Nativity

I went to the infants' school nativity play this week.  It was as popular as the Harrod's sale and parents were in position just as early as bargain seekers in January.By the time I arrived all the good seats had gone and the inn keeper that I had come to photograph was tucked in a corner out of my line of sight.

There is always a fair bit of drama to be seen. This year a shepherd got trampled in the on stage rush and made an exit, stage left, sobbing quietly, into the outstretched arms of a waiting teacher. Mary was far too busy sucking her thumb throughout the performance for me to be able to capture her on film,

but the donkey was delightful. I gave up any attempt to capture the kings with their camels, they were off up the school hall at a tremendous pace chasing a very lively little star. One of the camels spied his parents in the audience and did a great deal of energetic waving as he galloped past. It's not everyday that you see a waving camel.

The annual tea towel outing,

and angels that I wouldn't describe as especially angelic!

But the music was heavenly.

Thank you, I had a lovely time.

Window of opportunity

Between last weeks bitterly cold and icy weather and todays fresh fall of snow we had a small window of opportunity  in which to move the building work forward.

I became, rather belatedly, concerned that the tiled roof would be too dark for my plants so we went on a search for some double Roman reclaimed glass tiles. What a palaver - they are as rare as hens' teeth! We contacted any number of reclamation yards, they had twelve here, three there, and the price varied as much as the quantity available. Eventually we found two suppliers with a good supply and went to look at their stock. I should have taken my camera because there are always curious things to be found in these yards, along with a whole load of junk. But I was in serious bargaining mode,  cash in pocket,  stout gloves and boots on ready to pick out what we needed, so my camera was forgotten.  We selected forty tiles, filthy from years of use.

The tiles must be at least one hundred and fifty years or so old. They are filthy with the soot of industrial England, the dirt is almost etched into the glass and it is proving extremely hard work to get them clean. They are being placed in two panels to throw some extra light onto the back wall of the greenhouse section.

We bought our tiles from Frome Reclamation where we had an interesting chat with the owner. It was fascinating to hear where his supplies had come from, and to learn how far they will travel onwards from his yard. We looked at his stock of flagstones, with thoughts on what we might do once the garage block is finished. He had beautiful, and very expensive, Yorkshire stone slabs, some from the small town of Holmfirth, in the West Riding of Yorkshire, (where they filmed "Last of the Summer Wine") which were due to be shipped out to Versace in America.

Several years ago Himself layed a wooden floor in our dining room and hallway, reclaimed oak strips, two and a half inches wide. They were originally from the USA, the Harris Company, from Roanoke, Johnson City, Tenn.  It looked no better than a bundle of firewood when we bought it, but once layed, sanded and polished we were delighted with the result. Himself was rather excited that the wood might formerly have been used in some exotic bordello and went back to the reclamation firm to ask the provenance. The wood is marked with signs of its former life, cigarette burns and stains. He was told that the flooring had come from a working mans' club in the north of England. Fantasy shattered! How we laughed! 

But the snow has put a halt to building work once more; it's too cold to mix mortar for the ridge tiles. How frustrating!

Deck the halls.....

I've been out in the garden and woods to collect evergreens and berries to decorate the house. The birds have beaten me to the holly berries. Prior to the frost and snow the trees were laden,  but not any more - all eaten! There are still these small red berries left in the garden, but the blackbirds are doing their best to eat all of those as well.

The weather is cold, dank and dull but at least I can get a fork into the ground and dig up some winter vegetables. We are promised a return to arctic conditions by the end of the week, so I'm not complaining (much).

In the sitting room I have put pine cone branches along the top of the mantelpiece around four advent candles. It's quick and easy to do, the cones are frosted with resin, which is sticky, but they look and smell good.

There are small vases of berries, holly and ivy about the house, but I've still to make a kissing ball of mistletoe to hang over the kitchen door.

Maisie has taken up almost permanent residence in front of the Aga. She's a bit in the way when I'm trying to cook and she will do her best to stay by the warmth until winter is over.

Happy Christmas from Maisie and friend.

Janet, of The Gardeners Cottage,  did a posting of the very beautiful library in her town of Redlands, California. I thought that she might like to see mine! It stops right outside my gate and I can imagine staggering happily down my path in extreme old age with a pile of books . Or, I could imagine, but now it seems that the mobile library scheme is under threat and may not be in existence when I will really need it. It's a fantastic service, I shall miss it if it goes.

Sledging

The poet, Tess Kincaid, of  Life at Willow Manor has asked for a response to the  image of a her beautiful wooden sledge.  

 Magpie Tales 44.

Sledging Haiku

My childhood delight

Over the crystalized ground

Exciting as flight 

 Snow Madness

A day off school and children come,

dotted, like wasps in autumn, all about the hill.

It is still early, and breath streams from open mouths

like messages in smoke

voices ring out and people laugh and joke.

