a lurid, over sized wedding cake.

But here we are, with No.6 propped up against the red Shropshire sandstone walls. I wasn’t able to explore inside, as there is an A4 sheet of paper pinned to the (hundreds of years old) door, declaring that entry is temporarily forbidden due to there being the dual calamities of a wasp nest and a hornet’s nest inside.

That left the surrounding graveyard to investigate and it charmed me more than I had anticipated, with a jumbled mix of stones from the relatively humble to the more ornate, overgrown with long tangles of dried summer grass and dark ivy creeping over once important names.

It would be the perfect setting for a gloomy, 1970s style children’s TV series, with a child ghost and some kind of awful, ancient secret lurking under a large, elaborately decorated tombstone.

I did have a lovely surprise though, when I spotted a mysterious gate in the back wall, with a tantalising glimpse into a formal garden. As some of you reading may know or remember, I adore topiary.

Beyond all this tangled, decaying splendour lay the immaculate grounds of the village ‘big house’. Presumably it provided a quick and private route to church services for the family once upon a time. Now it is owned by a private company offering outdoor pursuits, but the gardens are still beautifully maintained and I was able to enjoy a secret peek, enjoying the sight of immaculately sculpted trees and pristine lawns. I may have to return one day with a sketchbook.

Then a short shower began and I took refuge in the thick walled stone porch, chatting to the attendant who was greeting visitors with offers of cake and coffee.

We discussed bell ringing and wasps for some time, until someone else arrived and the rain had passed. Time for home and lunch.

I cycled home quickly, using No.6’s handy pedal assist to get me swiftly up the hills, trying to beat the next wave of showers which were moving in swiftly from Wales. Here in this backwards look, you can just see the church tower poking up with its tiny flag, nestling in the faraway green.

We got back just in time, with the first fat raindrops falling as I turned the key in the cottage door. Time for homemade red lentil soup, salty and smoky, with just a hint of warmth from a pinch of chilli flakes and a sprinkling of Worcestershire sauce.

Daisies and memories

2025-06-26T12:41:00.003+01:00

When I was a little girl growing up in Devon, the seaside souvenir shops sold pretty ceramic door plaques painted with flowers and names on them, for children’s bedrooms. Needless to say, in Devon, in the 1970’s, ‘Gretel’ was not included, to my eternal disappointment. My mother must have mentioned this to a local pottery artist, as one day this kind woman presented me with my very own personalised egg cup. Naturally I was surprised and delighted - and only slightly disappointed that she had (as was often the case) spelt my name incorrectly. But it was a lovely gesture and I still have it over fifty years later and this rare photo of my mum and I together, all the more precious as I lost her just a few years after this was taken.

Up a lace lined hill

2025-05-25T17:29:00.001+01:00

We have had such glorious weather these last few weeks that it has felt more like summer than spring. This is the time of year I love the most, when the country lanes are lined with frothy trails of Queen Anne's Lace (or Cow Parsley, to use it's more common name). In search of a view, I headed off to a hill. Because to get a magnificent view, there is always, annoyingly, a hill to be climbed.

I think the last time I attempted this mile long uphill drag was about seven years ago, on my dear old 'acoustic' bike Marjorie. I pushed her almost all the way to the top. To be fair, it is the kind of incline that only the really fit and hardened would be able to manage. This is the edge of the Shropshire Hills and very popular with serious cyclists, who seem to enjoy the endless ups and downs.

On No.6, with pedal assist of full throttle, I actually made it two thirds of the way up before dismounting. Pushing is a chore. but when the scenery is so lovely it's nice to take things slowly and drink it all in.

At the top, the views across Shropshire are simply breath taking. Below you can see across to Wales, with the Long Mynd snaking low across the horizon.

Across to the north and even further views out towards Shrewsbury and beyond that, the Cheshire Plain.

I had planned to go further this day, but I was quite hot and tired, and No.6 wasn't fully charged. We were only a few miles away from the cottage and it was past lunchtime.

The blissful reward after all the effort of getting to the top of a long hill is naturally the prospect of going down it. I think we covered a mile in about five minutes and were home in under half an hour.

There was no question that I had earned my carbs. This is a small batch bread roll loaf made with just 250g of flour. It's perfect for my needs and one quarter is more than enough for a meal.

I don't think there are many more satisfying meals when you are properly hungry - especially after exercise - than bread and cheese. Unless it's bread and cheese with piccalilli.

