tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86226301276540343642024-03-13T13:22:53.491+00:00NotebookChristina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-26811811314898219842017-02-12T07:57:00.003+00:002017-02-12T08:40:04.935+00:00A tranquil Sunday morning by candlelight, musing on Dodie Smith's <i>I Capture the Castle</i> for my new book <i>The Home as Hero</i>, a series of vignettes about houses that are central to novels. It'll be chronological, and I've only done Otranto, Mansfield Park and Waverley so far, so I should be studying Emily Brontë's Gondal writings and her father's novels, but I felt like a bit of light relief.<br />
Interesting that Dodie was in Los Angeles when she wrote ICTC, such a vein of nostalgia. I must revisit Alexandra Harris's wonderful <i>The Romantic Moderns </i>to get context.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Betsy and Baby Susan making bread</td></tr>
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Nature of domesticity high on my agenda as I compare my now ordered house with the delightful revisiting of family life that I've had since October: youngest daughter Susie, husband Joe, Lenny (5) and Betsy (3) have been living here for three months or so while their house is extended. Also perhaps a flash to the future, if I end up in a granny annexe...<br />
It is a marvellous and unusual recreation of the extended family to have three of my four daughters a few minutes away - Tilly and her family are renting at the top of Cumnor Hill at the moment, but they'd like to settle nearby. But also great to have Daisy and her family in a glorious clifftop dwelling just west of Falmouth. We've booked a cottage on a creek of the Helford River at Porth Navas for a month in May; will hopefully take the Mirror dinghy down and get Fox and Woody sailing.<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7prtyvHoLtw/WKAbKs_vT-I/AAAAAAAAAjk/X4cYE15IPv8ojqaGS0xDFwbjU7FSbzOkwCLcB/s1600/IMG_0048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a>I've now sold my beloved British Moth dinghy <i>Gipsy,</i> which feels the end of an era, although the new owner has gallantly said I can sail her whenever I want to. But <i>Dulcibella</i>, now hooded against the weather in Oxford Cruisers' boatyard, has become my favourite way of being on the river. She is of course to the river what I called our motor caravan in <i>The Canary-Coloured Cart</i> a 'travelling cottage approach to the unknown', but what's not to like about having room for a picnic hamper, a choice of books, and cushions and rugs to snuggle into?<br />
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On posting this. I realise what a long time it's been since I posted anything. 2016 was a wonderful year, not least because I celebrated my 70th birthday, first with the family in January and again with a garden party in July, which was a terrific gathering of friends and family, blessed with a fine day. Here's some photos:<br />
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<i><br /></i>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-37086426755744474492016-09-22T20:06:00.003+01:002016-09-22T20:06:50.763+01:00To Kelmscott and Back<br />
<br />Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-37144797608966903122015-11-18T20:50:00.002+00:002015-12-31T07:29:27.864+00:00November update<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H9pGwziPm4M/VkyPsIySdrI/AAAAAAAAAdo/o4aTn59-oAQ/s1600/IMG_4660.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H9pGwziPm4M/VkyPsIySdrI/AAAAAAAAAdo/o4aTn59-oAQ/s320/IMG_4660.jpg" width="240" /></a>Gales in the wake of Storm Barney are lashing the frighteningly lofty four-trunked eucalyptus tree that is the tutelary deity of Nutwood. No Howard's End style pig's teeth in its trunk, but my little domain would be the poorer without it. I remember standing under it at a garden party years before I moved here; the son of the house told me that it had been cut down to the ground in 1986, but had sprouted four branches. It's braced at two points to prevent any one trunk crashing down. Cross fingers.<br />
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The long garage behind the beech hedge<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The rose garden and a shaggy mock-orange veil my<br /> work hut from the garden house</td></tr>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mh_uFPUS95c/VkyPeenuHiI/AAAAAAAAAdc/Hn9AdUgf5kI/s1600/IMG_4662%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mh_uFPUS95c/VkyPeenuHiI/AAAAAAAAAdc/Hn9AdUgf5kI/s320/IMG_4662%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="240" /></a>has been rebuilt as a black-elmboard-clad annexe; a granny-pod one day perhaps, but for now rented to a cheerful and active young couple who spend a lot of time on outdoor adventures. The garden is as jungly as ever, but it's been a wonderful autumn for lasting - roses and nasturtiums and a very late flowering canna still making a brave show. But hard frosts forecast for the weekend, so the party's almost over. I'm spending early mornings on the Alyce project in my little garden study, then after taking Leo for a walk and having breakfast switching to the library to work on my latest project, a book about fictional homes which amount to characters - Howard's End, Mandelay, Wuthering Heights, Bleak House, Poynton, House of Seven Gables, and so on. The difficulty will be circumscribing the subject's boundaries, but at the moment I'm having fun researching. Off regularly now to the peace of the Taylorian Library's classic cube, to read books there. One's own home is so distracting.<br />
I've just finished checking the proofs of <i>Writing the Thames</i>, which is set fair to becoming my best book ever. I know the world and his wife will come up with things I have left out, but I have certainly got a lot in. Here's my favourite picture, George Dunlop Leslie lounging against his punt pole with a group of artist and writer friends near Henley [copyright reserved, so please don't pinch it]:<br />
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The Bodleian Library, who are publishing it in March 2016 have been incredibly generous with pictures, and I'm looking forward to talking about the book at the next Oxford Literary Festival.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tIA3EuK9YU4/Vky2_dYTBxI/AAAAAAAAAec/oP9lt3GYYDY/s1600/IMG_3493.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tIA3EuK9YU4/Vky2_dYTBxI/AAAAAAAAAec/oP9lt3GYYDY/s200/IMG_3493.jpg" width="200" /></a>The third of my anthologies for the British Library comes out in February 2016; rather good to have two books being published the year I reach three score years and ten. I'm enjoyed senior status at the minute - not too many of the frailties to come, and a new confidence in the way I live my life.<br />
So to a whistle stop summary of the year as preserved in photos -<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uXMRVt55tLU/Vky3CZGXyDI/AAAAAAAAAe4/kvrAcOfBfgo/s1600/IMG_3580.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-uXMRVt55tLU/Vky3CZGXyDI/AAAAAAAAAe4/kvrAcOfBfgo/s200/IMG_3580.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XRX3RwR_CSU/Vky2-ha64sI/AAAAAAAAAeU/mT5R2cAg2EM/s1600/IMG_3499.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XRX3RwR_CSU/Vky2-ha64sI/AAAAAAAAAeU/mT5R2cAg2EM/s320/IMG_3499.jpg" width="320" /></a> The first few months were devoted to racing for book deadlines and recover from a kidney stone; in May I took Ben and Meg to Osterley Park, where they dangled for the willows while Tilly was giving birth to Wilfred Timothy Eiliv, named for his Irish grandfather and Norwegian great-grandfather.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qCBBirOO6Wo/Vky3AzcRKcI/AAAAAAAAAes/0Gud-FrT_Bk/s1600/IMG_3543.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qCBBirOO6Wo/Vky3AzcRKcI/AAAAAAAAAes/0Gud-FrT_Bk/s320/IMG_3543.jpg" width="320" /></a>On a later visit to Oxford, Ben and Meg had a ride in a 1920s Trojan car owned by David Hambledon, who has a large fleet of Trojan vehicles, ranging from bubble cars and motor bikes to delivery vans, lorries and even a tractor. We met because David has an obsession not only with Trojans, but with establishing which Trojan it was that Arthur Ransome drove. Only two very murky and ancient photographs of AR's car remain, and even mega-enlarged, the number is not clear.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6OFuYPvo9Rc/VkzMA5a8Z_I/AAAAAAAAAfk/EH2pACF6Ve8/s1600/IMG_3677.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6OFuYPvo9Rc/VkzMA5a8Z_I/AAAAAAAAAfk/EH2pACF6Ve8/s320/IMG_3677.jpg" width="240" /></a>John Eade, author of the excellent Thames lore website thames.me.uk, brought his own camping punt to Oxford for a week so that we could explore the city's waterways. We took turns to punt from Bablockhythe through Eynsham, King's, and locks and past Port Meadow [noting the hideous warts of the new student blocks that now ruin the famous vista of the city from the north. We left the the main river downstream of Osney lock, and ducked and wove along the very narrow stream that behind the industrial estate, after a mile or so taking the left fork. This led us, bent treble at times, to The Fishes at North Hinksey, but as the river was low we couldn't continue past it and under the Botley Road beside The George [now Richer Sounds]. Nor could we follow another fork that must once have taken boats all the way to South Hinksey. But we did manage to turn left along the Bullstrake stream, go under the Botley road and down the left hand side of the new Waitrose, and fork left behind it to reach the Binsey Lane Bridge, where a low weir and a fallen willow blocked the river. On the way back, we turned right, and had a long and lovely punt northwards through utterly peaceful waters, thick with water lilies over which brilliant blue and green dragon-flies hovered.<br />
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We passed Binsey Church on our right, and if it hadn't been for a fallen willow, we could have punted under the A34 and reached Wytham, though the stream was rather fast after we reached the left fork that would take a canoe back to the Botley Road, The George and The Fishes. We'd seen the start of this stream tumbling down a two foot weir on our way from Eynsham Lock to King's Lock. It is I believe the relic of a medieval cut that gave water-borne pilgrims a direct route to the famous Holy Well at Binsey Church, whether they were approaching from the north or the south. WE returned via Osney to Port Meadow, and John moored for the night beside The Perch.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-suheYodNWh4/VkzMAU_P9DI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/hPK6O8UKerw/s1600/IMG_3777.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-suheYodNWh4/VkzMAU_P9DI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/hPK6O8UKerw/s200/IMG_3777.jpg" width="200" /></a>Next day we explored the Oxford Canal, lunching well at the Anchor in Aristotle Lane, but came back to find a sneak their had stolen John's camping stove. We went on as far as the Duke's Cut [scene of a murder in Colin Dexter's <i>The Wench is Dead</i>], then rejoined the Thames above King's lock, and returned via Godstow to Port Meadow. I liked this splendid quote from Herman Melville's <i>The Temeraire</i>, wittily inscribed on one of a series of exceptionally battered live-aboard hulks.<br />
John explored the Cherwell on the third day of one of the sunniest weeks of the summer; Leo and I met him for lunch at the Victoria Arms to hear about his adventures without us. Many years ago, when I kept Dulcibella at St Catherine's College, my then husband Tom and I reached Islip in her.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5kYw_RAtg5k/VkzMBpOwpSI/AAAAAAAAAfg/OBFW_ixidH8/s1600/IMG_3823.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5kYw_RAtg5k/VkzMBpOwpSI/AAAAAAAAAfg/OBFW_ixidH8/s200/IMG_3823.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-96pjYDIfIIc/VkzMAr89IvI/AAAAAAAAAfU/0GPqOt5ukp4/s1600/IMG_3820.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-96pjYDIfIIc/VkzMAr89IvI/AAAAAAAAAfU/0GPqOt5ukp4/s200/IMG_3820.jpg" width="200" /></a>In June, the makers of the new film of <i>Swallows and Amazons</i> invited myself and the other executors of the Arthur Ransome Literary Estate to watch filming at Coniston and on Derwentwater. Captain Flint's houseboat seemed a little small, especially with a huge film crew aboard, but her rakish and artistically fatigued appearance were just right for Captain Flint's floating writing retreat. The dinghies were perfect, and we were pleased to see that no life-jackets were worn on camera - although they were snappily pulled on over the heads of the feisty young cast as soon as they were off camera. The film should reach the big screen next summer. It'll be interesting to see how it compares with the charming, but now dated, 1970s film made by Richard Pilbrow.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The author, son-in-law Joe, Sam, Olivia and Lenny</td></tr>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fuuwf0kf3Bc/Vky3CCmAdFI/AAAAAAAAAfI/geB6DshcJ18/s1600/IMG_3550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Fuuwf0kf3Bc/Vky3CCmAdFI/AAAAAAAAAfI/geB6DshcJ18/s320/IMG_3550.jpg" width="320" /></a>The great local discovery of the summer was Hitchcopse Pit, between Cothill and Frilford, once a shallow quarry, now a miniature paradise perfect for adventurous children's games, even if the little lake is too small for boats. It's now regular Leo-walking territory, and on a fine weekend when grandchildren are visiting we often take a picnic tea there. The sand is as fine as you find on a beach, and the cliffs full of enticing caves and rocks stacked like a giant's stair-case. The woods through which you reach it are full of bluebells in early summer. The nature reserve spreads out in all directions; further east there is another even smaller former quarry full of sand-martins nests and exposed levels of geological strata. I'm fascinated by geology, but find it hard to get my aged brain to retain which layer of what came when.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Readying the Zephyr</td></tr>
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In July I went to stay with Gillian Crampton Smith and Phil Tabor in Venice again, this time to go to the Feast of the Redeemer, once scene of the legendary bridge of gondolas. As they have a traditional boat, we were allowed to moor in front of the ranks of spectators who lined the banks of the Guidecca. It was indeed spectacular, with fireworks fired it seemed straight at us rather than over us from the opposite bank for so long that I began to wonder if this was a little like what being in the trenches must have been like. Next day we realised the boat and our clothes were thickly covered with cinders...<br />
