Enduring the season

The Barn on a cold day in December

For weeks now, the world has been unrelentingly gray.
November set a record for rainiest ever, (as if normal English rainful wasn't sufficient enough to depress me).  I feel like the cold fog has seeped into my bones and smothered everything light and lively.

So many of you write about how much you love winter -- including the pleasures of slowing down and hibernating a bit.  But I find that there are excessive seasonal demands -- except, perhaps, in the garden -- and I just don't have the energy to do it all.  I am surrounded by lists (to do, to make, to buy), but I'm feeling awfully listless.  Maybe I'm just suffering from S.A.D?

I like a lazy afternoon just as much as the next person, but I want it to feel soothing and restful -- and not just some horrible malaise.  I've been reading a lot . . . but more for escapism than for entertainment or enlightenment.  I've seen films, I've gone to parties, I've baked dozens of cookies and mailed a stack of cards, but there is something missing.  My brain feels dull.  I'm always tired, and I feel, a bit, that I'm just going through the motions this year.  Is it just me? 

So many children have been struck down by viruses and flu-type illnesses that they had to cancel the Christmas concert at my youngest daughter's school.  For the first time ever.  It's so sad for my parents, really. They are visiting from Texas, and they never get to go to the children's concerts and programs.  I was counting on the candlelight and the carols and the unchanging ceremony of it all.

Yesterday, we took advantage of the last child-free day and went to London.  I had this notion that visiting the Charles Dickens Museum might help the Christmas spirit along.  Also, the Dickens Museum is only a couple of blocks from Persephone -- one of my favorite bookstores.  Surely, the combination of the two would kindle my gone-latent enthusiasms?

48 Doughty Street

Charles Dickens wrote Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby here.

Somewhat miraculously, we were blessed by a few streaks of weak winter sunshine.  (Only an hour away, in West Berkshire, it was sleeting.)  Perhaps I would like winter if it were blue and white and crisp at the edges -- instead of gray, damp and muddy.  I suppose it is effective, though, for recreating the Victorian London atmosphere.

If you ever visit the museum in winter, make sure to dress warmly.  It was almost entirely unheated, which seemed a bit too authentic.  Anyway, I'm sure that the Dickens family made good use of the fireplaces which adorned every room.  In this century, they seem to be merely decorative.

The desk of Charles Dickens

I've been telling myself that I've been too busy to write, but reading about Dickens' work habits made me acknowledge that the problem has more to do with a lack of motivation.  Dickens was amazingly disciplined and prolific.  He wrote novels, short stories and journalism . . . not to mention keeping a daily journal and being an enthusiastic correspondent.  He managed to churn out A Christms Carol in just a couple of weeks, motivated, in this case, by the financial urgencies of his wife's fifth pregnancy.

He rarely edited his work -- or even plotted it out, to any great extent.  In the museum, you can see the original manuscripts with jotted ideas and "key points" listed.  And yet, all of those characters lived and breathed on the page.  Even without Jim Carrey's help, is there anyone who doesn't understand what it means to be a Scrooge?

One of Dickens' many writing projects was a magazine called Household Words, which ran from 1850 to 1859.  In one of the 1850 editions, Dickens wrote a piece describing a decorated Christmas tree -- as popularized by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert two years before.  This tree, in the drawing room of the house, is decorated according to that description. 

Only your imagination, though, can provide the noise of raucous singing and laughter, the smell of mulled wine and pine, and the warmth of a crackling fire.

A 19th century illustration of the Christmas feast

There were so many illustrations of plum pudding . . . it made me feel bad that we won't be having one this Christmas.  For a truly authentic touch, boil yours up in dirty linen. 

Those Victorians who didn't possess ovens big enough for turkeys could collect a cooked Christmas dinner from the local bakery.  I assume, from the illustration, that they brought in their own plates?  It's not a bad idea; especially since I'm not at all sure that my oven is big enough to hold the turkey that I ordered.

We were practically light-headed when we reached Persephone Bookstore, and discovered -- to our great delight -- that we had lucked into an Open House.  (I did wonder at the crowds in this usually calm and quiet shop.)  There was mulled wine, and a plate of clementines, and the most delicious mince pies.  I asked where they got the pies, and one of the helpers steered us toward the best ones and shared that they were from Konditor & Cook.  I fancy myself as a mince pie connoisseur, or at least an enthusiast, and these were very, very good.  (Apparently they have been named Best Mince Pie in London by The Independent.)