There are lambs, green fields and olive rolls

2025-05-02T17:43:00.000+01:00

It's hard to believe that at the start of the Easter weekend it was so chilly that I lit the fire when I was working downstairs. But that is part of the charm of a British Spring - it is by nature capricious and teasing; one day lifting your heart with a light breeze and cloudy sunshine, the next going into a cold sulk and making you wish you hadn't switched to a summer-weight duvet.

I've managed a few more excursions on No.6 - it's been so long since I was able to get out and enjoy my favourite time of year that I am drinking in the fresh greens and scatterings of tiny, demure flowers sprinkling the hedgerows. And, of course, lambs.

There have been almost no April showers though and the intense, dry heat we've had has given us hot blue skies and baked fields.

Continuing my rediscovery of baking, I attempted a batch of rustic olive rolls the other day. I haven't made bread for a long time and this dough was almost ciabatta-like with a generous amount of precious olive oil (now used only for special occasions, since the price of it has almost put it out of my reach).

I wish I'd left it in this shape and made a small loaf, as it looked perfect at this stage. But I went ahead and formed small buns, which turned out fairly well. I should have left them to prove for a little longer, but that is the fault of myself, not the recipe, which can be found here at Apron and Whisk.

There are, of course, other recipes out there, but this was the one I felt comfortable with.

I'm using my mornings to paint and am having a steep learning curve remembering everything that I've forgotten. So progress is slow, but I've almost finished 'Lucifer and the Angels', seen here in all it's very large glory.

I began sketching it out on Boxing Day and it's been a drawn out affair as I have had other things to work on. After so many years in the wilderness with anything art oriented, I think I'm back on track.

Apple cake and pear blossom

2025-04-17T17:19:00.000+01:00

Spring this year is quite spectacular and my pear tree is heavily swagged with generous sprigs of creamy blossom. It is a fleeting delight, as the little petals are already being blown adrift by the strong westerly breeze and speckling the garden like fat snowflakes.

I had a craving for a good, filling cake, the kind you need after 3pm, when lunch is a distant memory and dinner is a long way off. I had four ancient apples to use up. Wrinkled and soft (a reproachful reminder that I should have eaten them weeks ago), they were peeled, cored and sliced, loosely following this BBC Food recipe here for Dorset apple cake. The cores and peelings I put out in a quiet spot for the birds and already the blackbird has been visiting that corner.

I tweaked the recipe a little; I accidentally added an extra ounce of flour as I am using a tablespoon to measure out ingredients (my old Salter weighing scales have finally given up), I didn’t have soft brown sugar so I used castor, and I layered the slices at the bottom of the dish, Tart Tatin style, because the pattern looked so pleasing.

Then the batter was slopped all over it and more sugar sprinkled on top.

It came out far larger than I anticipated; it is a rather plain looking and stodgy ‘fill you up’ cake, which is, after all, what I wanted. I have frozen half of it, as I cannot possibly eat that much cake this week and it won’t keep as well as a fruit cake. But it does go nicely with a cup of tea.

I took a slice out with me last Sunday, when I cycled out for a quick solo sketching trip at a nearby church.

It’s taken me twelve years to feel like myself again after everything that’s happened, but this year I really think I’ve turned a corner and I’m enjoying doing the things I used to love again.

Country social

2025-04-09T12:25:00.000+01:00

Not living in a village it's quite rare to meet up with neighbours, unless it's a brief chat while out walking (which is usually quite enough for me). However, at the weekend I received an email asking if I'd like to join in with someone's surprise birthday celebrations. It was a small, spur of the moment gathering, nothing formal and just a ten minute walk away. I accepted and then panicked about what to make and take with less than 24 hours notice, as if there is one thing I learned from my mother, it was that under no circumstances do you visit someone empty handed.

Overnight I churned ideas about in my head, trying to fudge together a recipe that used ingredients I had to hand (because I'm a long way from shops) and that would be not too simple but not too complicated. In the end I decided to make little pasties filled with feta cheese, cumin baked crushed chickpeas with garlic and lemon juice and strained frozen spinach, encased in rough puff pastry with an egg wash and sprinkled with sesame seeds.

Of course this was not the uncomplicated plan I'd been aiming for and I was already exhausted from a long day of sitting in on an interview panel for my other outside work. But I rested in the morning and eventually started pastry making a few hours beforehand. At one point, I looked at the pastry and the bowl of filling and thought 'shall I just make one big pie?' Then I dismissed this very sensible idea and began cutting out dear little pastry rounds, painstakingly filling, crimping and trimming them into miniature pasties. It was worth the effort though, as they looked pleasingly like proper party food. I had just enough time to bake them, half an hour before I was due to meet up with a local friend who was going to walk with me to the party. I was only five minutes late.