But once is enough. Venice is far too hot in July, and there was no wind for sailing. though I tried my hand at stand up rowing. Still, much useful progress on the Thames book in my delightful air-conditioned little room in their apartment, with. as evening approached, heavenly cooking scents coming from the kitchen and the tinkle of ice entering a Campari soda!<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K47FWR_t9Ks/VkzhXzkbw8I/AAAAAAAAAgk/eGgomBVFicU/s1600/IMG_3957.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K47FWR_t9Ks/VkzhXzkbw8I/AAAAAAAAAgk/eGgomBVFicU/s320/IMG_3957.jpg" width="240" /></a>It's been a good year for the garden. Luke and I maneuvred the long neglected stone sink that came with us from Chalfont Road in front of the Columbian Printing Press's old inking table, which I brought back from Brecon, where the press was once stored, and made this attractive display under the quince tree that is now thriving in front of the house. A bumper crop this year. Sunflowers were my other triumph [ it will be evident that I am a very amateur gardener indeed].<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4eO-v5TD-b4/Vky2_FkFvSI/AAAAAAAAAeg/5OO9gHyYwYM/s1600/IMG_3515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4eO-v5TD-b4/Vky2_FkFvSI/AAAAAAAAAeg/5OO9gHyYwYM/s200/IMG_3515.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JbMd6CTWefE/VkzjYF1O8zI/AAAAAAAAAg4/b3wnVHV_m6Y/s1600/IMG_4021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JbMd6CTWefE/VkzjYF1O8zI/AAAAAAAAAg4/b3wnVHV_m6Y/s200/IMG_4021.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hYP3MRg3hfs/VkzheRKseKI/AAAAAAAAAgs/GI2QOZQfVp0/s1600/IMG_3993.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hYP3MRg3hfs/VkzheRKseKI/AAAAAAAAAgs/GI2QOZQfVp0/s200/IMG_3993.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="text-align: center;">In August, I noticed that a rhino had been born at the Cotswold Wild Life Park - a surprise, apparently, and amazingly the second this year. Olivia and I went to see him frolicking about in a hilariously thuddy sort of way. He is the third baby to join the crash, which is apparently the rather appropriate collective noun for a herd of rhinos. </span><span style="text-align: center;">Also adorable were a litter of otter kittens racing around their stream, bullying each other and snuggling together turn and turn about.</span><br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KLcjjNXgAys/VkzhPAByqpI/AAAAAAAAAgc/uYZYAcccENk/s1600/IMG_3913.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="192" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KLcjjNXgAys/VkzhPAByqpI/AAAAAAAAAgc/uYZYAcccENk/s320/IMG_3913.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="text-align: center;">Another success was a visit to the Millett's Farm Falconry Centre, which boasts over 80 birds of prey, including eagles and owls, which are so tame that they are let loose to fly in daily demonstrations. You can also be photographed with one on your wrist.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: start;">Fox achieved remarkable lift-off</span></td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: center;">September saw us all assembled at a wonderful shabby chic mini-mansion just south of </span>Bristol for Daisy's 40th birthday bash. Its huge garden, trampoline and most of all swimming pool meant that there was non-stop action for young and old alike<br />
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At the end of September I decided to revisit Pier Cottage, on Mull, where I had stayed Ruari and Antonia McLean many times in the early 1990s. After Antonia died, and Ruari moved away, I stopped going, but last year's trip to Lewis had whetted my appetite for the Western Isles - so too had the move there of an Oxford friend Browsing the holiday cottages, I came across the Library at CArsaig, and immediately recognised it for the one-time home of Ruari's superb collection of Victorian colour illustrations and fine printing of all kinds. They of course have all been sold, but the Library now boasts comfortable sofas and armchairs, a splendid central wood-burning stove and a spacious deck that juts out over rocks where you are more likely than not to see otters disporting themselves and, on the outer skerries, dozing seals. First I visited Graeme on Luing (pop. c.170), one of the legendary Slate Islands just south of Oban, which were hacked into weird shapes to provide roofing slates for the world for three centuries, exporting eight million a year in their heyday. Now they can boast the world stone skimming championships. Graeme and Sylvia live in Cullipool, and from the hill above it Leo and I could see the cliffs that soar above Carsaig. There was a fine ceilidh that night, with strenuous dancing and an outstanding fiddler, all to celebrate the medal worthily awarded to John Blackwell, who has raised thousands for charity over the last twelve years and shows no signs of stopping.<br />
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And so back to Mull, a voyage down memory lane indeed. Ruer and Antonia's son David was staying in the Family End, and a pair of regular and devoted tenants had taken the main cottage for three weeks. I was glad to see that it still had its superb grape vine lining it sunporch; we all feasted on them. It was a week of much writing, talks by candlelight, long walks along the shore in both directions, a visit to the little visited south shore of Iona and another to Tobermory, where a rainbow blessed me as I sipped a single malt and enjoyed a cigarillo.<br />
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<br />Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-33136187847465069552014-12-27T07:31:00.001+00:002014-12-27T16:57:46.594+00:00Reality Check<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d87zuaXGfRU/VJ5e9GZNi3I/AAAAAAAAAbo/S-PBEykEBDE/s1600/bluebells%2BAppleton%2Bwoods.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d87zuaXGfRU/VJ5e9GZNi3I/AAAAAAAAAbo/S-PBEykEBDE/s1600/bluebells%2BAppleton%2Bwoods.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In May I went to Appleton woods with Meg, Ben <br />
and their father Tom, and found this sea of bluebells</td></tr>
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I'm not longer going to apologies for failure to add to this notepad during the year, but instead to accept the reality of this being, probably, an annual catch-up/look back. It's a measure of the laid-back feel of this Christmas that I started writing on Christmas Eve, but because of the able assistance and innovations of the Christmas Elves [aka Gillian and Phil, who have abandoned their usual <a href="http://www.interaction-venice.com/about-us.html">interactive computer designing</a> to fiddle with a chestnuts and pancetta dressing for the sprouts, and apple and prune stuffing for the Bird. But what's been happening? My first literary anthology <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Pleasures-Garden-A-Literary-Anthology/dp/0712357203"><i>Pleasures of the Garden</i> </a>was published in March, and seems to be doing rather well. Next March sees the publication of <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Pleasures-Table-A-Literary-Anthology/dp/0712357807" style="font-style: italic;">Pleasures of the Table</a> and the year after that <i>Pleasures of Nature</i>. It's great fun roaming through my ragbag attic of literary memory, as well as combing my own shelves and those of the London Library for inspiration.<br />
I'm now working flat out on a book I've long wanted to write, a survey of books about the Thames of all kinds, some early chronicles and seekers after the picturesque to gritty modern day psychogeographers. The Thames has threaded its way through my life from childhood, when I crossed it at Richmond to get to school in Hampton, walked beside it to the ice-rink of a Saturday, shook to the Rolling Stones on Eel Pie Island and learnt to sail in a Merlin at Tamesis Sailing Club, to now, when I have a British Moth sailing dinghy and my camping punt <i>Dulcibella</i> to play with on the peaceful waters above Oxford. To be published by the Bodleian Library in 2016, <i>Writing The Thames </i>will be similar in approach to my <i><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Writing-Britain-Wonderlands-Christina-Hardyment/dp/0712358757">Writing Britain</a>.</i><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z73BYykOIpU/VJq0nVahR1I/AAAAAAAAAaY/fRv69b2zPKM/s1600/Newnham%2Bview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z73BYykOIpU/VJq0nVahR1I/AAAAAAAAAaY/fRv69b2zPKM/s1600/Newnham%2Bview.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>In April, I met up with Fran, Gillian and other friends and contemporaries for the 50th anniversary of our arrival at Newnham College, the turning point of my life. Strange occasion, struggles to recognise life-worn contemporaries, and full of startling flashbacks to our blithe Then, - we're so much wiser now.<br />
Early in May, I had a little Lake Country spree - being filmed on locations around Coniston and actually on Peel Island for a Location Featurette on the DVD of the remastered 1974 film of <i>Swallows & Amazons. </i><br />
In June, I enjoyed exploring George Herbert's country around Salisbury, after having been inspired by John Drury's wonderful <i>Music at Midnight</i>. Then I went to a conference about Helen Waddell. Both are writers who, like T H White, remain enduringly important to me.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L_5YTnCiBLQ/VJqw74kwnWI/AAAAAAAAAaM/lJvpmh4yWUY/s1600/Anglesey%2Bgate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L_5YTnCiBLQ/VJqw74kwnWI/AAAAAAAAAaM/lJvpmh4yWUY/s1600/Anglesey%2Bgate.jpg" height="212" width="320" /></a>I had a lovely intense week working at <a href="http://www.gladstoneslibrary.org/contact/about-the-library">Gladstone's Library</a> in June; took a day off walking in Anglesey and found this lovely gate: I also revisited Plas Y Newydd, enjoying the Rex Whistler wall paintings and memorabilia. It is a tragedy that he died so untimely in the Normandy landings.<br />
Old age caught up with me in July, I developed a lurgy of the innards that sent me to hospital and knocked me out for six weeks; cancelled trip to Norway and Baltic cruise with brother Peter. All is now well thankfully.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u9RNJadIivY/VJ5fRbOPJKI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/iKj3L1cx-gI/s1600/Young%2Bgardeners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-u9RNJadIivY/VJ5fRbOPJKI/AAAAAAAAAcQ/iKj3L1cx-gI/s1600/Young%2Bgardeners.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pKPig1ZHWt0/VJ5fHaSyiMI/AAAAAAAAAb4/w2_vrCqNxSQ/s1600/Minion%2Bpotato.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pKPig1ZHWt0/VJ5fHaSyiMI/AAAAAAAAAb4/w2_vrCqNxSQ/s1600/Minion%2Bpotato.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>Once recovered, as well as working on the Thames book, I had a great summer on it: punting more often than sailing, lunching moored on the boom by the Henley finish line in a punt made by John Eade (creator of <i><a href="http://thames.me.uk/">Where Thames Sweet Waters Glide</a>)</i>), who knows far more about the river than I ever will.<br />
Gardening was also productive, especially for potatoes: having just enjoyed the film <i>Despicable Me,</i> I was delighted to unearth this vegetable minion. The grandchildren aid and abet.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mtr55Rf0E-o/VJ5fZQlUstI/AAAAAAAAAcg/Bn2BWe18eBQ/s1600/Me%2Bin%2Bhands%2Bnear%2BManesty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mtr55Rf0E-o/VJ5fZQlUstI/AAAAAAAAAcg/Bn2BWe18eBQ/s1600/Me%2Bin%2Bhands%2Bnear%2BManesty.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>In September, <a href="http://www.henryeliot.co.uk/">Henry Eliot</a>, who organised the Malory Caper a year or so ago and is now making a living as a literary walker, organised a Lake Poets weekend. We stayed at Greta Hall, once the home of Robert Southey and S T Coleridge, now an excellent B&B. Everyone took on a literary character, then we tramped hills and dales quoting relevant poems. We all took turns to cosy into these huge wooden hands; they can be found on the western shore of Derwentwater, just north of Manesty.<br />
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In October, Fran and Meredith and I took the Waverley steamer to Southend; it was a wonderful way of seeing the estuary, the part of the Thames I know least well. <i>Waverley </i> is lovingly maintained by volunteers, and have been restored to her original grandeur, with tea-, dining- and drinking-saloons, gleaming mahogany benches and lloyd loom chairs. Most spectacular of all is her engine, a jungle of huge steel pistons, brass dials and copper wires. She leaves from Tower Pier and returns at night: the bridge opens for her, which is especially fine at night, when the bridge looks hung with diamonds.<br />
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jl1MwAt64qk/VJ5ffKd4SBI/AAAAAAAAAco/UT9N-aIeRd4/s1600/Waverley.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jl1MwAt64qk/VJ5ffKd4SBI/AAAAAAAAAco/UT9N-aIeRd4/s1600/Waverley.jpg" height="216" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V0OO1kaeA1Y/VJ5fL3EV9_I/AAAAAAAAAcA/j-9Of17b54o/s1600/RAvenna.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-V0OO1kaeA1Y/VJ5fL3EV9_I/AAAAAAAAAcA/j-9Of17b54o/s1600/RAvenna.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hWW0hYckw20/VJ5fLz_-NLI/AAAAAAAAAcE/D_6gRVUvmAc/s1600/Ravenna%2Bbetter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hWW0hYckw20/VJ5fLz_-NLI/AAAAAAAAAcE/D_6gRVUvmAc/s1600/Ravenna%2Bbetter.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a>In November, I went to stay in Venice with Gillian and Phil; they met me at the station with wellies as there was an 'acqua alta', as exceptionally high tides are called. Halfway through my visit we went to Ravenna, as I love the mosaics at Torcello, and was keen to see the famous much earlier ones at Ravenna. I hadn't realised how strategically important it once was, hence the splendour of its churches. The mosaics have been amazingly preserved/ restored, surely a mark of how much they have been loved. Next year, I'm going in June, so I can go out on the lagoon in <i>Granseola</i>, their newly acquired vintage boat.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m4EqVjdvxb0/VJ5fV6cZr4I/AAAAAAAAAcY/dPMIXbZmPK4/s1600/Granseola.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-m4EqVjdvxb0/VJ5fV6cZr4I/AAAAAAAAAcY/dPMIXbZmPK4/s1600/Granseola.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a><br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wYmFumFpOgc/VJ5fjjHQPxI/AAAAAAAAAcw/YeN94a6vmGs/s1600/photo%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wYmFumFpOgc/VJ5fjjHQPxI/AAAAAAAAAcw/YeN94a6vmGs/s1600/photo%2B1.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a>Later that month, proud granny watched seven-year-old Olivia being the inn-keeper's daughter in the English National Ballet's Oxford production of <i>Coppelia</i>; she was chosen because she is a star of her theatre club. She bustled about in a very composed manner, and even came on all alone dancing in a whirl with another small boy. Curtain calls were made very diverting by her bouncing up and down in delight.<br />
Finally, we held our annual family get together at brother John's house this year; Peter couldn't be there as he has just remarried and is in Cape Town. But ten of our children and an ever-increasing third generation were there. No picture as yet, but here's the 2013 one, which was held at my house, to be going on with.<br />