Sipping mulled wine, and picking out a few new books -- you get a price break if you buy three -- really did do wonders for my mood.  I felt downright Christmassy, even.

I still can't wait for the dark days to lengthen again, though.

Still-Life at Persephone Bookstore

In cold, dark places . . . I dream of spring.  (k.d. lang)

De-cluttering

For many years, our family moved house on an annual basis. Although moving is an expensive, inconvenient and often distressing experience, it does have one silver lining: it forces a person to get rid of her rubbish.

Having to pack up one’s belongings sharpens the de-cluttering claws. If you have to carry it, or pay for its transportation, treasure really does turn to trash. A certain ruthlessness comes to the fore. I know that by the third day of packing for an international move, I am wresting beloved toys out of my children’s arms (do you really need 50 stuffed animals?) and begging friends and strangers both to help themselves from my pantry.

I love fresh starts, and actually take pleasure in setting up my kitchen or neatly organizing clothing drawers when I first move into a house. However, once a household has been established, I never am in the mood for seasonal cleaning – spring, or otherwise. Thus, even though the daily house maintenance falls to me, it is usually my husband that forces anything that might be described as “a project.”

Last night he said something along the lines of “we are drowning in clutter,” and although I chose to ignore that statement at the time, I started off the day by tackling some of the more annoying and obvious piles. This will be our fourth Christmas in The Barn – a personal best for our itinerant family -- and we are going to have a big crowd. I’m going to need all of the seats at the table, which means reclaiming at least half the space from the pile of newspapers, books, magazines and mail that has taken up semi-permanent residence there.

Although I can get rid of any piece of clothing that I haven’t worn in a year or two, when it comes to the written word, I suffer from a mental delusion. Despite all experience to the contrary, I still believe that someday I’m going to have the time to read this. I’m particularly prone to saving The Guardian Review, the RHS Garden magazine, and anything that has recipes. We have a kitchen chair stacked high with my favorites, in addition to the paper purgatory on the table. (I also have a stack of Reviews in my study, which I am guiltily gazing upon even as I write this.)

This morning I started out with firm resolve, and cleared the kitchen chair in one clean stroke. Then, I made a cup of tea and proceeded to flick through the large stack before it went to the recycling bin – just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything really important or interesting, you know. After an hour, and maybe three sections of Reviews that I never read during the summer, I realized that a more mindlessly efficient process was called for. Without even let myself look at the alluring titles, I started stuffing them into bags.

At that juncture, a friend called; and with the help of this distraction, I was able to completely empty a cabinet of dozens and dozens of cooking magazines – some of which I had been hoarding since the beginning of this decade. I immediately hauled them out to the car so I wouldn’t suffer from clearing remorse – and I’m proud to say that I only retrieved three of them from their shredding fate.

Flush with this success, (although not really flushed, because our house is freezing), I tackled the worst of the bookshelves. Even after careful review, I had to conclude that 99% of my books either (1) haven’t been read or (2) might want to be read again someday. After a great deal of internal debate, and some misgivings (it has to be said), I think that I managed to bag up about 10 books to go the charity shop.

Sadly, I still haven’t made much progress with the pile on the kitchen table. I had a quick look through it, and did throw away various bits of mail, but there are still so many newspapers and magazines of recent vintage there. I can’t quite let go of my belief that I am still going to read them. Someday.

Simple Things

the view from my bedroom window

rain and more rain

The lowering gray days of November have been getting me down.

Don't you think that certain words are best suited to an English accent?  Horrid, wretched and dismal, for example.

(To be said in best Mitford tones):  The horrid weather we've been having is unrelentingly dismal . . . and it's making me feel perfectly wretched.

I thought that I was feeling too glum to rejoice in simple things, but a visit to Christina was a good restorative.

There are always some bright spots, really; even if the lamps do come on by mid-afternoon these days.

My list:

a cup of tea in bed

my winter-weight goosedown duvet

homemade minestrone soup for lunch today

tickets for Jane Campion's latest film Bright Star

half of my Christmas list, already wrapped

a new purple cashmere scarf

narcissus in a teacup

Visit Soul Aperture for more simple things to take pleasure in this November.