Now that we are in official British Summertime, the longer evenings are a welcome break from the short, grey days of Winter. This Spring has been exceptional and so we wandered slowly down the lane, enjoying the mellowing light and long shadows.

The hedgerows are spattered with tiny floral treasures of Celandine, Primrose and Stitchwort, with the promise of tall, fronded Queen Anne's Lace to follow, later in the month.

The field across from my cottage is just coming into flower. I love the smell of rapeseed and for me it is the quintessential smell of early summer, as well as adding a cheerful splash of citrus yellow to the landscape. Not so pleasant if you suffer from hay-fever though; poor Jean-next-door is suffering already from it.

It felt strange to be out and socialising, but I knew several people there, including a couple of older women who have moved away and who had been ferried in to enjoy the meet-up. I was put in the awkward position of having to guess someone's age and tentatively suggested '80?', to be met with a rather pleased guffaw followed by 'don't be daft, I'm 90'.

It was a joyful occasion, with the birthday celebrant being suitably surprised and delighted. I was content to sit on the edge and chat to people as they came to me. I had a small glass of champagne and enjoyed being part of something nice. This being a British Spring evening, the setting of the sun was our cue to wind up the festivities and soon we were packing up, chivvied along by a cool Easterly breeze that had picked up as the light lowered. A short and tired walk home was all I needed to round off the day and return to the cottage, where my warm bed was waiting.

Shropshire lanes and Shropshire hills

2025-03-09T19:30:00.000+00:00

I’ve not been able to cycle for a few years now, due to middle-aged knees that don’t work well; the last time I tried was about three years ago and I had to give up after half a mile as it hurt too much. Buying my own e-bike is not an option as they are way beyond my means, however thanks to a new local hire scheme, I have the use of a very swish and sturdy bike for a nominal fee per month which included servicing and most repairs. And it's made such a difference to my life.

I have called him No.6, after a favourite TV series 'The Prisoner', because there are 100 of these identical bikes, and more to come, all branded and with trackers in so that usage can be charted. Something about it reminds me of The Village and the big white ball, 'Rover' which bounced and chased anyone who tried to escape. 'Be seeing you'.

My mental health, along with my other conditions, has not been good over the years, but being able to get out a couple of times a week (even if it does take me an hour to get ready and overcome my anxiety before setting off) has been amazing and transformative. Spring is slowly creeping in and the weather has been glorious, so this morning I set off for a big circular jaunt through the single track lanes that branch off the larger roads. (I realise that if you're reading this in the USA or another big country, my definition of a larger road is probably somewhat different to yours!)

The pedal assist has been a game changer and makes cycling so much easier on my knees. This is Shropshire Hill territory though and there are many ups and downs. Some of the inclines are just too steep for me, but I don't mind getting off to push, even though I was rather envious of the few 'man machines' who were powering up and past me like bionic super cyclists on non-electric machines - or 'acoustic bikes' as they are now known.

I managed nine miles today and even though my knees are very painful, it was worth it, for the freedom, fresh air and exercise. As well as the sense of achievement and improvement to my mental health.

Marjorie is having a well deserved retirement in the porch, because even if I may never ride her again, she will always be my special bike - the one that Andy bought me when my old Hercules bike was stolen and because he knew I'd never had my own new bike before. I just wish he was here to cycle with me and overtake me on the steep hills.

No place like home

2025-01-15T21:20:00.000+00:00

Just dropping in to add a bit of humanity to an internet that seems increasingly bloated with bots, false news and AI. I’m still here, in every sense of the word and hoping to be staying in my scruffy home for a little longer. My cottage isn’t the prettiest but she is much loved. She is a grand old dame of over 130 years old; we are both a bit tattered around the edges and feeling the cold.

There have been one or two changes in my life, including my finally having a diagnosis for autism, to add to my ADHD. I wasn’t surprised and I was glad to get it confirmed. Not only does it explain my many struggles throughout my life, but at last I am able to access the support I badly need. It’s been a difficult and lonely time since Andy died twelve years ago, but I feel as if I’m at last emerging from some kind of horrid coma, with at least one positive thing happening soon. So here is a big wave from me and the cottage, to all who continue to visit here. The evenings are getting lighter and there will soon be snowdrops.

Sheep and Poppies safely graze

2024-08-12T15:29:00.001+01:00

My most successful designs come when I am drifting off or doing something else, and my latest lino cut, 'Safely Graze' was scribbled out during a meeting. My ADHD means I find it hard to do many everyday things, but I find I can concentrate better on what's being said if I have a pen to doodle with on my works notepad. Thankfully I work in an enlightened and supportive environment, so I'm not only allowed to do this, but am encouraged to do so. Once I had the basic idea down, I worked it up at home into a more solid sketch and began carving it out. It's a tense time, as I fear making a wrong cut and stuffing the whole thing up.