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Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-26464097088274244102014-01-10T17:06:00.002+00:002014-01-13T07:08:54.725+00:00New Year Resolution . . .<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JBSqCSq_byo/Us-izlRMSGI/AAAAAAAAAWo/oO6OgVbnRXU/s1600/LEnny+F+Christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JBSqCSq_byo/Us-izlRMSGI/AAAAAAAAAWo/oO6OgVbnRXU/s1600/LEnny+F+Christmas.jpg" width="240" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GjAO3oFHFU0/Us-iTqsQu7I/AAAAAAAAAWg/M6C2nKZ3Wkc/s1600/Betsy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GjAO3oFHFU0/Us-iTqsQu7I/AAAAAAAAAWg/M6C2nKZ3Wkc/s1600/Betsy.jpg" width="200" /></a>. . . Is not to leave so long between posts. So, spurred on by a kindly prod from Mary Addison [whose fascinating embroidery blog is much recommended], here is a rapid catch up of what has been a wonderful year in lots of small ways. First of course, the new comer: Betsy Billings born 28 March, and now trying valiantly to walk as well as her big brother Lenny - seen right waiting to walk on as Father Christmas. After the long cold spring came one of the best summers for a long time - happily co-inciding with a wonderful new harbour for two-thirds of my Thames fleet - <i>Wizard</i>, a Mirror dinghy acquired with grandchildren in mind, and the good punt <i>Dulcibella</i> were conveniently ensconced at the end of Brian and Jean Carroll's garden, which runs down to the Thames just above Bablockhythe. Tilly, Tom and Meg made the most of her, while <i>Dulcibella</i> repaid her pretty mooring under a weeping willow by taking guests to the Carroll's daughter's post-wedding lunch for short cruises up the Thames.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oybXBicJGrU/Us-hL5B8wyI/AAAAAAAAAWU/pOlZ_hZwvfs/s1600/Mirror+and+Connors.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oybXBicJGrU/Us-hL5B8wyI/AAAAAAAAAWU/pOlZ_hZwvfs/s1600/Mirror+and+Connors.JPG" width="320" /></a> This year, I had a lazy time on the water, no great ambitions, just poling between Northmoor Lock and the Ferry Inn, where a nicely chilled half-pint of cider became a regular tradition, then mooring in a remote backwater for a swim and relaxed research with books to gather material for my forthcoming (April 2014) literary anthology <i>Pleasures of the Garden. </i>The trip to Lewis in April inspired me with an interest in geology, and I did an excellent weeklong afternoon course on Wiltshire's geology at Marlborough Summer School. Great opportunity to visit old haunts and old friends, and the course was an excellent mixture of theory and excursions, on which Leo could come too. I stopped to gaze at Clements Meadow, our home for ten years, and luckily was noticed by the lady of the house - when she heard we'd lived there, she invited me to look round - it is now immeasurably grand with indoor swimming pool and gym; the larder a loo, the butler's pantry a chintz banquette. And on the market, as it happened, for fifteen times what we sold it for. Still, no regrets.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7eU_g1wf3Po/Us-r9pgJUFI/AAAAAAAAAW4/uVtqVY3YYkQ/s1600/Clements+MEadow.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7eU_g1wf3Po/Us-r9pgJUFI/AAAAAAAAAW4/uVtqVY3YYkQ/s1600/Clements+MEadow.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clements Meadow and its new owner</td></tr>
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Funny seeing the 'Adam' pine fireplace we found in Kirkcudbright and painstakingly stripped and put in still ensconced, and sad that the dining-room panelling has all been taken out. But it needed much wealthier owners than we were, and it was great to see it so well looked after. I rather miss the printing presses - we had a Victoria treadle platen and a Columbian, complete with eagle rising and falling. Too big for our first Oxford house, this lived for many years in the barn of friends' cottage on the slopes of the Brecon Beacons, but was sold in the early 1990s. Pity: I now have room for it again, and it is tempting to take up letterpress printing once more. I still have a wooden block alphabet and lots of picture blocks, including some very rare ones by Robert Gibbings for his never published Erehwon.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--1okweYik1o/UtAdquIDSgI/AAAAAAAAAXI/Oft1MKPPG7I/s1600/Brecon.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/--1okweYik1o/UtAdquIDSgI/AAAAAAAAAXI/Oft1MKPPG7I/s1600/Brecon.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cyZTgLOZ9OQ/UtAeVheE2FI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/qIV4QmvlE1Y/s1600/Surfside+and+view.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cyZTgLOZ9OQ/UtAeVheE2FI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/qIV4QmvlE1Y/s1600/Surfside+and+view.JPG" width="200" /></a>But I digress, as one does when revisiting old haunts. There was quite a bit of that this year, including Brecon and (left) Claed-waen-hir [sp?] in June, and Cornwall and (right) Surfside in November. The view to Godrevy lighthouse was as miraculous as ever. I was disappointed of moonsets, but loved the introduction of sand-yachts to the never-ending beach. Gwithian and Hayle Bay excellent on geological rock formations too, and more rockface work was offered by taking part in the scouring of the Uffington White Horse - which was so much fun that I am determined to make it an annual excursion. Another ancient monument was visited in July, when Henry Eliot, the enterprising re-enactor of the journey of Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury pilgrims form Southwark to Canterbury, appealed to me to get involved in a similar tour of sites mentioned in Thomas Malory's <i>Morte Darthur</i>.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VrxhnjGpSZE/UtAgtaLtLiI/AAAAAAAAAXo/byzsK-wnHzM/s1600/Stonehenge+trip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VrxhnjGpSZE/UtAgtaLtLiI/AAAAAAAAAXo/byzsK-wnHzM/s1600/Stonehenge+trip.jpg" width="200" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7CtQK33VlXA/UtAfnGfsnNI/AAAAAAAAAXc/RVsR501fgjU/s1600/Scouring+White+Horse.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7CtQK33VlXA/UtAfnGfsnNI/AAAAAAAAAXc/RVsR501fgjU/s1600/Scouring+White+Horse.JPG" width="200" /></a>We spent the night in Amesbury, where Guinevere is reputedly buried in the Abbey, then had a privileged early morning visit to Stonehenge, where Merlin and Meligraunce told their tales. On then to Camelot in the shape of Cadbury Castle, where more Knights of the Table Round<br />
held forth to an admiring audience of us and a large but fortunately docile herd of Holstein heifers. Then on to Glastonbury, and moving accounts of the apparent death but hopeful resurrection of <i>Rex Quondam Futurusque</i>.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qKtIWsGiKr4/UtAintZAypI/AAAAAAAAAX0/NJprhkyhDmk/s1600/Hens+and+produce.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qKtIWsGiKr4/UtAintZAypI/AAAAAAAAAX0/NJprhkyhDmk/s1600/Hens+and+produce.JPG" width="200" /></a>The warm and tranquil summer meant much rewarding gardening - bumper crops of red and blackcurrants, Borlotti beans, firapple potatoes and tomatoes. I discovered answer to glut of tomatoes: halve and spread in large roasting pan with drizzle of olive oil, and sprinklings of salt and sugar [essential] and leave to rot in bottom of Aga/slow oven for at least four hours. Sumptuous result to flavour most things, or just eat. There was also a magnificent quince harvest, resulting in much delicious quince jelly - easily the easiest way of coping with these concrete hard fruits. Cover with water and boil whole until soft enough to cut up, then let cook more slowly; strain through jelly bag ( a pillowcase will do) and add rather less than half as much weight of sugar.<br />
In early September I treated myself to a week with Gillian Crampton Smith and Phil Tabor in Venice.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dyEj-asRRqI/UtAkzDXL2zI/AAAAAAAAAYA/1sZq-bEBcVM/s1600/VEnice+breakfast.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dyEj-asRRqI/UtAkzDXL2zI/AAAAAAAAAYA/1sZq-bEBcVM/s1600/VEnice+breakfast.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JpEuNFF13cs/UtAlCwfoQrI/AAAAAAAAAYI/6Kz05fXznmA/s1600/Palladio.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JpEuNFF13cs/UtAlCwfoQrI/AAAAAAAAAYI/6Kz05fXznmA/s1600/Palladio.JPG" width="200" /></a>Lovely weather enabled us to eat both breakfast and supper on their twin roof terraces.<br />
We also had a great day out to Vicenza, admiring Palladio's many villas, most of all the Villa Valmarano al Nani - the Villa of the Dwarfs. Apparently it was entirely staffed by dwarfs to prevent its young owner from realising that she was unusually limited in stature. Photographs showed that it was badly bombed in the war; now it is marvellously restored.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LRFeX6SDkgQ/UtAnbkU8mzI/AAAAAAAAAYc/ASSVOogOREI/s1600/MEdley.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LRFeX6SDkgQ/UtAnbkU8mzI/AAAAAAAAAYc/ASSVOogOREI/s1600/MEdley.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QflKfg65ZNk/UtAmoIZQ0MI/AAAAAAAAAYU/qPzV3VF3b3M/s1600/Henely.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QflKfg65ZNk/UtAmoIZQ0MI/AAAAAAAAAYU/qPzV3VF3b3M/s1600/Henely.jpg" width="150" /></a>I'm not a Henley person but I did enjoy picnicking in John Eade's elegant punt tied up to the centre river boom right at the finish line.<br />
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It was also very good to rejoin Medley Sailing Club, undoubtedly the most congenial riverside sailing club imaginable, ghastly as the panda-faced Stalag Luft Seven buildings erected by the University at Castle Mill are. Roll on their being shortened, clad in timber, covered with vigorous creepers or, preferably, obliterated. But <i>Gipsy</i>, British Moth 852, is very happy to be back home,<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IPgaJFBPhq4/UtAn6x_LB_I/AAAAAAAAAYs/e1XR-Sm85iU/s1600/MEg+school.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IPgaJFBPhq4/UtAn6x_LB_I/AAAAAAAAAYs/e1XR-Sm85iU/s1600/MEg+school.JPG" title="" width="148" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LViPrEiR1fE/UtAn5MkjWkI/AAAAAAAAAYk/AYCHxUQp8HM/s1600/Fox+school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-LViPrEiR1fE/UtAn5MkjWkI/AAAAAAAAAYk/AYCHxUQp8HM/s1600/Fox+school.jpg" width="150" /></a>September brought some lovely pictures from new young scholars - Fox on the left, Meg on the right: long may their enthusiasm last. Since then I've been immured in the garden fastness of my well-insulated workhut [much warmer than the house itself, especially when the sun floods in through its many windows, working on <i>Alyce: Book of the Duchess</i>. First draft is now being read by various daughters. I know it isn't good enough yet, but perhaps one day it will be. As to more realistic books, an advance copy of <i>Pleasures of the Garden</i> (to be published in April 2014) has just arrived, generously illustrated, and looking very handsome and substantial. It was great fun to comb great gardening writers to create a collection of horticultural gems, and it is wonderful to be able to make the most of the British Library's magnificent picture resources. The British Library have now commissioned a new literary anthology provisionally titled <i>Pleasures of the Table</i> – and <i>Pleasures of Parenting</i> may be on the horizon.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Geneva;"><br /></span>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-17447906633445143502013-04-28T11:10:00.003+01:002013-05-08T11:45:59.381+01:00Uig Lodge<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W9605_Nsam0/UXzyyWpjQEI/AAAAAAAAAVI/tRmzuHWG0Oo/s1600/P1020106.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W9605_Nsam0/UXzyyWpjQEI/AAAAAAAAAVI/tRmzuHWG0Oo/s1600/P1020106.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Uig Lodge offers 360<span style="font-family: Symbol;">°</span> views</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Symbol;">°</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Symbol;">°</span><br />
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I can see why Arthur Ransome relished the
away-from-everything atmosphere of Uig Lodge. It stands proud above the vast
pale sands of Uig Bay, looking westwards to the sea over the remains of a
Pictish broch and southwards to a chain of lochs<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and rocks through which the Forsa, a notable salmon river,
tumbles down to the sea. If he slept in the southwest bedroom in which I’m
sipping early morning tea in bed as I write, he could even have seen a small
island on one of the upper lochs and fantasised about Great Northern Divers.
The weather is wild but wonderful: I have never had a week of faster changing
conditions. I began writing in a glorious sunrise with infinite views; I’m now
sipping my second cup of morning tea while rain shrouds us and winds lash the
magnificently sturdy house. Fortunately, for all the dire forecasts on web and
wireless, there is much more sun than rain.</div>
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<i>Great Northern?</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, the last of Ransome’s 12 book saga of adventurous
children messing about in boats and tents, had unusual origins. The idea for a
story centring on protecting birds and set in the Hebrides was offered by Myles
North, an intrepid ornithologist who grew up in the Lake country, but was stationed in Somaliland when his
correspondence with Ransome began. The story centred on a pair of Great Northern Divers which Dick discovered breeding on an island in a loch high above the cove in which the </span><i>Sea Bear</i>, a borrowed <span style="font-style: normal;">pilot cutter in which the Swallows, Amazons and Ds are cruising the Hebrides with Captain Flint, is being scrubbed. Ransome was then 60, a sobering age to reach,
and suffering from writer’s block. Someone with as much faith in him as North
was just what he needed. The book had rather a faltering start: Ransome found
place a primary inspiration, and he had never been to the Hebrides. He and
Evgenia were also about to decamp from The Heald, their house on Coniston, in favour of a flat in London, and he was planning
a new boat – ‘a kind of marine bath-chair for my old age’ – that he would call </span><i>Peter
Duck</i><span style="font-style: normal;">. Its name may have been inspired in
part by North’s suggestion that Peter Duck made a comeback in </span><i>Great
Northern?</i></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4kyXFzXMHCM/UXzyy3YTEAI/AAAAAAAAAVM/HZLfdoaVvms/s1600/P1020111.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4kyXFzXMHCM/UXzyy3YTEAI/AAAAAAAAAVM/HZLfdoaVvms/s1600/P1020111.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from my bedroom window: Roger's broch and its causeway</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px;"></span>But in May 1945, he and Evgenia
went in search of local colour to the Isle of Lewis, staying first in Stornaway, where Ransome fished the
Grimersta lochs, then to Uig on the western coast. Uig Lodge was then
owned by James Dobson, but Ransome records that he ‘stayed with Mackenzie’.