Well wrapped, high on the hillside,

 rapt attention to the run, 

all ready for the challenge, for the fun.

With wooden sledges, plastic trays,

strung out in convoys, voyaging alone,

all shapes and sizes and with one intent

to sledge the slope, to move with speed and grace,

to reach the distant hedgerow, win the race.

And, should they flounder, fall or leave the track

it doesn't matter, they will just climb back,

repeat the pattern, ride compacted paths of ice

and scream with joy and fear.

Snow madness rules the children on the hill.

When darkness falls they play there still.

Felicia sledging, Dec. 2010

My brother is three years older than me and when I was young I was allowed to go beyond the garden only if I went with him. This implies that he was responsible, but really , he was reckless.

He had a high box sledge with metal runners which he could control very well on his own, lying on his belly, but when we both sat on it the sledge was erratic and threw us off in all directions. Sometimes we lay like a sandwich on top of one another, but this usually resulted in me being left half way down the hill, covered in snow. I was always out, tagging along with him and his friends, a gang of wild boys, half exhilarated and half terrified of their antics. They had snowball fights with other, older boys and made trains of tied-together sledges which careered downhill, banging into each other, causing spectacular pile-ups. One of these resulted in my little finger being run over and  broken. I liked it best when my brother let me sit on his sledge whilst he pulled me home.

My parents had a weekend cottage and family friends would come to spend a day with us in the country. It was a great place for fun and the grown ups would play games and be just as silly as the children. My father had a long wooden table and benches made so that everyone could comfortably sit and eat together.

One winter when the snow was very thick my parents carried the table out into the back field, turned it upside down and announced that we would all sledge together! My mother sat in the front and the children and our boxer dog sat in a row behind her. My father stood behind like a bob sleigh runner and pushed on the table legs. When the table started to move the dog jumped out. I expected us all to rocket down the hill, the way that I always did with my brother, but the table just glided over the snow in a very gentle fashion and every now and then my father had to jump off and give it another push.

Sometime after that I was given a wonderful Christmas present, my own sledge. It had scarlet metal runners that swept up at the front to create a steering bar. It was light and responsive and moved like the wind. Now I was allowed out with my own friends and my sledge gave me years of fun.

The last time that I went sledging was when my daughters had a day off school due to heavy snowfall. They had a plastic tray-like sledge with side handles and we took it to the nearest steep field. The hillside was filled with people and several runs of hard, polished snow had already been established. We climbed to the top edge of the field and my girls had several speedy rides downhill.

"Have a go, Mum!" they said. "It's great!" So I got on the blue tray, confident of my sledging skills, and set off. The thing was uncontrollable. It veered  off at an angle and crossed the path of all the other downhill sledgers. I was terrified and crawled off at the bottom of the field with shaking, wobbly legs.  When I had managed to climb back up the hill I found my daughters still laughing. 

"You're a disgrace!" they told me. "You caused chaos!" I've never sledged since.

If you ask me which is my favourite sledging memory, I'll say it was when all the family sat together on the upturned table and hardly moved at all.

Ninth December

The sun has arrived to celebrate my mother's birthdate.

1912 - 2007

Frost

The snow has gone but heavy frost is still spreading a covering of white over the garden. Some pedant on the radio has said that it's not yet officially winter. Tell that to the drip on the end of my nose! So many pots of plants that would normally be safe in my greenhouse are outside in this beautiful-looking, but cruel weather. I fear for their health. I had hoped that the new greenhouse would have been finished by now and that my precious 'Maricel Neil' tea rose and other old favourites would be tucked away from the rigours of snow and ice. 

The lavender shrubs are transformed.

Wrap up well, I'm going to take you on a walk, alongside the lake, into the woods and back across the fields.

I photographed this spot just a few weeks ago when it was full of vibrant colour. Now only the oak and beech leaves offer something other than black and white.

Not a fisherman, nor anyone else, for that matter, to be seen.

Himself tests the ice.

The leaves that came down with the first blast of cold are still trapped in drifts on the ice.

This very cold weather has come so early in the year that in the woods the ground is still carpeted with quite freshly coloured autumn leaves. Normally they have been reduced to a soggy mass by autumn rain long before the frost and snow arrives.

A shooting stand, for culling deer, at the edge of the wood.

This corner of the field was planted with sweet corn for the pheasants. Now that the crop is finished there is a green drum that releases seed for the birds.

My frozen fingers

in all the whitened landscape

fumble to record.

Garage Report.                   

                                                     

The garage doors are in place but all the building work has now stopped because of the extreme weather.

Janet of Gardener's Cottage thinks that it is looking like fairyland around here. At the weekend when the temperature lifted for a while a great arc of water spewed out of a burst pipe, now exposed to the elements in my no-longer greenhouse. Luckily, our friendly local plumber was prepared to come out on his day off and sort out the trouble. I'm sure that such things never happen in fairyland!