As I was shaping the framework of the landscape, I realised it would work better with an extra tree line; the extra weight gives more balance to the weaker side of the design, where the white sheep's head is resting.

I had thought this would be a straightforward printing, as it is only one colour with the red poppies tipped in by hand. However I had to sort out a recurring slippage problem with my proof press and went down a rabbit hole renovating my old nipping press, before finding a solution which worked with the proof press...all good fun. So that took several days off my schedule. But eventually, by the end of the week, I had a run going. I've decided to keep this one as an open edition, to make it a little cheaper than my last 'Summer in the Park' print, which was an editioned run due to how darned tricky it was to get the registration right.

This one hasn't been all plain sailing, as the poppies are hand stencilled with pigment ink and I can only do a few prints at a time before my concentration slips and I start making mistakes. (I have a little cat design lined up next and it really is going to be simple and sweet!)

I have the first batch of 'Safely Graze' for sale here, in my Etsy shop; selling prints is helping me get through a difficult summer (as needle felt sales are very seasonal) so every purchase is valued and enables me to stay here a little longer.

'SAFELY GRAZE' FOR PURCHASE HERE

Fuzzy buzzard

2024-08-04T19:38:00.000+01:00

It's been some time since I posted a fuzzy picture of something. The farmer has cut the back field for silage again, which has stirred up the local bird life. I've been keeping my eye open for the hares, as happily, we have had a regular one appearing for the last few years. A month ago, Jean-and-Brian-next door saw two, dancing around together. (It's not exactly a competition, but I did hear a cuckoo in June when Jean didn't and we like to keep these things chalked up, metaphorically speaking). Anyway, I spotted a distant brown lump from the bathroom window and fetched my camera out to zoom in on it. Sadly it wasn't an elusive hare, but it was a juvenile buzzard, grazing for grubs and worms in the freshly cut grass. He/she has patchy plumage and a bright yellow bit to its beak. I'm going to stick my neck out and say it's a 'she', as it's quite chunky, but it's hard to tell the difference between the sexes at this stage. And just look at that focussed stare!

It was lovely to see and as I type, the grass has been gathered up. A carnival of swallows are dipping and swooping low, hoovering up low flying insects. Watching them from my bed provides a brief moment of escape from an unknowable future and yet again, nature comforts me.

Summer in the Park

2024-07-07T16:05:00.016+01:00

This is the photo which inspired my latest print 'Summer in the Park'. Taken in early Spring when I met some co-workers for a rather chilly 'Wellness Walk', it captures one of the long, magnificent avenues of lime trees, which are later plantings from the 1950s, replacing older trees from the early 1700s. This was instigated by the then Park Superintendent, the renowned gardener Percy Thrower, who felt the older trees to be dangerous; at the time it caused quite a controversy, but seventy years on there are still around 250 elegant mature lime trees which seem to draw people to them, like bees to flowers. I began imagining what might be happening under the trees - picnics, reading, babies in prams sleeping - and perhaps, a little dog and its human enjoying a pleasant game of ball. So I began my first doodles and scribbles. This for me is the most interesting part; tweaking the design and making tiny alterations until everything works in harmony.

Then came the lengthy process of registering the two colour blocks so that everything lined up correctly over the course of two printings per piece.

This is quite nerve wracking, especially using a premium paper and I pulled each print through the press with great care and gentleness. I eventually had a batch of over 40 good prints which just needed the final, painstaking touch; the tiny red ball which the little dog is leaping to catch. I spent an evening experimenting with various methods, trying different printing implements and techniques, but I couldn't get a consistent result and one mistake would wreck the entire print.

In the end I bought a little pigment pad and used a big type piece full stop, which did the job. Despite it's miniscule size, the ball is the focal point of the whole picture.

Earlier this year, I reprinted an old lino block from my college days over thirty years ago, 'Little Red Coat'. I've been creating these little figures since I was a teenager and it's interesting to compare what I did then to what I do now. I can pick out similar characteristics, but there is something more joyful in my new print, as opposed to the quiet solitude of the older one.

From a limited print run of 42, I have thirty 'Park' prints for sale here in my Etsy shop, and a few 'Red Coat' prints for for sale here, from a limited run of 30, as they sold very quickly. (Or click on the pictures for a direct link).

The old lino plate was pretty flattened by the time I'd finished and I won't be using it again. Now I have to do a quick tidy up and move on to the next one.