Snapshots of Lake Windermere

The green hills that rise above

Lake Windermere

(the largest lake in England)

are still the dominion of Beatrix Potter --

the woman who helped immortalize

a particular kind of English cosiness:

of vegetable patches and garden gates

rocking chairs by the fire

and cambric tea.

Here is the garden path

that Tom Kitten tripped down.

He, and all of the other pastel products

of Beatrix Potter's imagination,

are part of Hill Top.

The popularity of those tiny tales

gave Beatrix Potter the income

to buy a house of her own.

At the age of 41,

she was finally able to break free

of the Victorian vise

of her parents' care.

Photography isn't allowed in the dim,

interior still-life of Hilltop.

This group of Japanese tourists

wielded umbrellas, not cameras.

Hilltop is like a grown-up doll's house,

furnished for one person's taste and comfort.

It has a treasure room

and dolls who were born two centuries ago.

Completely unchanged,

it feels like a place preserved

by a sleeping beauty spell. . .

if only someone would just light the fire

and put the kettle on.

The books mirror the house:

Here is the spinning wheel,

the wooden dresser full of china,

the open fire,

the flagstone floor,

the gleaming grandfather clock

and the thick oriental carpet.

Eventually, Beatrix Potter

owned 4000 acres of land

in the Lake District.

Peter Rabbit and Jemima Puddleduck

were supplanted

by her interest in real animals,

particularly Herdwick sheep.

She left the land and the herds of sheep

to the National Trust.

Perhaps this solitary ewe,

grazing near the house,

is an heir

of one of her prize-winners.

After her father died,

Beatrix Potter bought her mother a house

in nearby Bowness.

(Today, Bowness is the home

of The World of Beatrix Potter

and a dozen sweet shops.)

Mother and daughter were separated

by Lake Windermere and the hills

that rose above it;

close, but not too close.

You can drive around the lake,

but it's faster to take the ferry

or perhaps one of these little red boats

across the water.

The fog followed us

as we walked around the lake.

Not a good day for sailing . . .

the boats looked like toys

abandoned in a bathtub.

If the day is too damp

for walking,

you can just admire the view

from the Old England Hotel.

The tea is served in silver pots,

with a salver of shortbread.

Snapshots of Grasmere

Even in August, the Lake District is smothered in clouds.

It rained; we got wet; we stopped for a nice cuppa.

I know that those beautiful green hills

draw legions of walkers

But for me, this was the quintessence

of our visit to Grasmere.

Apparently, Dorothy Wordsworth managed to spend

24 pounds on tea in one year.

The rent on Dove Cottage was only 8 pounds,

just to put it into perspective.

Sticky Toffee Pudding

is on every menu.

Do try it if you get the chance.

For such a tiny village, there is a

dense concentration of cafes and tea-shops.

There is plenty of daffodil kitsch, too.

You can try to "wander lonely as a cloud"

around Grasmere,

but I doubt you will manage it.

Dove Cottage

was once a public house.

Perhaps the conviviality lived on

in the walls and slate floor and buttery?

I wonder what Dorothy and William drank

with their many illustrious guests:

Coleridge (who lived with them, off and on)

and Walter Scott and Robert Southey

and Charles and Mary Lamb (another famous sister)

and Thomas De Quincey, the infamous opium-eater

who later took over the lease.

So much poetry in those walls,

but no desk.

William Wordsworth wrote in a cutlass chair,

so-called because you could sit in it

without removing your sword.

I'm fairly sure

despite his Revolutionary and Romantic reputation

he subscribed to the

"pen is mightier than the sword" philosophy.

Anyway, his sister tended to act

as his amanuensis.

The house was incredibly dark

with a coal-burning stove

and not much ventilation.

No wonder the Wordsworths

spent most of their time

in Nature.

Dove Cottage was "acquired for the nation" in 1890.

(Wordsworth's Lakeland.)

Such a plain gravestone for Dorothy.

Ernest de Selincourt described her literary contributions:

"probably the most remarkable and the most distinguished

of English prose writers

who never wrote a line for the general public."

Her Grasmere Journals,

just four small notebooks,

were written for William's pleasure.

Her observances inspired some of his

most memorable poems.

I tried to read The Ballad of Dorothy Wordsworth

while we were in Grasmere,

but I kept getting distracted by other things,

like The Lives of the English Rakes,

found in a bookshop in Bowness.