This was just possibly Compton Mackenzie, another Cape author who then lived on
Barra, but was probably James Mackenzie, then game-keeper at Uig Lodge. The Fhorsa River has plenty of features suitable for the story, and right below the Lodge are the ruins of a Roger-sized pict house or broch.</div>
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They made another visit the next year, this
time staying with the Dobsons themselves, and by the end of the year AR had finished <i>Great
Northern?</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> sufficiently well to</span><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">meet Evgenia’s exacting standards. He also sent<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> a </span>draft to North, who
crowed with satisfaction at having been ‘a benefactor to humanity’ by inspiring
the book. AR thanked him by dedicating it to 'Myles North, who knowing a great deal of what happened, asked me to write the whole story'. Peter Duck did not however appear; AR wanted the story to seem as real as possible. Time has made it true, though AR had died three years before a pair of Great Northern Divers were found breeding in Western Scotland in 1970.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M3c9dv8F2zk/UXzyyauhieI/AAAAAAAAAVA/aWFeita2E3g/s1600/P1020112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M3c9dv8F2zk/UXzyyauhieI/AAAAAAAAAVA/aWFeita2E3g/s1600/P1020112.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from my side window: the white froth on the <br />
right below the loch is the waterfall into the Gorge Pool</td></tr>
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Ransome returned to Uig many times, finding the Lodge a private refuge from
his own fame. A diary kept at Uig Lodge during 1950 and 1951 records picking
him up in a horse and trap, accompanying him to the Fhorsa river. I can see its
famous Gorge pool, just below a huge fang of rock and foaming waterfall, from
here if I sit up and crane my neck. Even though I am no fisherman,
after almost a week here, I can see why Ransome loved it. 360<span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Symbol;">°</span></span>
views, some of the sea, some of hulking round-topped hills made of an ancient
gneiss unknown anywhere else in the British Isles. I arrived from <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Skye at
Tarbert, and drove around the east coast of Harris to Finsbay, staying very
comfortably
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">in the <a href="http://theoldschoolhousefinsbay.com/">Old School House</a> and admiring
Nickolai Globe’s landscape inspired ceramics at the<a href="http://missionhousestudio.blogspot.co.uk/"> Mission House</a></span>. Th</span>en on to the remote
Rodel Hotel and the miraculously well-preserved St Clement’s Chapel, a stunning
beach for a scamper with Leo at Taobh <i>Ancient Lewis and Harris</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
with me; I see now that I missed all sorts of interesting ruins. I should also
have diverted west from the Stornaway road in North Lewis to visit the Eagle
watching observatory. If you want to know just what is about, go to the North
Harris Trust nature watch sight; I see that in mid-April they sighted <a href="http://www.north-harris.org/2013/04/18th-april-lapwings-great-northern-divers/">Great
Northern Divers</a>!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qTEBU3GqcKA/UXz3OTgPiHI/AAAAAAAAAVo/lIgwj52FmPE/s1600/Sleeping+beauty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qTEBU3GqcKA/UXz3OTgPiHI/AAAAAAAAAVo/lIgwj52FmPE/s200/Sleeping+beauty.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Sleeping Beauty and her prince:<br />
Uig Lodge in background</td></tr>
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Sunset from Uig Lodge: Roger's broch?</div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times-Roman;">Looking back a few days later: I can’t praise <a href="http://www.uiglodge.co.uk/uig-lodge-lettings">Uig Lodge</a> enough.</span></div>
<!--EndFragment--> Blazing peat fires and heaps of puzzles and games for rainy days; vast sofas to
collapse on after fine ones. The deal is that you rent the whole place for around £4/5000 a week. Sounds a lot, but it sleeps 15 in
comfort, and could accommodate a good number of kids on camp beds and
mattresses. That works out at only £300 a head. You can also have all your meals cooked for you, if you opt for full board. Of course, most of
the people who come here are fishermen, but what a marvellous annual holiday it
would make for two or three families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or, of course, a group of Ransomaniacs like the gang whose company I enjoyed hugely. A few days ago we explored the Fhorsa River and the Gorge Pool,
Ransome’s favourite fishing spot, and walked up above it to find two lochs –
one complete with a fine island for nesting divers. Yesterday we walked across
the sands to the ruined broch visible from the Lodge, and I posed as ‘Sleeping
Beauty’ Roger.</div>
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<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GevKYpYWJjE/UYorsm4GQNI/AAAAAAAAAV8/BH2Q2ptQqg0/s1600/Viking+home+from+home+-+Mill+on+Lewis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GevKYpYWJjE/UYorsm4GQNI/AAAAAAAAAV8/BH2Q2ptQqg0/s320/Viking+home+from+home+-+Mill+on+Lewis.jpg" width="320" /></a>We also drove an hour north to
four excellent historic sites: Carloway Broch (where two rams took an undue
liking to Leo), the Callanish Stones, eerily slim and commanding, <a href="http://www.gearrannan.com/">Gearrannan Blackhouse Village</a>, where you
can see how life used to be lived as recently as the 1970s, and even rent one
of the massive low stone houses as self-catering accommodation, and an impressively well-restored Viking Corn Mill which would make the perfect home from home.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Now I am on my way home via the Isle of Luing, one of the legendary Slate Isles, but now that all the quarries are closed, as peaceful a little place as you could wsh to find. Birds galore, and flowers just starting. The population (c.180) has a real sense of community, and thanks to the Cadzow family's famous red Luing cattle, is still viable economically without needing to stoop to tricks of the tourist trade.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-56130351614360509912013-01-04T11:51:00.004+00:002013-01-04T12:03:33.249+00:00New Year Prospects<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/World-Arthur-Ransome-Christina-Hardyment/dp/0711232970">The World of Arthur Ransome</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a90T-pvZTX8/UOa-Uqp-XII/AAAAAAAAAT0/T2n5NiyrH4M/s1600/IMG_1664.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-a90T-pvZTX8/UOa-Uqp-XII/AAAAAAAAAT0/T2n5NiyrH4M/s200/IMG_1664.jpg" width="150" /></a>It's six months since I last posted, so a brief summary: <i>World of Arthur Ransome</i> was launched with a jolly party here for all the people who helped, and I've had some wonderful feedback. Now for the return to serious work: at the minute the medieval story I most want to write but keep failing to, but it may be put aside in favour of another author-in-his/her setting book. Or, and it keeps nudging in on me, a celebration of home. My common-pace book is just about writing this itself.<br />
<br />
The danger is that time gets eaten away in the most agreeable way at present with walks with Leo, a dangerous new fascination with bridge, and fun with the grandchildren. There are now seven, with no 8 expected in March [FYI: Tilly and Tom have Ben (6) and Meg (3), Daisy and James have Fox (4) and Woody (8mths), Ellie and Jamie have Sam (7) and Olivia (5), and Susie and Joe have Lenny (1) and a nicely rounded tum. This year their Christmas quilts diversified into tiny ones for Meg's BABY and Olivia's TED as well as cot-sized ones for Lenny and Woody.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gubf67pcDHI/UObBHmWsqaI/AAAAAAAAAUU/ZXfVF4bX-sA/s1600/Xmas+2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-gubf67pcDHI/UObBHmWsqaI/AAAAAAAAAUU/ZXfVF4bX-sA/s320/Xmas+2012.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Christmas was a fullscale celebration, with both my own friends and all four girls, to say nothing of several in-laws. The twelve day aftermath much needed; it has also been an opportunity for refining the delights of the North Pole, a hut halfway down the garden which is proving to have all the magical atmosphere of the dear old hut at Chalfont Road. You can see what it looks like if you check out Rowlinson's soi-disant '<a href="http://www.all-about-the-home.co.uk/rowlinson-corner-potting-store-3435-p.asp">corner potting store</a>'; any fool can see that it is in fact, once thickly insulated, an ideal light-drenched place to work. Martin supplied a carpet; Brian and Mary an apple-cheeked clock, Gillian and Phil a lloyd room chair. I have resisted my old delightful distraction of a real woodburning stove [to great relief of sons-in-law] in favour of bringing down the cod one I've had in the attic. So far the mornings are too dank and dark for early sorties, but I'm already feeling better for marooning myself out of reach of man or beast [expect for Leo and the hens) every morning. I'm such an inveterate domesticator that being anywhere in the house offers irresistible distractions. Down there there are no books, no music, no wi-fi, no phones, just space to think and write. We'll see.</div>
Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-41612779977319640402012-07-29T20:44:00.000+01:002012-07-29T20:45:56.301+01:00Home Again<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qE5SdWwwXWo/UBWRrIp5ABI/AAAAAAAAATI/S_SOG1feJj8/s1600/IMG_1388.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qE5SdWwwXWo/UBWRrIp5ABI/AAAAAAAAATI/S_SOG1feJj8/s200/IMG_1388.jpg" width="150" /></a></div>
The weather has not been kind to punts - even last week's heatwave found the stream scarily fast, especially when cross winds flung me into the trees. But this weekend the floods had abated; I turned tail, tired of long and unrewarding odysseys to check the punt without being able to continue upstream. Three hours yesterday and three hours today brought me back from Tadpole Bridge, a thunderstorm on my tail.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M86ft8DQfUU/UBWRuZu68cI/AAAAAAAAATQ/W1esVzrmiok/s1600/IMG_1391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M86ft8DQfUU/UBWRuZu68cI/AAAAAAAAATQ/W1esVzrmiok/s200/IMG_1391.JPG" width="200" /></a>Timing almost perfect: just a few fat drops of rain before I tied up at lunchtime today on my now much improved and entirely nettle-free [thank you, Environmental Agency] mooring at Oxford Cruisers, got the cover up and tucked into pork pie and fruitcake. Ellie kindly picked me up, and drove me to Newbridge to collect my car. <br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-il5czVZYRAU/UBWSN0mlNzI/AAAAAAAAATY/ZJ10iyCFrQU/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-il5czVZYRAU/UBWSN0mlNzI/AAAAAAAAATY/ZJ10iyCFrQU/s200/images.jpeg" width="200" /></a>The Upper Thames is ill-served for creature comforts. A fortune could be made by a small electric or steam bus-boat with licensed bar and tea-urn that operated a regular service between Oxford and Lechlade.<br />
What next? Short trips downstream, which is much more accessible by car from Wytham, Wolvercote, Binsey and Osney. Down a sidestream to the Talbot? The infant Evenlode to Cartington? I will explore Oxford's backwaters, perhaps even picking up the grandchildren up from North Hinksey School on the Seacourt Stream . . .Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-26877247331193745702012-07-18T10:35:00.001+01:002012-07-18T10:35:49.707+01:00Marooned<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3Nm-Gp-KQew/UAaA5gG6csI/AAAAAAAAASk/cCeyLXIshzg/s1600/Woods+near+Ten+Foot+Bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3Nm-Gp-KQew/UAaA5gG6csI/AAAAAAAAASk/cCeyLXIshzg/s320/Woods+near+Ten+Foot+Bridge.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dulcie in the woods above Ten Foot Bridge</td></tr>
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Lucky I was not planning to get anywhere soon: so far the summer has not been kind to punters. But I was encouraged to see the use of a punt in a more static way by reading <i>Barbara at Oxford</i> (1907), a delightful light read that has much fascinating detail of town and gown life at that time. Punts are repeatedly resorted too simply to sit and dream in, shaded by boaters and puffing pipes. Dulcibella has now reached a save haven just downstream of The Trout at Tadpole Bridge – much easier to reach across a pleasant flowery rabbit-mown meadow which Leo thoroughly enjoys racing across to get to her. She's out of the swell of the still racing river, and bulwarked from passing craft [not that any are passing at the minute] by clumps of rushes that indicate just how shallow her mooring is. I explored Chimney on foot yesterday, then, <i>Barbara at Oxford</i> style, had tea, fruitcake and a leisurely read in a blissful drop of warm sunshine.<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vBYOD6hgRJU/UAaA4qA1GpI/AAAAAAAAASc/xF_x_alg0o0/s1600/AT+TADpole+bridge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vBYOD6hgRJU/UAaA4qA1GpI/AAAAAAAAASc/xF_x_alg0o0/s200/AT+TADpole+bridge.jpg" width="150" /></a>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-41505790404021313342012-06-04T10:50:00.000+01:002012-06-06T10:45:29.399+01:00Slow Punting I<br />
<br />
It seems appropriate to start recording my leisurely progress upstream in <i>Dulcibella</i> on the day of the magnificent Jubilee river pageant, when a vanguard of over 250 little boats paddled and rowed five miles against wind and weather - not that I have any intention of inflicting such punishment upon myself. If you read of the punt's previous voyage to Cricklade [under Adventures], you will realise that that journey was fraught with the challenge of Getting There. This year I have no ambitions at all. I am merely travelling hopefully. I will go There and Back Again, but where There is does not matter at all. Short stints on the pole, much walking (with the noble hound Leo) from and to the car; much relaxing in the punt and exploring of the highways and byways to nearby villages and hamlets; following the example of the erudite author of <i>The Stripling Thames</i> Fred Thacker, I am going to explore and enjoy the setting of the river, not just use it as a highway.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pyoHOTATHa4/T8x6r0GtFKI/AAAAAAAAAQw/HICrvLQnbWQ/s1600/IMG_1746.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pyoHOTATHa4/T8x6r0GtFKI/AAAAAAAAAQw/HICrvLQnbWQ/s200/IMG_1746.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dulcie's new summer home</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aktiYogEej8/T8x6NHz6VBI/AAAAAAAAAQo/cHoF4DUazDs/s1600/IMG_1682.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aktiYogEej8/T8x6NHz6VBI/AAAAAAAAAQo/cHoF4DUazDs/s200/IMG_1682.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intertuffing the hull</td></tr>
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<h3>
Preparations</h3>
I careened <i>Dulcie</i>'s bottom and painted her sides during that wonderfully summery March, but April and most of May was a write-off; a series of anxious visits to check her moorings as the river rose inexorably. The Environment Agency had decided to repair the towpath beside her old mooring, but the new one a hundred yards further downstream, embowered in a fallen willow, and with a little greensward beside her, is even better: still visible from Oxford Cruisers, her kindly guardian, and catching both dawn and evening sunshine.<br />
<h3>
Beginning</h3>
23 May: After five days away with Daisy and James and Fox to welcome my seventh grandchild (Woody Griffith Hodge, b.18 May) into the world, I was only planning to pole up to the boatyard to put the cushions on board, but it was such a beautiful afternoon that I couldn't resist heading upstream. It was, after all, Leo's birthday. Pinkhill Lock beckoned; I poled in, and the keeper nodded. 'The wife was wondering when you'd be along'. Nice to feel the river folk notice us, and would arrest any pirate who presumed to capture <i>Dulcie</i>. Leo posed in the bow, and behaved beautifully, very different from last year when, as a puppy, he frequently attempted to walk on water. Now he swims confidently, having learnt from his aged aunts while staying with brother John. I let him run along the bank for a while, and he kept pace beautifully. I moored close to the Farmoor reservoir pumping station, chained up to a fence, then walked back to the car over a little hill near the reservoir. We were off.<br />
<br />