Solstice Morning

2024-06-21T18:31:00.003+01:00

The dawn view from the top field at 5am this Solstice morning. I find it hard to stay in bed when the sun is up and the birds are singing so loudly and so early. Even in the farm was quiet and for a short while, it felt as if I had the whole world to myself.

I’ve been working on a new two colour lino print, using some lovely Cranes paper which a kind blog friend from long ago sent me. I have to work slowly, as my concentration isn’t very good, so it’s taken a few weeks to get it to the final printing stage.

I’m using a lovely thick Cranes printing paper which was sent to me in 2008 by a kind blogging friend in America - I have kept this paper safe, even back when we had a chimney fire in the old cottage - hard to imagine that this photo was taken 16 years ago and how different life was then.

I managed to get 18 sheets printed and hopefully can resume tomorrow after a nights sleep.

Did you know - you can sign up as a free, non-paying member to my Patreon page, and access many posts for nothing, including this recent piece ‘Treasure in the Attic’, about how my ADHD affects my ability to do complex tasks such as printing.

Spring storm, hares and a bit of good news.

2024-05-12T19:51:00.001+01:00

As I write, there are sporadic storms passing over the cottage, driving in from nearby Herefordshire. It’s been muggy all weekend; not the overpowering heat of full summer, but a heavy, dense warmth that brings on slight headaches and sleepiness. Now the heat has been partially lifted by cool winds and intense, short downpours, and the thick grey clouds rumble and grumble with low thunder. I do love this weather - if only it could be forever May, with fickle, changing light, flurries of tiny, fresh flowers and all the greens popping with new life.

Things are, to be perfectly honest, not easy. I have no idea what the rest of this year will bring, nor if I will be here the next. I’ve somehow managed to survive eleven years in this scruffy but very dear little home, first of all not knowing if I wanted to be here after losing Andy, then not knowing if I could, as I am almost totally reliant on my Etsy sales for survival. Mostly I take a stoical viewpoint and try to ignore the things in the past that I cannot change and the future, which is largely unknowable. Not having anyone to discuss things with is so hard and I don’t have the mental resources to deal with what might happen. So, I carry on needle felting and try to drown out my subconscious fear of what may be.

I’ve just finished a marathon of making two ‘show off’ pieces, which have taken a month or so to create. Usually I try to stick to more affordable, simple things, such as this batch of carrots, in my newer, realistic style -

- and for which I made little letterpresses labels, just for extra niceness.

But sometimes I feel the need to flex myself and go large. Often I’ll make a sketch of something before I start, but these two were made up as I went along and I gradually added the little extras such as two lines of trimming to Carla’s skirt; French knots stitched with thick Perle thread. Then getting to almost the end and deciding she needed a special antique mother of pearl stud from my best button box to finish her off.

Poor Charlie was started a couple of years ago and was taking so long that I abandoned him, finding him in a plastic moth-proof bag at the bottom of a basket earlier this year. He was very grateful to be rescued and even more relieved to be given ears and arms at last. I usually can’t afford to invest so much time into bigger pieces like these, but sometimes, as I said, I like to indulge in a bit of ‘showing off’. Wonderfully, Carla has just found a new home and so tonight I will sleep a little easier before packing her off on one of the lovely new gift boxes I’ve sourced, tied with a ribbon.

Which leaves me with another piece of very good news - on the recommendation of my friend and miniaturist painter Valerie Greeley, I entered one of my imaginary toadstools, ‘Fog-in-the-Woods’ for the annual exhibition of the Royal Miniature Society, whose patron is King Charles. I almost didn’t, as it costs £18 per piece to submit, which is half of my weekly shopping budget, but I thought I’d give it a try; nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Needle felt - or needle sculpted wool, which is what it really is - is a non-traditional and fairly new media. I wasn’t optimistic that it would be considered, especially as it’s been languishing in my shop, unsold, for a few years.

However, I was thrilled to receive an email telling me that it has been chosen for pre-selection. This is the exhibition choosing stage and there is every chance it may be rejected. I don’t know if any of the selectors will have knowledge of needle felt, so it will probably be judged solely on its merits as a sculptural piece.

If it gets in, the minimum selling price is £190, which puts it up there as a serious work of art and would make a huge difference to my profile as a selling artist. However, I am keeping a firm lid on my expectations and consider it an honour to have been chosen just for consideration. But wouldn’t it be wonderful…

If you’d like to buy one of my pieces before I enter the high-rolling international art market, do pop into my Etsy shop and pick up a bargain. (Said with tongue firmly in cheek).