Gray and green

are the colours of Grasmere.

If we had stayed longer,

I might have grown a layer of moss, too.

This pond is just outside of Grasmere

in some woods familiar to William and Dorothy.

William liked to declaim as he walked,

and Dorothy collected his words like

so many drops of rain.

I tried to get Sigmund to compose some poetry

on the spot

but he declined.

He still feels bitter about studying

The Prelude when he was a schoolboy.

This is the most charming

of the many, many sheep pictures

that I felt compelled to snap.

Sheep are a common sight in the Lake District.

Although the Wordsworth industry dominates Grasmere

it isn't terribly touristy.

This circus tent was an incongruous sight.

Unsettled

Stormy weather

The weather has been extremely unsettled lately, and so have I . . .

On Monday, I was driving across the broad Oxfordshire Downs and it was like some weather god was bowling black clouds. Every time he made a strike, the car shook from the impact.

Yesterday, a friend and I made the trek to the Hampton Court Flower Show and the moody sky glowered at us all morning. Although we managed to duck into the Rose Tent for the first downpour, the second one caught us on the way out. I took this picture just minutes before the smooth surface of the water was disturbed by a million angry raindrops.

Hampton Court

The day was more silver than gold, except for these roses.

This display of Absolutely Fabulous roses

won a gold medal

It was the first time I had been to the annual show, and it was all a bit overwhelming. I think that it is probably better to go with a plan, instead of being buffeted about by the crowds. All of the serious gardeners had brought trolleys, which made the paths a strange sort of obstacle course.

That's been a bit of a theme with me, lately, as I seem to have overcrowded my schedule to the point of lunacy. Instead of relishing the long summer days, I feel like I have been running the gauntlet -- somehow worse for being largely self-imposed.

Some people like being busy, but I've realized in the last couple of years that I require a slower pace. I tried to cram in a lunch with old friends today, but I was time-crunched on both sides. I felt like a babbling, bubbling pot that was about to boil over.

We've been in England for three years now, and I wonder if I am feeling unsettled partly because we have always tended to move by the end of this cycle. My husband has a new boss, and unsurprisingly he want to re-organize. It's a story that has a predictable conclusion, even though this is still only the beginning of the a still-uncertain end.

One of our closest family friends will be moving soon. The other day, my daughter said that it feels like a wind of change is blowing through . . . which is exactly what I have been feeling, too.

Henry and his Birds

King Henry the VIII: a man who knew all about regime change.

Sweetpeas in the fruit and veg bed

At least all of this rain is good for the garden . . .

Devon when it drizzles

Into the Surf

John Brenton

June is a summer month in England, but not a holiday month. All over the country, students are hunched over their exams, grinding away at Common Entrance, GCSEs or A-levels. The beaches of Devon and Cornwall will be swamped by the end of July, but at the moment they are empty and still. The tide goes in and out, relentlessly, but the bubble and froth of boats and bathers is more intermittent -- if equally predictable.

Salcombe was almost completely deserted when we visited it at the beginning of the week. Except for a few couples with babies, and the retired set, the town was nearly empty -- and the beach entirely so. Only the presence of carpenters and white transport vans, who were updating the shops for the upcoming retail season, created any buzz.

If the weather had been glorious, I'm sure people would have emerged -- like hermit crabs from their second-home shells. But in the cold drizzle, the children had no competition for places on the pier. High tide fell during tea-time, and clad in thick plastic macs, my daughter and her friend set traps for crabs. Tempted by bacon, the greedy crustaceons practically jumped into the nets. By the end of the summer, their ranks will thin . . . but on a rainy night, they were easy pickings.

Of course, the children threw their considerable haul back into the water. They fish for sport, not food. We prefer to get our seafood from the The Winking Prawn. On sunny evenings, you can sit outside and participate in a communal barbeque. But when the weather is dull, I want to eat my pink prawns and bacon-wrapped monkfish from a more comfortable indoor spot.

No matter how delicious the food and company, there is something terribly melancholy about the beach when it is shrouded in cloud. The children, more impervious to the weather, don't mind as much. For them, the ingredients remain the same: ice cream, and lots of it; a trip to Cranch's to buy rock and clotted cream fudge; a trip on the ferry and sea tractor; and crabbing, of course.

I can't help think, though, that the sun is the crucial alchemical ingredient: its magical properties turn lead into gold.