24 May: Late afternoon: I parked at Bablockhythe, and walked back along the Farmoor side of the river to the punt. Scorching hot day, and several bathers were enjoying themselves. A family of four in a red canoe passed me heading downstream. I knew that I needed to leave the punt on the Stanton Harcourt side of the river, where the towpath and road were, but sadly there is no longer a ferry at Bablockhythe. So when I reached it, cheered on by the denizens of its long waterside city of statics and cabins and the topers in (Not) The Ferry Inn, I tied up by the car to enjoy a glass of red and cashew nuts, then put Leo, phone, keys etc in the car and got back into the punt with a lifejacket to aid me in my swim across. I chained <i>Dulcie</i> to a post, and covered her up, then headed for the crossing, watched with interest by the Ferry's customers. Lo and Behold: there was the red canoe, not yet put on the roof the large estate waiting to take it up. I hailed the family - the brawny father kindly put the canoe back in the water and got in - only. to my horror, to turn turtle. Rising Neptune like, he asked if I was sure I wanted a lift. Topers fascinated. We made it in safety, and many thanks to my kindly Charon.<br />
<br />
25 May: Another scorcher. This time my brother-in-law Hugh came too; we parked at the Ferry, and took Dulcie as far as Northmoor lock - struggling against the wind, and picnicking on the way. Just before the lock itself we got into perilous straits when two narrowboats waved us towards the tying up pontoon, then one revved its engine to control its vast bulk, filling the end of the punt with water, at which point Leo tried to jump onto the pontoon and fell into the water, horribly near the narrow boat. He did the very sensible thing of ducking under the iron pontoon, and we got an exceptionally wet dog aboard. Once the narrowboats had gone on their way, we got through the lock safely, tied up near the footpath from Appleton, and walked across the amazing Northmoor Weir - the only paddle and rymer weir remaining in England, I believe, to the towpath, and so, with astonishing speed considering how long it had taken us to punt upstream, got back to the Ferry Inn for a very welcome iced Guiness/pint of bitter.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OIPTSI5YZUE/T8yD6fIdCKI/AAAAAAAAARQ/grO6SAE1BMA/s1600/IMG_0963.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OIPTSI5YZUE/T8yD6fIdCKI/AAAAAAAAARQ/grO6SAE1BMA/s200/IMG_0963.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Sundowner at Newbridge</td></tr>
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26 May: Paul and Caroline Johnston joined Leo and me for a late afternoon session, both doing very well considering the again adverse conditions. Heartened by Buck's Fizz, we reached Moreton, and tied up in a quiet nook, then walked to Newbridge, where we had left one car. An evening bite to eat at the Plough in Appleton, and home. I'm gaining confidence at leaving Dulcie; no-one seems to meddle with her - though bathers were using her as a platform at Northmoor, when we arrived. I moved her up to Newbridge next day, tying her up by the sadly closed Maybush.<br />
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30 May: Harriet Bretherton joined me and Leo and we made a brave attempt at the Windrush ['No Paddles No Electric Motors' - and I would add 'No Punts], which was living up to its name, flowing far faster than the Thames, The hairy bit was shooting back down it, and having to aim for the right point to shoot Newbridge without touching. Phew. Then round about and upstream again, accompanied by a jolly gaggle of 11 year olds from Tetbury school who were learning to paddle and indeed spin turn canoes. Well done their mentors. Leo had great fun with them. Coffee in the Kelly kettle and swiss roll.<br />
Left Dulcie about half an hour's walk upstream.<br />
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2 June: I walked from Duxford, charmingly en fete for the Jubilee, towards the punt, admiring the Roman Ford across the old course of the river - the modern course now goes through Shifford Lock and Cut - and imagining King Canute encamped there. I had hoped to punt to the ford, but, as with the Windrush, the stream is far too fast. I walked along the old stream through thick vegetation, them emerged to walk along fields of flowering broad beans. When I reached the footbridge from the weir and lock, two Leo-lookalikes appeared and behind them, like a miraculous vision, my brother John: he had parked at Radcot and was walking to meet Emma at Newbridge, part of his project to walk the Thames Path. We had not compared notes on our activities, and five minutes either way and we would have been utterly unaware of each other's presence. Leo delighted to meet his aged aunts, and I to have such a good companion. Waved him goodbye at my mooring, then headed back. Whitebait and Guinness at the excellent Greyhound, Besselsleigh, was the perfect end to the afternoon.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Secret Arbour</td></tr>
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4 June, the finest day of the Jubilee Weekend: walked again from Duxford for a picnic on the punt shaded by patriotic jubilee awning, and then good upstream progress, occasionally passed by cruisers dressed overall and driving with drunken vigour. My companion suggested an underwater sail for the return to Oxford. Glorious vision of <i>Dulcie </i>planing. Managed to get her very close to Shefford, on the opposite bank: must explore both its and Duxford's interesting little churches on the next excursion.<br />
<br />Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-32366755542919836122012-02-25T19:42:00.000+00:002012-02-27T10:22:13.376+00:00Making up for lost time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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High time I got writing my notebook again, since I will be going to Norway again in a couple of weeks, and I see that my last post was about going there last April. Rather chaotic, and needs editing . . . </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Leo's sire Haddeo Snipe </td></tr>
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2011 was a hectic year for Hardyment nuptials, with three nephews, all sons of Peter, tying the knot: Tom and Camilla in Bibury, Richard and Katherine in Aldeburgh and Thorpeness, and Christopher and Maria in Syon House, near Kew. And in June 2012, John and Emma’s daughter Aelf will be married from their new Waverley Farm, Miserden.</div>
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I had a week tramping in the Dolomites in June, then a lovely dawdly summer, only working on my new book (for Frances Lincoln) about Arthur Ransome, which will appear in Autumn 2012, and getting to know my new puppy, Leo, one of 12 puppies fathered by a Shooting Times cover dog, was born 23 May and came to Nutwood at the end of July 2011</div>
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The garden provided plenty of amusement, and we now have a suitably dangerous campfire site next to the Baba Yaga house. Looking out at it in the last days of February, it is hard to believe that it will be as green and bushy as this before long.<br />
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In September my leisurely work life came to the end, when I took on the challenge of writing the book for the British Library summer 2012 exhibition Writing Britain: Wastelands and Wonderlands, and found myself working morning noon and night - not my normal habit.<br />
But the best news of the year was the birth on 5th October of Leonard (Lenny) Billings, son of Susie and Joe. Having them living just a ten minute pram-push away means that I can see him wonderfully often. In fact, with Ellie, Jamie, Sam and Olivia living opposite Susie, Joe and Lenny, life often feels rather like a soap, as we meet each other in the co-op or Homebase.<br />
Lenny is growing fast, and is quite a water baby - he loves his bath and has already had a session in the swimming pool. I'll have him punting in no time.<br />
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In December I went for what is becoming an annual pilgrimage to Surfside, a little dune-edge shack at the far north end of St Ives Bay. Wonderful weather and water effects, and one again I timed my visit to coincide with the full moon. Leo revelled in the beach and the waves; hopefully he'll be as good a sailing dog as Angus before long.<br />
Gillian and Phil came again for Christmas, which was a wonderful family affair, and stretched the full twelve days, one way and another. IT was made the better because by then I had delivered both books. The last few weeks have involved a lot of mopping up of loose ends for their respective publishers, but the future spreads wide and hopeful ahead<br />
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</div>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-7060990753804420132011-04-14T22:57:00.001+01:002011-04-14T23:06:53.372+01:00Back to my Roots<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y8sR7Bux0tY/TadqWTaDIYI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/HnPRCOuc12U/s1600/P1000550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Y8sR7Bux0tY/TadqWTaDIYI/AAAAAAAAAOQ/HnPRCOuc12U/s320/P1000550.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My early April week in Norway was deeply satisfying. It has been far too long since I've been. The brilliant new [to Britain] cheap airline Norwegian.com got me there and back for under £100, and into Gardemoen rather than distant Torp. Anne-Ma met me in Asker, and we drove straight up into the mountains: suddenly we saw the Bitihorn starkly white, flecked with black shrub and trees. Her cabin just as warm and welcoming as ever; we also visited Eiliv's hut, and it was just the same, lined with books and paitnings. I found curious mementoes not hung before, perhaps Folke hunted them out: a portrait of me that my mother must have paitned secretly, i can remember the photograph, and one of Peter in the sixthform at Ardingly. She must have sent them to Eiliv before I found out about him after Cambridge. I took pictures of them, and of the paintings. And of Eiliv's chair, still there in the corner of the room. It more than anything reminds me of him. I told Anne-Ma how much I'd wanted his typewriter but had been too shy to ask when they asked me what I'd like. She must have told Folke, as when we saw him in Oslo, he said he would hunt in the attic and see if it was still about. They are so kind to me, so straightforward and easy to talk to. I really ought to try and learn Norwegian. New resolve to translate Eiliv's </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Skotsk jord og norsk himmel</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (1946), written the year I was born, and the story of his time in Scotland, kicking his heels after crossing in the Shetland Bus.</span></span></span></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aiRmml5uP8g/Tadp5A1BdDI/AAAAAAAAAOM/A-OPzhk93cE/s1600/P1000566.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="355" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aiRmml5uP8g/Tadp5A1BdDI/AAAAAAAAAOM/A-OPzhk93cE/s640/P1000566.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Ski-loping was more satisfying than it has ever been. Perfect conditions, blue sky, slow snow, and once I could glide along without needing to think every step, it made thinking about the Ransome Book's structure, as I needed to do, very productive. Being away from home always makes my mind work more creatively. But there's no place better than my study once I'm on a roll.</span></span></span></span><br />
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</span></span></span></span>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-41254934656159932802011-04-14T22:27:00.001+01:002011-04-14T23:05:21.078+01:00Topsy TurvyJust discovered this was entered only as a draft; wonder when it will appear in the Notebook . . .here goes. Mmmm April. Not very seasonal, but still good memories.<br />
<b>Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year</b><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y9gxC4sp9to/TadvJgsXBGI/AAAAAAAAAOY/V3H5Matd-t4/s1600/IMG_0382.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y9gxC4sp9to/TadvJgsXBGI/AAAAAAAAAOY/V3H5Matd-t4/s320/IMG_0382.JPG" width="320" /></a>A cold coming we had of it, but very beautiful, and everybody got here. Gillian and Phil arrived from Venice via her sister in London on 23rd, allowing plenty of time to help me prepare all manner of delicious stuffings and sauces [mixing quince puree into the cranberries worked very well]. A good cast: Tilly and Tom and Ben [4] and Meg [1], and Tom's father Tim and brother John. Jamie and Ellie and Sam [5] and Olivia [3]. Uncle Hugh. The usual menu: A plump young Turkey of 12lbs or so, and two fleshy ducks from Alders, the wonderful Cowley Road butcher, Mrs Thomas Hardy's Christmas Pudding [from Theodora Fitzgibbon's inimitable Best of British Cooking] using dried fruit that had been soused a long age in a huge jar of scrag ends of alcohol from the drinks cupboard topped up with akavit; also Hugh's best of all chocolate and rum and raisin icecream. First toast on return from church a shot of akavit in one swallow followed by a glass of champagne. Then presents while munchin smoked salmon and chipolata suasages, and knees under around 3.30. Wonderful time had by all, made the easier by Tilly bringing Christmas Cake, Ellie roasting potatoes and preparing sprouts at her house, and Susie doing the mashed potato. Cherry on top was my first stocking in years, created by Susie and Joe. Snow on snow.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MriZs5Rp1BE/Tadvhd2dr4I/AAAAAAAAAOc/YLny7DwC470/s1600/IMG_0376.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MriZs5Rp1BE/Tadvhd2dr4I/AAAAAAAAAOc/YLny7DwC470/s640/IMG_0376.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-12082687958633213542011-03-01T10:19:00.000+00:002011-03-01T10:19:56.594+00:00Chickens a scratching and all well with the world<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-F1-8waf4WzI/TWzIKeUPrKI/AAAAAAAAAOI/L6RoiIZEtoc/s1600/IMG_0401.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/-F1-8waf4WzI/TWzIKeUPrKI/AAAAAAAAAOI/L6RoiIZEtoc/s320/IMG_0401.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Snowdrops blanket the near lawn, and the hellebores are ramping. Cheerful sprouting of perennials everywhere, and the hens create the impression that forty maids with forty rakes rather than merely daughter Ellie [now my once-a-week gardener] have been tending the beds. Ellie is now admirably fit, as she is running the London Marathon [for a kids kidney research charity, as her little Sam has nephrotic syndrome] in a couple of weeks time. I'm much less fit, finding the present weather uninviting to tramp in, but with iron resolve I do get out at regular intervals. Not least because I need to: I'm head down in a lovely commission which unites three of my favourite things: Arthur Ransome, domesticity and boats (especially their cabins). It's for the Frances Lincoln authors at home series, but in AR's case we are making it Arthur Ransome At Home and Aboard (sic). The first part will focus around his 'Lake in the North', his composite spiritual home of Coniston and Windernere, but the second half [Of Broads and Boats] will be about his holidays on the Broads, his waterside homes on the East Coast and his cabin yachts, <i>Nancy Blackett, Peter Duck and Lottie Blossom. Racundra </i>will also get a look in in a section called Foreign Affairs. Over-application always mean back-ache, and the sailing season, or at least MY sailing season, hasn't started yet. Just back from four lovely days in the Lakes, based with friends high behind Kendal who kindly lend me the best little writing retreat in the world.Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-67371463892691328242011-01-23T19:26:00.000+00:002011-01-23T19:26:54.287+00:00New LookAt long last I have got round to editing the freshened up website that Susie and Joe have created for me. Christmas is now just a warm memory of family gatherings and love. Time to start on those New Year Resolutions. It's good to have a fresh book on the stocksChristina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-88559927153916481292010-10-04T07:42:00.001+01:002010-10-04T07:43:58.418+01:00Muz-Art<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TKlzxaAExOI/AAAAAAAAANg/XKR8VgVxvu4/s1600/IMG_0073.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TKlzxaAExOI/AAAAAAAAANg/XKR8VgVxvu4/s320/IMG_0073.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Our Norwegian relations invaded London in a big way last weekend - My nephew Ole-Marius had an exhibition of his extraordinary photographs at the Royal Albert Hall. It's called <a href="http://www.royalalberthall.com/tickets/production.aspx?id=13190">Muz-Art</a> and shows members of the Oslo Philharmonic Orchestra in surreal and very witty settings. 'They are for you to make up your own stories' he says - and it works. Forty of them are wrapped round the circular wall in the corridor just inside the hall. My phone photos are sadly blurred, but they give an idea . . .<br />