Coffee and sketching in Shrewsbury

2024-03-20T18:15:00.000+00:00

In a message to someone the other week, I wrote that I felt as if I was waking up from a twelve year long nightmare (or words to that effect). I am slowly coming back to some kind of version of who I was before losing Andy, not only allowing myself to do things I used to love, but also recovering the capacity to actually take pleasure in them again. Listening to beloved music that has previously been too painful to listen to, looking at favourite art books again, taking time to draw just for myself and generally doing a lot of self-care that for many years I didn't think I deserved. Living with chronically bad mental health and depression - which I've had since I was a teenager - is an insidious condition; often you don't know how bad things are until you begin to come out of it.

I made such huge strides when we lived back in the Cotswolds, in our dear, tiny rented cottage from where I wrote so many posts for this blog. I remember waking up some mornings and feeling strange (in a good way) and realising that it was because I felt truly happy and content for the first time in my life. Then Andy and I made the decision to move to Shropshire and that feeling was ripped from both of us almost from the first week of being here, with the awful knowledge that the situation was entirely self inflicted. I will never find that kind of happiness again, but I am finally finding my own peace and my work as an artist is beginning to flourish again after more than a decade's hiatus.

After my lovely time out at the Stiperstones the other week, I had another nice outing when a neighbour organised a sketching morning at the Bird's Nest Café in Shrewsbury, also driving me there and back as there is no regular bus service here. I knew nearly all of the other attending artists through Instagram and it was lovely to put faces to names and chat - mostly about art, which I've missed. I was very lazy and stayed at the table, drawing three different coloured coffee cups. Again (as with the Stiperstones lichens) I had fun just playing about with colours and mark making, without worrying too much about the result. Consequently the result is rough and ready, but fairly pleasing.

Vast landscape, tiny worlds at the Stiperstones

2024-03-02T19:00:00.011+00:00

I've been working in my new part time role with Enable Employment Services for a few months now and it's transformed my life. As an Expert by Experience (my life of dealing with depression, anxiety and 'everything else'), I contribute my pennyworth to meetings and other areas. For the first time since moving here, twelve years ago when it all went so terribly, awfully wrong, I feel I have a place and purpose in Shropshire and lovely work colleagues. I'm less isolated and it's having a positive effect on my art and mental health, neither of which have been right for all the time I've lived here.

A couple of days ago I was able to take part in a volunteering/team building day with Shropshire Wild Teams and we all headed over to the Stiperstones Nature Reserve for a tree clearing session. Enjoy this short video, taken from the cab of the minibus and accept my apologies for the wobbles and bad light; a proper video camera is still sadly a pipe dream, but you get the general sweep of the area.

The narrow roads leading up to the Stones are long and winding, gradually rising until you are many miles above sea level. There are scatterings of houses along the way - most too small to be called a village - and it is a wide, windswept landscape with views across to the Long Mynd and beyond. It was a cool, overcast day and the rain held off, though huge grey clouds marched along the skyline.

I had a bit of bother scrambling up the scrubby gorse covered slope, as my legs are quite arthritic now. But several of my younger colleagues kindly gave me a helping hand and eventually I borrowed a stout stick, which was so handy that I had become quite attached to it by the end and was sad to return it. While everyone else began chopping down the invasive young conifers that are choking up the natural habitat, I wandered slowly up the hill, marvelling at the rich flora underfoot. I had anticipated having to sit the activity out and had brought along some art materials. The surrounding landscape was majestic, however I couldn’t have done it justice. So I focussed on the wonders at my feet; the tiny worlds of lichen and mosses which were sprouting on dead wood and old stumps.

So easily overlooked and yet on closer inspection, so exquisite in their form and colour, resembling an underwater coral reef, with scuttering beetles and bugs for 'fish'.

I spent some time searching for the elusive perfect patch, eventually settling down on my blanket for a happy hour of drawing.

I had a big sketch pad with me, and rather than fiddle about with a fussy, intricate study, I swept my pastels across the page, enlarging the diminutive stalks to giant size. Chunky little Unison pastels (a gift from long ago) created the swoop and sway of the dancing stalks.

I was completely lost in my work, adding bright accents of colour, darker areas of negative space and later, thinner, more fragile suggestions of outlines with pastel pencils, another kind gift from a friend and a nice reminder of them as I worked.

I did have a ‘moment’, thinking about how Andy loved this area, in his brief time here. I had brought his Swiss Army knife with me, which I used to trim a pencil and I huddled into the waxed jacket I was wearing, which used to be his.

I was so lost in my work that I completely missed the sandwich break and didn’t eat my packed lunch until I eventually got home and then promptly fell asleep after a marvellous day out.