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I have just come back from another week at Surfside, in the dunes above Godrevy Lighthouse at Gwithian Towans. Work didn't go especially well, but dreaming and walking did.<br />
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Almost decided to STOP TRYING [solitude can do that to you] but reassuring thoughts from friends and family and being back in womb of home brought comfort. Good to see David Bodanis in London; his book on the Ten Commandments sounds as if it will be very arresting. Like me, he likes to tackle something utterly new. <i>The Secret House</i>, the Einstein book, and now Moses' tablets.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TKl0kjJe0xI/AAAAAAAAANo/5mkm5ZGwHsM/s1600/IMG_0071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TKl0kjJe0xI/AAAAAAAAANo/5mkm5ZGwHsM/s320/IMG_0071.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Today Anthony, experienced forester and my New Zealand neighbour's brother, is going to attack the overgrown gages and plums. More trees need to go, I fear, and the fourfold gum should be given a second wire, he reckons. But I'll still look out on woods, not dull gardenscape.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TKl1Bt5W8QI/AAAAAAAAANs/kZAhI5YDkpQ/s1600/IMG_0078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TKl1Bt5W8QI/AAAAAAAAANs/kZAhI5YDkpQ/s320/IMG_0078.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>On Thursday off for a week of October in the Lakes - determined not even to TRY to write<br />
<span id="goog_1908000459"></span><span id="goog_1908000460"></span>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-36442254142823718582010-08-01T08:12:00.006+01:002010-08-11T21:47:46.094+01:00Inglesham to Cricklade - and back via Bablockhythe to Pinkhill<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TGMJSpUj2II/AAAAAAAAANI/pCOqVjUiOjM/s1600/Punting+2010+002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TGMJSpUj2II/AAAAAAAAANI/pCOqVjUiOjM/s400/Punting+2010+002.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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No, not all at once by any means, but on returns I have been disinclined to raise a finger to type. Spending days on end and the occasional night in the open air makes you feel both bursting with energy and deeply content; it also brings on sleep almost as soon as I subside onto sofa or bed. I've been keeping a handwritten log and taking photos which I will write up more fully and add pictures once I've moored [hopefully this morning] back in my homeport at Oxford Cruisers, Pinkhill.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TFbo1g_O0LI/AAAAAAAAAIw/3I99Z2zU950/s1600/DSC02334.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TFbo1g_O0LI/AAAAAAAAAIw/3I99Z2zU950/s320/DSC02334.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I reached Inglesham at 8.30 on Friday 23th July, where a girl was getting out of a dormobile van - she turned out to be restoring the paintings in its ancient church. Checked out the punt in its poplar tree cave, then drove off to meet my brother John and his golden retrievers Lulu and Mimi [younger relatives and hauntingly evocative of dear Angus] at Hannington Bridge so we could inspect it - we'd been warned that lumps of crumbling concrete might make it impassable. We could see the shallows and chunks of stone, but there was a deeper central channel - very fast flowing, but sills on the side of the central arch offered places to stand on to pull her through, so we decided that it was doable. So to Inglesham, where we went into the ancient church, full of scaffolding but still arresting: box pews grey with age, delicate screen, a low relief of Madonna and child, Radio 4 sounding from the restorer's eyrie in the rafters, then got aboard Dulcibella and started upstream at 9.30. We decided to take half hour shifts - calloo callay he is an excellent punter as well wonderful company - most relaxing to share the poling; I read extracts from Fred Thacker out as we progressed. We stopped for thermos coffee at 11 tied to tall rushes. John, a long term Gloucestershire gent, knew who the neighbouring landowners were, and indeed had phoned up several of them and gained much helpful information. High banks and open meadows: the river was clearly a lot lower than it could have been. A glass of cider in a little bay by a fallen tree - cue leopard style photo to parallel my one from Iran.<br />
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Soon after this the lilies and rushes and overhead willows closed in steadily. After endless bends we reached the white water challenge of Hannington Bridge. John got out and hauled her from ahead, Father Thames style, I steadied her from the side, stumbling and twice nearly losing sandal, dogs sat nobly calm inside. Amazingly, John Eade's <a href="http://thames.me.uk/s02310.htm">My Thames site</a> actually shows a NARROW BOAT going under Hannington Bridge. Must have been a wet year - though not enough to make water too high for bridge arch. Fascinating!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hannington Bridge</td></tr>
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And so on and on and on - harder work now. Met canoeists coming down stream - discovered later that David Orrie of Lechlade Angling and Outdoor pursuits hires them out, taking them up to the Red Lion at Castle Eaton so that folk can come downstream, then transporting people back to their cars. The way would have been impassable by now, but freshly sawn off fallen branches and a channel through the now cross-stream thickets of reeds signalled what we also learnt later: ten days or so ago the Environment Agency had come up and cleared the route to Cricklade - in a punt, apparently. Probably shorter than ours and maybe powered?? Still arduous punting however, sometimes needing help in narrow passages where downstream flow severe. Climbed a bank for lunch at 2 pm where we had a distant view of Kempsford church - Thacker has a splendid passage on the fugue of churches that begins with Lechlade, then Kempsford, then Fairford, then Cricklade, rising to a climax with Cirencester. Excellent bacon sarnies, cheese, dark chocolate, bananas, all washed down with cider.<br />
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Off again, and unexpectedly soon we were passing Kempsford itself; lovely ancient wall with 'master gunner's window - early Lancastrian fortification apparently; now some beautiful old houses. After a short straight flanked by rolling lawns, it was back into battle again, but at last Castle Eaton church appeared: we tied up at what looked like a common, but turned out to be garden of the Crown Prince of Croatia's country pad, and climbed a haha to visit the church. Unusual sanctus bell tower, dazzling array of tapestried kneelers. And so just minutes later, the welcome sight of the Red Lion, where we we tied up [c 7.15!] and were made very welcome by Melody, its landlady. Plan was to leave the punt there for the night, so covered her in, collected my car and hurtling by ancient byroads to Miserden, where John and Emma live: I joined them and nephew Archie [who offered his muscle on teh next Saturday] and niece Aelf [with her friend Johnnie] for supper at Tatyans, the excellent Chinese restaurant in Cirencester which mother was so fond of. Stayed night with John and Emma<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kempsford Church</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gunner's Window</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moored at Red Lion, Castle Eaton [its bridge, the next day's challenge, behind]</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>24 July [happy birthday Susie]: We set off at 8.30, courage high and hearts aglow - it was after all only three miles now to Cricklade - even planned to meet Emma for lunch in Ciren.<br />
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Ha ha. We left a car in Thames Lane, Cricklade, noting that the river still looked passable there, although much too low under the bridge under the High Street. Got back to Castle Eaton and set off at 9.30. First challenge was Castle Eaton bridge - wider but shallower, and much wading, even by dogs, required. Some fine stretches, but much overhanging willow and the current ever stronger against us as the river shallowed and narrowed. The Thames Path returns to the water's edge from Castle Eaton to Cricklade, and it was embarrassing to note that a party of elderly walkers - one using a zimmer frame - were outpacing us. We decided to deload by one of us walking with dogs - John took first solo punt - only to come up against impassably low willow branch - he took the hoops out, but one fell overboard - stripped nobly off to the buff and deck shoes, and probed mud with feet [me: 'Is it hoopless?', ho ho, watched with interest by friendly Antipodean walkers.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Note the speed of the flow against us</td></tr>
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Luckily located it, and tied them on safely. Shift followed shift; river shielded from view by wide banks of nettles, reeds and inaccessible thanks to high banks [due to very low water] and barbed wire stock fences. Dulcie looking rather sleek, but getting laded with snapped twigs and leaves. Insects thickening [memo:jungle formula]. We were averaging 0.5 mph. Decided to call it a day when successive shoals of gravel led to constant groundings; thick mats of weed impeded each punt stroke. But we were past both footbridges and in easy hearing of the bells of Cricklade church, and in sight of the A417. Tucked her up again, and walked on. Some parts of the river looked fine, but it was now 3.30 pm! A canoe could do it with perseverance, but we needed another three inches of water. Maybe I should have deloaded her entirely, but John needed to get back to his weekend guests. he took me back to my car at Castle Eaton, and waved farewell- I rested there - too late for lunch - over a glass of cider and perusal of Amy Woolcott's interesting Crossing Places of the Upper Thames [Melody said she had stayed there while researching and given her the book]. Nice format [Tempus] Tempting to do something similar, a modern <i>Stripling Thames</i>, perhaps.<br />
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26th July. Drizzly Monday am, but fearing the river was getting ever lower, I thought I must get her downstream a bit. I got to Cricklade at 6.45, gave her a through clean and bale out, ate breakfast under half the cover like a baby in her pram, covered everything with covers, and intrepidly [foolhardily?]set off downstream alone. It was much easier going downstream, but the shallows definitely shallower. Glad of sailing shoes. I pushed from the back, then leapt aboard as the water deepened. Think moguls almost covered with water. River could have been a full five feet higher, judging from detritus caught in the tree branches. Lots of reed warblers/buntings, cygnets - there will be a bumper flock of swans on the Thames if all survive] . Discovered that was best to paddle from the stern under overhanging branches now I was going downstream. I am becoming a connoisseur of rushes - great variety of colour, form and flowers.<br />
After spending some time extricating myself from an under water post that jammed against the hull and having rather a struggle in the fast flowing water under the bridge - entailing deloading her onto two slabs of rock and then reloading when she floated again - I reached the Red Lion at 10.30 for a well earned coffee, gingerbread and cigarillo [I know, I know, but I hardly ever have them, and only on the water - somehow the scent of the smoke makes for timeless relaxation]. On again to Kempsford, where I trespassed [with gardener's permission] to gain access to the handsome church; nave roof like school at Ewelme, amazing C15 heraldic vaulting in the transept. Paused for lunch on a wonky riverside platform [another of John's friend's eyrie] - pork pie and d.white then dozed off over Guardian. Off again at 2 pm. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>On and on - wind gusty, thrown from scylla of hawthorn to charybdis of rushes and willows; more under water branches than before, so definitely shallower: I was right to get down fast. Got to Inglesham, greeted by a swimmer from Lechlade, at 4.30; tied up opposite my previous mooring, and cleaned out the punt properly. She gleamed with pride. The swimmer came downstream as I was putting up the cover against a sudden shower, and admired her: 'Quite a little cruiser'. But the sun came out again, and decided to have a swim myself - as did two local residents. The river water feels warm and almost silken against your skin. So on to Lechlade, where the white duck was still in charge of her brood, where I tied up at the end of the New Inn's long lawn, next to a friendly narrow boat with a New Zealand couple on it. Enjoyed a glass of red from the wine locker, then had excellent steak and ale pie at the New Inn. Noted bus times to Swindon [plan was to collect car from Cricklade in the morning] slept like a log - looked out c 2 to see full moon and oily clack water reflecting a gliding swan and the bridge - so warm that I kept the cover looped up.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Night berth at the New Inn, Lechlade</td></tr>
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Tuesday 27 July. I woke with a rather numb arm and brewed up tea in the Kelly Kettle, and set off to catch the bus, admiring lovely gargoyles ont eh church and Shelley's Walk while waiting. Went very well - 30 mins to Swindon, then time for tea and excellent toast in the bus station's Octagon café, then another bus to Cricklade. Church sadly closed, even at 9.15, so into car and back home to charge phone, check on Ellie, who has just had her hand operated on, and REST.<br />
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Drove over later on Tuesday to explore Buscot and Lechlade by car and make sure New Inn didn't mind punt for another night. <br />
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Wednesday 28 July: Ian dropped me at 6 am in a very misty Lechlade on his way west. Now making splendid speed in the dawn; through St John's lock - saw mouth of the Cole - progress rather slowed by experiments with new camera on exquisite doll's house of Buscot Rectory. Through the very deep Buscot lock, I tied up to make coffee then realised I was out of water - returned to lock, but no tap - but saviours in shape of a narrow boat who provided plenty of water. Brewed the Kelly, made strong coffee and gobbled marmite sandwich, banana and dark chocolate: the ideal punting breakfast. Was feeling rather solitary; I am at the edge of everybody's life at the moment, but just then nephew Archie phoned, keen to join me on Saturday. Much cheered - and Peter G to accompany tomorrow. On; noting courtesy of approaching boats: one called out 'We've heard about you'. Clearly one of the many good Samaritans who've helped has ordered general slowdown on the sight of the GP Dulcibella. Eaton Hastings moorings: nb sign which ways 300 yards to Kelmscott: Next Mooring should insert the word 'from' where I put a colon. Eventually arrived, greeted by <i>Northern Pride, </i>the narrow boat moored next to me at Lechlade; quite a community feel to the river.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moored at Kelmscott</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Tied up in perfect spot; even a crumbling stone stair to get on the bank with, covered Dulcie up and stepped out the genuine 300 yards to Kelmscott. It was exactly 11 am and manor had just opened for its weekly Wednesday: long queue of enthusiasts from all over the world; lady let me wander in just to see garden and browse tempting shop: limited myself to a few cards but got lots of good ideas.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Morris's potting shed</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kelmscott courtyard</td></tr>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TFbwbPqBk7I/AAAAAAAAALQ/I-_FILyglac/s1600/DSCF0060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TFbwbPqBk7I/AAAAAAAAALQ/I-_FILyglac/s320/DSCF0060.JPG" /></a></div>Too shy to beg a lift, so walked along to the Plough, where I phoned a taxi - there is NO public transport: settled for £15 to Carterton, where I could get an S1 bus complete with free wi-fi to my door rather than £40 all the way home. Experimented with my ipod touch and did in fact download emails. Off at Tilbury Lane; very good to be home. Helped Ellie out in the afternoon; work has gone utterly by the board at the minute; too full of summer delights.<br />