Turning the page on 2023

2023-12-31T19:31:00.000+00:00

Dropping in to brush the dust off my blog and wish everyone (if you’re still there) a happy and improved 2024. I had to make some changes to my lifestyle to try to manage my ADHD, jiggling things (such as my diet and eating times) around a bit, in order that I can use my energies to prioritise work. That meant resting my blog for a while, and concentrating on my Patreon page and Instagram. Hopefully now that I’m in a better routine, I can blog more regularly.

My mental health has been very bad this year, with the constant stress and the financial struggle to survive and keep the cottage going. In short, it’s been a difficult year. There will be a bit of a life change next year and having faced a lot of dragons in 2023, I’m back to painting at last. I hope this is an end to the artistic block I’ve had since moving here. As I write, there are fireworks going off far away and although I don’t celebrate New Year (for me, the year turned on the recent Winter Solstice), I am looking forward to turning the page on the old year and starting tomorrow with a new pink diary and calendar. A fresh start all round.

Field painting adventure and overcoming blocks

2023-05-27T13:04:00.005+01:00

I have started to reserve Saturdays as a day off, otherwise I'm working every day without a break, which isn't particularly good for my fragile mental health. The weather at the moment is perfectly 'May' - not too hot, with a pleasant breeze and everywhere around is bursting with greenery, blossom and bird song. I have been yearning to do some landscape sketching for ages and decided to stay close to home, because I have a certain amount of anxiety about going out. So I packed a rucksack with a stupid amount of art stuff, made up a little picnic of a cheese sandwich and a bottle of water and after a lot of deep breaths, I set off on my monumental adventure; a minute's walk down the road to the back field which my bedroom overlooks. This is my usual pleasant view, when I am working in bed (which is most days). It has the best light after midday and is comfortable.

I haven't set foot in this field in the ten years I've been here. There are two reasons for this; the first is practical. There is a designated footpath which goes across it, but it ends abruptly at the hedgerow boundary, so it's fairly useless. The second is that I've had a mental block about it, as this was the field that Andy walked across on his last, ghastly walk in the dark snowstorm, leaving only his footprints, which remained there for days. I remember kneeling at the bedroom window the next morning, watching a police dog tracking what it could find of his scent and that image will never leave me. So despite it's beauty (and since then, I do appreciate it, every day), I have had little desire to actually go into it, even for a change of scene. So this was the day and it felt momentous. The footpath is just on the edge of Jean-and-Brian-Next-Door's garden and is almost never used (for the practical reason I mentioned before). It was overgrown with lovely Queen Anne's Lace and less lovely nettles.

I scrambled over and waded through the jungle. Suddenly there I was, and what seemed like a vast expanse in front of me. The footpath leads to that gap ahead in the hedgerow. Beyond that are more fields, but technically inaccessible without extra footpath. I don't think the farmer would mind me pottering about, as we are on good terms, but I don't like going outside 'the rules', so I stuck to the route.

Happily, the area that I intended to sketch was perfectly placed for me to settle my gear and myself on the path - there is a small blossoming area of hawthorn that I wanted to capture, just beyond the oak tree on the edge of the woodlands (which belongs to another less friendly farm).

It's been years since I attempted anything like this. I did a very rough prelim sketch of the composition, which was a messy scrawl that only I could interpret.

I have no pretensions to being the next Cezanne or Paul Nash - this was really about getting out in the nice weather and doing something different. It was hard work though, even with copious amounts of pastels. I didn't create a masterpiece, nor even anything like how I emotionally 'feel' about the landscape. But I did have a marvellous two hours, sat in the sun, scribbling away in the middle of a field that I had feared entering for a decade. Now I felt safe and comfortable. I ate half a cheese sandwich and dickered about with my pastel mess until it was time to stop before I completely ruined it.

It's been long held wish of mine to be able to spend most of my time focussing on landscape art, but I'm not good enough to make it pay and I can't afford the time it would take to get to a standard I am happy with, nor the big canvases and oils I'd like to paint with. But this will do for now and more importantly, it was a break from my other work and I had fun.

The problem is an old one - back when I was doing my art training over thirty years ago, I decided to go down the path of illustration, which suited my naturally 'tight' and high definition style of working. So it's hard to break out of that habit and needs a lot of practise to get out of. However I made a small start and the colour capture wasn't too bad - I'm just not happy with the way I depicted it, because it in no way expresses the way I 'see' a landscape in my mind's eye. There's no lyrical rhythm or magic. It is what it is.