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Thursday 29 July Peter arrived wonderfully punctually at 9 am and we did the two car trick - one at Tadole Bridge and other at Kelmscott. He was great company; enjoying map reading and navigating, and appreciating the little ship aspect of the voyage. Brewed up the Kelly kettle c. 11 am after Grafton lock, and arrived in Radcot by 12. Saw Tom Freeman again, and he offered aluminum poles and said D welcome any time. Cider and a glass of white for Peter, then on again, lunch after Radcot lock at 1.15. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TFbzB_z3cDI/AAAAAAAAAL4/6Dbu7R5wqJU/s1600/DSCF0078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TFbzB_z3cDI/AAAAAAAAAL4/6Dbu7R5wqJU/s320/DSCF0078.JPG" /></a></div>After lunch Peter punted - very impressively too since the first time since Oxford. Lovely to be chauffeured; I fell fast asleep in the sunshine. Through Rushey lock by 3.30 and tied up just before Tadpole Bridge at 4.00 - perfect day.<br />
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Saturday 30 July. Archie arrived 8.30, bless him, and we left a car at Bablockhythe then went on to Tadpole. Off by 9.15, at hectic pace, thanks to Archie's strong arms [he reinvented the P Davison horizontal technique] and a favourable wind: I have sewn a seam in Isfahan [plastic] picnic rug so that it can be pulled over the hoop - on Peter's advice, the front one - as a sail. At times so fast that no poling possible: all strength into the steering!<br />
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We also saw the Environment Agency's <i>Reliant</i>, a narrow boat evidently engaged on tidying up the willows and banks - way down much clearer than it had been. They are also doing works on several of the lock weirs. Good for them.<br />
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Shifford Lock by 11.15, my kingfisher foot bridge c 12, lunch 12.30 Maybush at Newbridge, which we reached faster than the rather neat two man inflatable 'Colorado' canoe which we had seen getting ready to go on the river as we left Tadpole. Archie took some excellent photos of Dulcibella going under Newbridge - nice comparison with Gipsy's voyage of two years before.<br />
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On again, arriving at Bablockhythe at 3 pm: perfect timing to collect my car and wave Archie off, lion suit and all, to his fancy dress ball in Wiltshire.<br />
Sunday 1 August: Jamie followed my car to Oxford Cruisers, then drove me to Bablockhythe. Took me about two hours going very leisurely, rather tired in truth.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-33610218614436843982010-07-20T11:22:00.002+01:002010-07-20T17:33:56.749+01:00Radcot to Lechlade and IngleshamApologies - photos yet to come and text is, like all entries so far, hurried and unpolished, trivial rather than truly interesting: a log for the record rather than real account, which will, I hope, come later, once I've been There and Back Again and can reflect.<br />
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Watching the weather like a hawk in search of a favourable slot, I identified Sunday 18 July late afternoon into evening and Monday morning as promising: nearly a week later, but even such a fine seaworthy vessels as <i>Weatherbird </i>had to sit out the storms in Cherbourg. So after a fine house-warming Sunday lunch with friends in Hatford, near Pusey, I drove to Radcot with victuals and pyjamas. <i>Dulcibella</i> was snug and dry, and Triton, the lagoon's owner had found the note I tied to her when I checked her out on Thursday. Blessings on his head. I set off (pic right) at 5.40 pm, while other boaters were tying up, and made excellent progress. There were still a few sharp gusts, but when they passed, it was easy-going. Grafton Lock was not far, and the keeper still on duty. Apparently an otter had been sighted further up: maybe I would see him on a future overnight.<br />
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Kelmscott, where I had planned to overnight, turned up at 7.40, sooner than I expected and was crowded with boats: crews tramping to The Plough, just 300 yards up the road. I was tempted, but there was still so much light that I decided to keep going. Passed a bay full of swallows swooping and some fine moorings at Eaton Hastings footbridge: this was where my collapsing mast arrangement on <i>Gipsy</i> collapsed during my <i>Gipsy on the Thames</i> adventure a couple of years ago.<br />
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Coots and herons brought to mind the first poem I ever recited: Tennyson's 'The Brook'. I realised that I had never really understood what 'I come from haunts of coot and hern' meant. Encountered a buxom inflatable, almost spinning in circles as one man paddled ineffectually and his companion laughed at him but still making good progress with wind and current. 'I was there an hour and a half ago, I said, which cheered them. My own plan was a jar in the pub I presumed I would find at Buscot, but walkers who told me it was only five minutes on warned that there wasn't one. Lovely weir and backwater as I approached - which would in truth be the last good overnight place, but I was tempted to go through that lock too.<br />
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Considered tying up at Buscot and walking to the village, but if it was all closed, it struck me that it would be better to explore on the way down, when a National trust tea-rooms promised light lunches as well as coffees and teas. This attitude rules my upstream progress: my plan is to make lots of diversions on the way down. After Buscot, the river, for the first time since Swinford Bridge, runs in hearing of the road, a great disincentive to stop. Hoping that it would veer away, I went on and on, water still as glass now. A huge hairpin, then one back again, on which I startled two silver-haired love-birds in the cockpit of their little cruiser. <i>Dulcibella</i> is so silent: maybe I should start gondolierish singing as I curl around corners. Quite a few people simply don't notice her passing at all. The flowers are many and various; it is perhaps the best time of year for them. I must identify them from my book: predominantly purple loosestrife, vetches, rosebay willowherb and a splendid fat pink thing a little like a snapdragon on steroids.<br />
Dusk falling, and I began to eye up moorings. Had just decided to go a little further than a welcoming willow cage when I saw the transom of what was evidently the first of many - and the edge of a blue LOCK notice. I poled back to a bay out of sight of them, and tied bow to an ash sapling and stern to a willow bush. A swan hove to hopefully, then veered away.<br />
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About to phone Ellie to reassure her that mother was safe and well [how roles reverse] when I saw a message from brother John, who lives near Cirencester: I'd emailed him to ask if he would like to join me for the Conquest of Cricklade, and he was very keen: he also has acquaintances who live on or near the river above Lechlade, where I could perhaps leave <i>Dulcie</i> securely. Put most of the hood up; very cosy, discovered that there was still a little cider to drink a toast to myself, and chomped bread and cheese and fruit until comfortably full. Bats wheeling, a half moon rising, fine cloud effects. Found torch and suspended it from the centre hoop: I have all mod cons, including a useful small bucket, aboard. Slept very well; then saw light through small mousehole in the cover.<br />
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Five am. Drank cold tea, rolled up cover, and poled off at 5.30. St John's Lock was just around the corner, Lechlade's lance of a church spire framed in its bridge very beautifully. My way, hurray - as they all have been so far. Somewhere here is the entrance to the Colne: I must see how far up it I can go on the way down. So into the wide waters meandering up to Lechlade. No hurry at all, I realised, so at about 6 I tied up under a dead hawthorn, and fired up the Kelly Kettle with a few pages from my notebook and twigs broken off the tree. Boiled in two minutes; and although tea slightly strange tasting [carbonated water? use of coffee pot for tea?], it was hot and wet. On to the peacefully slumbering town, following a welcoming flotilla of eighteen swans and a very bossy Aylesbury duck that seemed to be in charge. Under bridge, past pub where <i>Gipsy </i>entered the water, past boatyards and up to the Round House, as I had sailed in her. But this time I went under its little wooden bridge, and peeped into the beginning of the long-disused Thames/Severn canal, then on in tranquility [though a small cruiser with fishermen aboard was also up there]. Passed point where Thames Path veers away to the road and Inglesham Church, and found where John's connection lived: no signal for mobiles, but they kindly let me phone him. He was a bit poorly, but so keen to come later that I decided to moor under a vast poplar and start again on Friday, when weather looks once more promising. Had a thorough boat-turnout: a remarkable amount of foliage gets in; I also needed to scoop water from below the bottom boards. She is evidently still taking up slightly, Very satisfying to clean her all up: I left cushions standing at attention to dry damp underneath. Watch over her, river gods.<br />
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</div>Just for the record: left idyllic under willow berth (above) for a very peaceful punt in windless conditions around the innumerable bends between Rushey Lock and Radcot Lock. Excellent lunch of baked potato and coronation chicken at The Swan at Radcot; then a swim and Martin arrived to take me to collect my car. We went on upstream in search of a safe place to leave her, as the next few days inclement and busy, and luckily met a man who offered the hospitality of his lagoon - so she is now tucked up safely there.<div><br />
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</div>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-91462101641216098502010-07-12T05:42:00.003+01:002010-07-12T07:59:43.513+01:00Up the Stripling Thames: Pinkhill to Tadpole BridgeOn last Monday evening, I punted Dulcibella out of the Oxford Cruisers boatyard basin and back on to her willow-hung mooring, accompanied by the at that moment substantial Nutwood household (nephew Adam Talib, fanatic rower Felicity Hawksley, god-daughter Holly Scutt). Graeme has done a wonderful job: she gleams like a chestnut. The 1.25 inch aluminium tube, sent with great dispatch by metals4UK, and with its ends plugged with short sections of banister posts is a great success: the hand can grip on the curve of the wood tips very satisfactorily, and the extra length (5 metres rather than the usual 14 ft) means you get extra impetus at the end of each stroke. The double-ended racing pole from Collars feels heavy in comparison, although it is infinitely lighter than the usual pole.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TDqcziYtn-I/AAAAAAAAAG4/TbJJaJKGqdE/s1600/Pinkhill+lock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TDqcziYtn-I/AAAAAAAAAG4/TbJJaJKGqdE/s320/Pinkhill+lock.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> dry; he was just poling over in a tender with a bike and a rucksack. I made better time than I had expected to, led for almost the entire length of the way to Bablockhythe by a swan. Coffee and a swim, then on again. Friendly <i>Barnaby </i>passed me, but I caught her up at Northmoor Lock; shortly afterwards I caught her up again as she had stopped for lunch - and called out an invitation. Realised I was ravenous after four hours of poling (note to self: always bring more food than you think you will need) and accepted enthusiastically. All very trim below decks with a stove and fire-irons: Karen and Keith Sutcliffe have been living on her for five years now, having expected only to do so for two. I can see the attraction: they seem to have been on every inch of navigable water. Wolfed two large sandwiches, cider and a cup of tea, then off again. Ingeniously, they tracked me down on the web and sent what I rarely get: a photo of <i>Dulcie</i> and her mistress and owner.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TDqgRRMp6oI/AAAAAAAAAHA/WUgcG1O2qVM/s1600/Dulcie+from+Barnaby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TDqgRRMp6oI/AAAAAAAAAHA/WUgcG1O2qVM/s320/Dulcie+from+Barnaby.jpg" /></a>After an hour or so, I was feeling rather sleepy, and the wind was rising, so when a passing narrow boat offered me a tow, I accepted gratefully. <span id="goog_237643001"></span><span id="goog_237643002"></span>In no time at all, Newbridge came into sight, and I thanked them and was set free to pole in under my own steam. <i>Barnaby</i> passed me as I did so - I expect they guessed that I had cheated.</div>Noted the enticing entrance to the Windrush, then moored by the Maybush, much less frantic than the Rose Revived. Ellie had very kindly offered to pick me up, and brought Sam and Olivia with her. Every one is very friendly on the river: caravanners interested, and an ex-Cherwell boathouse man admired her. So back home for Bridge at Abingdon and then an extremely well-earned sleep. Up at 5.30 and had cast off from Newbridge at 6.20, with lots of stores on board. Wind was forecast, and soon the glassy calm of dawn began to ruffle. I saw a kingfisher: heavenly flash of blue. Also brushing close to a huge reed bank found myself nose to beak with a tiny and very surprised reed warbler. A heron lifted off on lazy wings, two sets of swans and cygnets. July is a lovely time for flowers: yellow water lilies, many different flowering rushes, and banks brazen with purple (loosestrife?), yellow and pink. Am keeping going upstream, noticing places to explore further on the way down. Fred Thacker's <i>The Stripling Thames</i> is a sterling guide. Passed the entrance to the old river course to Duxford, the Roman ford, through Shifford Lock, again self-service, and so on around the huge loop around Chimneys Nature Reserve, punctuated by Martello towers. Wind rising, but the trees were so tall and the banks so hedged that not much was getting through - I remember this being very slow going sailing <i>Gipsy</i> down two years ago. A punt is indeed perfect up here. Noticed a lovely shallow beach for swimming/overnighting just before pylon wires crossed the river. Got to The Trout at Tadpole Bridge at 11 o'clock, and had to wait half an hour for a much needed coffee - even considered begging biscuits from a party of picknickers, but luckily found I'd packed a jar of cashew nuts. Tucked <i>Dulcie</i> up in her cover, and booked in for lunch the next day [mooring is an eye-watering £25 a night unless you eat there]. Back home in time to buy lunch for Daisy James and Fox, which we had in the garden. Fox delightful, wreathed in smiles. Olivia's birthday party in the afternoon and a lovely family evening. After a morning of gardening, off again to the river. After lunch, I punted Daisy James & Fox halfway to Rushey Lock, where we found a fine mooring under a willow, and all swam. Weather said (wrongly) to be about to change, so tucked her up again and so home.<br />
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After much discussion and struck by fact that 23 million Brits have signed up to it, I have joined facebook, though unsure of what will be gained from it. I am interested in the secret of its fascination. Company? Distraction? The ultimate global village?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-51341032776666871392010-06-10T06:55:00.002+01:002010-06-11T12:00:21.264+01:00Surrey Gardens<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TBIVjN6O4aI/AAAAAAAAAF8/jjRAbZLetWY/s1600/Munstead+Wood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TBIVjN6O4aI/AAAAAAAAAF8/jjRAbZLetWY/s320/Munstead+Wood.jpg" /></a></div>Tuesday 8 June: Drove off to Esher at dawn's crack in pouring rain to pick up Peter for our tour of Surrey gardens and houses created by Jekyll and Lutyens. The main attraction was Munstead Wood, star of Jekyll's <i>Home and Garden</i>. The famous 3 bedroomed 'hut' is now a private home sadly, but it was fascinating to see inside Munstead Wood - Like Vanessa Bell Jekyll was an adorner of her own dwellings, an amazing craftswoman. Wrought iron window and door latches; overmantel plasterwork, motherofpearls in lay on doors, a charmign wooden cellar door.<br />
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Woodlands rich in Rhododendrons and azaleas - and amazing Himalayan lilies. <br />
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White foxglove everywhere - nb put my seedlings out in the rose bed when they are sturdier<br />
I have forgotten name of everywhere ground cover which I have a couple of roots of - perhaps epimedia? Will try it out under the gumtree.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TBIW39pXLZI/AAAAAAAAAGM/sOCsl5Xjeqk/s1600/Quadrangle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TBIW39pXLZI/AAAAAAAAAGM/sOCsl5Xjeqk/s320/Quadrangle.jpg" /></a></div>Perhaps most stunning and interesting for ideas was The Quadrangle - once the working heart of the garden, with steps leading up to seed room and places for horses and carts behind - Jekyll acquired a lovely barn and had it put there. Gail a real plantswoman with lots of ideas to be copied.<br />
Garland - a lovely climbing rose<br />
Miss Willmott's Ghost - Erygnium - mad grey/white thistle - a must have plant; I have ordered two.<br />
Epimedia [ I think] great ground cover in dry place<br />
Chase up Golden Hop<br />
Get lots of scented geraniums<br />
Anemone RoseChristina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-5896173990742829792010-06-10T06:46:00.002+01:002010-07-12T05:05:03.047+01:00Catching upAfter a gentle reproach from a follower of this blog, I wrote a long catch up post after not writing anything since February, but I think I must have published it and quit while offline, as it has all disappeared. Not a tragedy on the level of Carlyle's discovery that his book on the French Revolution had been used as kindling, but disconcerting. Moral is write little and often perhaps.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TBFHijoyq9I/AAAAAAAAAF0/rZYWRxJziQ4/s1600/Pink+rose+porch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/TBFHijoyq9I/AAAAAAAAAF0/rZYWRxJziQ4/s320/Pink+rose+porch.jpg" /></a></div>Much gardening and grandmothering has happened, and I have achieved a longfelt desire to live in a house with pink roses around the front door, reviewed countless audiobooks and risen to the challenge of deciding what the best of the year were, and made slow progress on <i>Alice</i> - perhaps it is a mistake to carve it into history mystery mode rather than straight fictional life. Most fun seeing the finished <a href="http://www.naxosaudiobooks.com/435912.htm">Pleasures of the Garden.</a><br />
my audiobook anthology of great writings on gardens and gardening. All had to be out of copyright, but Genesis to Jekyll offered a good deal of scope. Great to hear that Wisley, high temple of the Royal Horticultural Society have ordered more copies.<br />
<i>Dulcibella</i>, my camping punt, is now looking utterly beautiful; today Alan, artist-in-residence at Oxford Cruisers was inscribing her name in floriferous characters along her sides. Graham is planning to put her in the next day or so to take up [which will mean sinking down], then will attach the fittings once she floats again. I need to finish off the bottom boards - nearly there, and arguably enough done, but one more coat would be worth it I think.<br />
Had a splendid anglo-Norwegian croquet match at Colin and Prue Reynolds' Rose Island a few weeks ago, and at last saw the lazy-susie arrangement on which their doll's house revolves. We have developed a much simpler idea: I got a solid as a rock round table from Kings of Bicester, recycled Thai wheel by the look of it, and following up and idea of Ian's, Brian and I have put four domes of silence castors under the (extremely heavy) house. Tomorrow Brian will make a deep hole in the centre of the table and put a massive steel bolt to prevent it form slipping sideways as it revolves. Very exciting.<br />
Sailing at West Oxfordshire proving most enjoyable - people are so friendly and the Moth is outstanding in the current very light winds; will be interesting to see what happens when it blows harder.Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-73542414407575862492010-02-02T07:15:00.000+00:002010-02-02T07:15:27.625+00:00Waking by Moonset<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/S2fLl5HIv-I/AAAAAAAAAD0/OcyjkcF-C44/s1600-h/DSC01576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/S2fLl5HIv-I/AAAAAAAAAD0/OcyjkcF-C44/s320/DSC01576.JPG" /></a></div>Staying in a low-browed surf-shack on the furthermost tip of the sand-dunes of the Towans, near Gwithian, a post-Christmas break postponed by the deep freeze in early January. Sad that Oliver couldn't come, but Meredith is the perfect companion. We each have a table in the roomy sun-porch, hers for gouache sketches of Godrevy lighthouse [visible in the photo through the righthand window], the ever-changing sea, sand and sky; mine for laptop and notebooks. The book is hiccupping along - I still feel I am writing parodies not my own stuff, but it is interesting to talk to Meredith and compare the problems of painting and writing. I know I have a facility, but that is a long way from the imaginative leap that it takes to write fiction in my own voice. Still, spirits always rise when there's an unlimited horizon, and such good company. This morning I plan to get deeper into my cast; to write about them longhand in the way I can so easily talk about them. This is a sensational place - as there is a full moon I have been waking by moonset: first dramatically black and silver, then as dawn rises, the pearliest pink, like a ghost of the sun. <span id="goog_1265093039906"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/S2fNqtgoPuI/AAAAAAAAAD8/Le_Yp0DiCsU/s1600-h/DSC01559.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/S2fNqtgoPuI/AAAAAAAAAD8/Le_Yp0DiCsU/s320/DSC01559.JPG" /></a></div>We see St Ives at night as bold garlands of gold beads scattered on the distant headland to the south west. Walking northwards around the cliffs above the lighthouse, we looked down vertiginous cliffs to a bevy of seals relaxing on the beach. There were two newborns tucked under the shelter of the cliff, and a great bull guarding the approach from the sea from the rocks. These furthest reaches of Britain have a romance all their own. I've been dipping into the original and ascerbic Ruth Manning-Sanders <i>West Country</i>, written many years ago for Batsford: made me want to go to the Scillies next - and to get a book she refers to by Walter Besant with the wonderfully seductive title <i>Armorel of Lyonesse</i>.Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-36598553089633103562010-01-05T08:04:00.005+00:002010-01-14T18:41:12.260+00:00New Year in the Taylorean<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/S09hRGD92zI/AAAAAAAAADU/watRSYXODeY/s1600-h/Taylorian+at+Xmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/S09hRGD92zI/AAAAAAAAADU/watRSYXODeY/s320/Taylorian+at+Xmas.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Somehow messed up my last post - I was trying to correct a name in my Arts and Crafts gardens post, and instead it inserted itself for a second time. So this is just a temporising post to make sure it is eradicating it. Oxford has been alpine for the last week and a half, glorious in some ways - especially when the snow is out and one could go for a tramp, but when icy and treacherous and grey, spirits dulled. The Taylor Institute Library is the most wonderful place to work; it may soon replace ST D's in my affections. A perfect cube, lined with soaring bookcases of golden old wood; busts on the mantelpiece and a real clockwork mantel clock and one of those calendars that you physically change the numerals of. The silent concentration of the readers is almost tangible: you can feel it around you far more powerfully than the quiet click of keyboards, occasional creak of a tall door and footsteps, and the sea-like noise of traffic muted by the closed windows. Until Twelfth Night, the busts wore Father Xmas hats. Christmas was wonderful, with Gillian, Phil and Adam conquering the kitchen, musical crackers and a large salmon trout donated by a fisherman at Farmoor on Boxing Day. <br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">New Year weekend brought Tilly and Co, and Ben took to baking in a big way. Daisy and Co came again too: Fox mastered the art of pouring tea, but was happiest of all when on the phone. That weekend was also the last time we enjoyed the daily donations of Edith, Maisie and Gladys: the day after they left, a real fox, perhaps two, made bold by the cold weather, ventured into the garden on a midday raid. The thick snow that fell the next day revealed just how busy foxes had become inthe garden - they are evidently occupying the old badger sett. Lesson learnt: I shall get more hens in May, but keep a much more careful eye on them - and no free-ranging until I get a puppy, maybe two. At least they have been spared the week or more of bitter weather we've just had - and they certainly had a wonderful life while it lasted<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/S09kb8u74oI/AAAAAAAAADs/spDi5c6wtVo/s1600-h/Last+glimpse+of+the+Hens.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/S09kb8u74oI/AAAAAAAAADs/spDi5c6wtVo/s400/Last+glimpse+of+the+Hens.jpg" /></a><br />
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</div>Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8622630127654034364.post-66577574646182438752009-12-09T09:45:00.003+00:002009-12-09T11:11:01.776+00:00Just for the RecordThe garden is declining into hibernation mode, though the view from my window always lifts the spirits. High sky and the slopes of Wytham Woods, the great pine tree more visible as the tulip trees scatters its gold on the grass, the twin-spired holly determinedly solid, the low sun illuminating the silvery-grey bark of the soaring branches of the eucalyptus both at dawn and sunset. Gladys, Edith and Maisie didn't know quite what to make of the first frost, but I put a thick fleecy rug over the top of the hen-coop and under the waterproof sheet that covers that half of their closed run in the hope that it would be a little less chilly of a night. Still three eggs a day, regular as clockwork. There is nothing quite like the warmth and softness of the early morning just-laid egg. <br />
I'm at St Deiniol's again, but four days of staring at what feels unconscionably bad writing has had a dispiriting effect. Maybe the trouble is that I have been doing too much reading among the ponderous scholarly articles on aspects of the fifteenth century, and it has infected my style. I am writing good history but bad fiction. Retreat and regroup: I read through all the excellent advice on writing fiction I'd garnered, and rearranged my now vast library of photocopies in a more logical order. Then I ordered up a couple more history mysteries from amazon and promised myself a diet of them when I get home. Although Christmas is nearing, I'm determined not to let it drop as it is so hard to gather together forward impetus. Point of view is a major problem. The book I began and have now relegated to number two in the series was far more bouncy and vivid - I was then not taking Alice's P of V. So maybe I should go back to her being seen from a distance [cf Gladys Mitchell]. More light and laughter needed. OR an total rethink: a quite different non-fiction group biography along the line of Phyllis Rose's brilliant C19 Parallel Lives: the interlaced stories of Alyce, Cecily Neville, Margaret Beaufort, Jacquetta Woodville, Duchess of Buckingham. Could be rather fun! Assembly of Ladies/City of Ladies??No, neither right . . . <br />
Also strayed into the modern literature section - all manner of distracting treasures, including RS Thomas galore, Tolkein, Goudge, C S Lewis. Settled on Seton's <i>Katherine</i> as the nearest to appropriate reading<br />
Interesting people here as ever - one put me on to a book called <i>The Library at Night</i>. I looked it up on the internet and found <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2008/apr/27/society">this review</a> from the Observer 2008 and promptly orderd both it and the author Alberto Manguel's <i>History of Reading</i>. So coming home should be a cornucopia of good things - to say nothing of continuing to listen to Naxos's magnificent new unabridged <i>Kim</i>, wisest, funniest and most haunting of books. <br />
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</div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/Sx9yZ7PPZ7I/AAAAAAAAADM/GKSuYkAvk8E/s1600-h/DSC01385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/Sx9yZ7PPZ7I/AAAAAAAAADM/GKSuYkAvk8E/s200/DSC01385.JPG" /></a>The grandchildren have been a great delight - it was Fox's 1st birthday on 7 Nov and I went to Tilly and Tom's house in Isleworth so that we could all go up together. Ben scooted with magnificent aplomb alond the embankment, past the Tower and to Browns, where the tea party was happening. A fortnight later they came down to ride on Cumbria, a steam train from Furness that was visiting the Wallingford and Cholsey Railway. Great fun had by all.<br />
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</div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/Sx9rQidoxAI/AAAAAAAAAC8/crZRFXyGhvs/s1600-h/DSC01372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_BS3rC7dhADw/Sx9rQidoxAI/AAAAAAAAAC8/crZRFXyGhvs/s320/DSC01372.JPG" /></a>Granny Thursdays have been going well to - I am now much less ambitious about what I do with Sam and Olivia, and have realised that there are quite enough adventures to be had at Nutwood itself without making extra excursions. Wonderful chaos ensued from my bright idea of letting them cutting open the huge and unhandy compressed bag of wood shavings for lining the hencoop all over the kitchen floor, so that we could bag it up again. Everyone and everything was soon soused in the curiously adhesive stuff. S&O decided that they were chickens themselves and laid eggs [popped quickly under them by me] vigorously. Most days it has been fine enough to get a little gardening done - the bulbs they planted last month are already foolishly snouting through the earth, and the broad beans are over six inches high. The castle Ian found in a charity shop is also proving most popular. <br />
Bridge thrives; Robin's and my thinking on play coinciding nicely, and we distinguished ourselves in duplicate at the Ferry the week before last apparently, winning two bottles of wine. Surely some mistake! I will miss Edward's amusing and instructive lessons on Friday morning, but now that Thursdays are lost, I can't afford another morning off. I'm aware that I'm probably losing myself too much in bridge, but for the moment, during this year of recovery, it seems no bad thing. A great gains are my new Mondays at the Taylorian with Fiona: a study buddy seems to do us both good; she battling with Salome, me with Alyce.<br />
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</div>I am beginning to see the shape of next summer - a trip to the Channel Islands in June to look at gardens, and a camping punt adventure on the Thames - to see how far beyond Lechlade I can get. Good web contact with John Eade, whose magnificent Thames guide site <a href="http://thames.me.uk/">Where Smooth Waters Glide</a> I have already been enjoying. His book list, under Resources, is dangerously seductive. The punt is now in the I hope gentle care of Oxford Cruisers - though getting it there was not without incident. It was so contrarily-windy and fast-flowing in the wrong direction that the boss decided to help me with a tow, but thrashed past at such a lick in a narrow boat as he tossed the rope [I standing on the foredeck]shouting 'hang on tight!' that a wiser bird wouldn't have attempted to catch it. I did, then saved my skin by dropping flat on my face on the deck. Luckily my feet hooked around the edge of the deck, otherwsie nothing would have stopped me plunging into the fast-flowing and icy water. The sensation was not unlike water-skiing. I managed to get a better purchase on the tow rope by belaying it rhough the ring on the foredeck, but didn't dare attempt much more. At last we were in the calmer waters of the marina and I thankfully let go and poled <i>Dulcibella</i> onto the slip. Note to self: don't be quite so foolhardy. I should have let go a] straight away or b] as soon as I realised that I was in dire straits. On the plus side, I did it!<br />
Very enjoyable time recording introduction and links for <i><a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Pleasures-Garden-Various/dp/1843793598">Pleasures of the Garden</a></i>, the 4 CD anthology of gardening writing from Genesis to Jekyll at a little studio in Stonesfield on 30 November. It'll be out in April. And a <i>Woman's Hour</i> Christmas special to look forward to pre-recording on 18 December. So life is full of good little things, even if my dreams are a little bedraggled.Christina Hardymenthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08969892657333738939noreply@blogger.com2