However, self criticism aside, I also enjoyed seeing our cottages for the first time from the back - Jean and Brian's larger sections on the left and my bit tacked on the right side, with the white window frames. I had the odd sensation that maybe (in some freakish quantum alternate reality kind of thing) there was simultaneously another Me in the bedroom, needle felting and gazing out of the window, while present Me looked on from the other side of the field.

That's another block overcome and for the first time in ages, I have two mini- paintings for sale, in my usual style, over in my Etsy shop. I'm hesitant about mentioning them, as my art barely sells, compared to my needle felting, but I'm going to be brave again.

This is 'Marmalade', one of my imaginary toys, which comes in a 6 x 6 inch mount but is unattached, so that it can be reframed if wished, which is available here.

And one from last year, which I've only just listed, 'Autumn Pincushion' (very unseasonal), which is also in a 6 x 6 inch mount and is available here.

Now I'm going to take the rest of the day off again, as it's Saturday, and I might sit under the willow tree in the overgrown garden and finish some Christmas ornaments so that they are ready in time for the holiday season, which will swing around all too quickly.

A Wild and Sacred Beauty

2023-05-17T21:25:00.005+01:00

I realised today that I was in danger of missing my favourite month of the year; May for me is like Christmas - I cannot wait for it to arrive, spend weeks in anticipation of it and miss it dreadfully when it is (all too quickly) over. However, I have to earn my mortgage every month and that means working (making and selling) pretty much all day and every day, with no guaranteed results. The only sure result is that I am constantly tired and anxious. So this morning, with my inner batteries feeling totally flat and my creativity at a low, I pumped dear old Marjorie's tyres up for the first time this year and we set off for a short jaunt to a tiny village across the way, turning off the main road and up into this narrow, high banked lane, which has been here for centuries.

I stopped to inspect this huge polypore fungus which has been here for a while. It is just sending out a 'baby' underneath, which feels cool and tender as opposed to the main body, which is hard and powdery. The hedge-rowed banks were sprouting ferns and all the winsome Spring flowers were speckling the greenery - Red Campion, White Stitchwort, Bluebells and Buttercups. Further up the hill and the best of all, the creamy froth of Queen Anne's Lace lining the lane all the way to my destination. This is richness. This is freedom.

All Saints Church at Berrington is small, but beautiful - and ancient. Unusually, it sits within a raised circular enclosure, leading to suggestions that there may have been an even older older scared grove here, before the first Christian church was built. The grounds certainly have a magical, secret garden atmosphere. I parked Marjorie in the foyer and went to explore.

The older, original part of the churchyard has been left to gently wild, with slim pathways cut through for access to still tended plots. There is an abundance of Hawthorn, which drips blossom laden branches and scents the air heavily.

To the side, there is a venerable yew tree guarding a small gate, with views to the surrounding countryside.

The original church is recorded in the Domesday book of 1086, however the present church was built in the 13th Century and like most British churches, has had many alterations and additions since. Inside, I was drawn like a bee to the Norman (or possibly Saxon) font, which stands upon a Roman pillar. I counted the faces carved around it, instinctively thinking that there would be seven - and so there were. There is no record of who or what the faces depict, that I can find.

I sat on a pew in the still peacefulness and had a little think and a prayer, my thoughts returning as they so often do to Andy and how he would have loved this place and the mysterious faces around the stone font.

I am only just feeling more like myself after over ten years of finding myself alone in a strange county. Time has (to some extent) healed, but there is still a deep scar.

Outside, the sun had risen high and after quietly closing the old wooden gates, I had a last look at the wild loveliness of the churchyard. Feeling much better for my adventure, I cycled home.

I am indebted to the 'Friends of Berrington Church' website for much of my information; if you'd like to read more of it's long history, do give it a visit.

(If you are one of my Patreon subscribers, there is a more in-depth account of the church interior here).

Shropshire snow

2023-03-09T18:18:00.000+00:00

I ventured out for a short walk this morning, as although the snow was falling it is due to rain later and as I write, there is a steady, wet spattering as it slowly melts and drips from the cottage roof. So off up the hill I went, with my camera.

It isn't unheard of to get snow in March but it is odd to see the cheery yellow daffodil heads bent under the weight of their new white bonnets and the surrounding farmland resembling a Christmas scene.

I only noticed the other day that the trees and hedgerows were just - barely - starting to acquire the warmer flush of colour that precedes new shoots and growth, however today they were stark silhouettes, with not a hint of Spring about them.

I walked up to my usual gate, exchanging a cheery wave and hello with a father and his two children, who were playing with a sled. There was no sign of the Wrekin, which is usually plain in sight here.

Feeling a little damp and chilled, I headed home, with the comforting sight of my little cottage waiting for me and the prospect of another day of working in the warmth of my bed.