Left luggage

It's always the little things. People in your life leave tiny imprints on it, and even if they leave, the marks are still there. Little things that, out of nowhere, will remind you of someone, sometimes someone you haven't thought of in years.

My best friend changed the way I prefer my "leverpostejmadder" (open sandwich with a sort of liver paté; very much a Danish thing). I now actually prefer them with tomato slices on top - before I became friends with her, it was always-always cucumber. (She also taught me that true love is best shown by making pancakes early in the morning)

An ex boyfriend inspired me to change from monthly to daily disposable contact lenses (and thus improved my life without even knowing it).  Another ex gifted me (not deliberately I'm sure) with a profound aversion to men who have nicknames for their member.  An unsolicited dick pic is one thing; actually being formally introduced to it is quite another. I mean, what are you supposed to do? Shake hands with it (how??) and say "pleased to meet you; I do look forward to working with you??"    Yet another ex left me with an expensive taste in alcohol and a slightly more adventurous palate (though nothing beats the guy who treated me to my first taste of frogs legs, steak tartare, and escargots, all in one hedonistic weekend).   And for years, I would habitually buy a certain kind of chocolate whenever I saw it on sale, only later to wonder why on earth I'd done that when I didn't even like it.

You may not even notice the subtle ways in which people influence you. And you can't really get rid of the memories, even if you may want to.  You can purge your life of the physical evidence - stuffing old pictures into a drawer, deleting old e-mails (or filing them away so efficiently you'll never find them again), looking at an old poster and then deciding to leave it up because, sod it, you like it more than you miss him. You go through all the motions, and you feel better for it, and then a tiny thing - something you didn't even share, but maybe saw in a shop and thought he might like - will send you reeling.

I once had a love ring (you might have called it an engagement ring, but that would imply a certain question having been asked, and yes having been the answer, and we never got quite that far). I wore it on the ring finger on my left hand. I still have the ring stashed away somewhere, in a place so secret even I cannot find it. And to this day, whenever I think about a love that didn't last, I have a dull ache in my left ring finger. Like a phantom pain in a lost limb, except it isn't the limb that is missing. 

Postcard from England, part III (subtitled: punting on the Thames)

Remember when we sent actual postcards, in the post, when we went on holiday? They always arrived long after we came home but that was part of the charm, sort of (what wasn't so charming was writing dozens of them, trying to write something different in each one as if the recipients were bound to compare them and would be disappointed if the same phrase appeared on different cards...)

This is the modern version; it also arrives long after my return, so there's a bit of nostalgia for you right there.

On my last vacation day I went up to Henley-on-Thames. They had a "traditional boat festival" going on, however, I was seeing a friend who was participating with a vessel that was neither traditional nor a boat.

And I totally forgot to take a picture of the thing,

so this is a pic I stole from his facebook page, 

totally without permission

(hope I'm forgiven? :-)

I did, of course, remember to take a selfie.

Goes without saying...

That, my friend, is an Alvis Stalwart - an amphibious truck used by the British army from the mid-sixties onwards. Very cool thing to have sitting on your driveway.  And it lets you see the town from a different angle:

The Stolly wasn't the only amphibious vehicle around. There were quite a few, including this stylish one: 

aaaand into the water she goes

This makes a nice change from the usual

Sunday drive down to the pub, I think

One thing I love about England is they do events like this so well.  You can always be sure to see a couple of elderly gentlemen, totally dressed the part.   And find a nice place to sit down for a cup of tea. Or a glass of Pimms.  And there is always, always catering for your canine friend as well :-)

Alas, end of journey. The evening was spent on the terrace of an airport hotel, wine in hand, interrupting an otherwise interesting conversation every 2-3 minutes with "ooohhhh, LOOK - a PLANE!!!"

More travel to follow. Autumn plans include Hamburg, Berlin and, of course, the United States.  Can't wait :)

Postcard from England, part II (subtitled: all the pics I didn't take)

Waaaay back in the days - 2006 or thereabouts - my then-boyfriend gave me a camera. A pink Sony point-and-click thing, which proved remarkably durable.  It got clogged up with sand in Dubai which messed up the shutter mechanism; then about a month later I dropped it on the medieval streets of Carcassonne in France which not only did the camera survive; it fixed the shutter thing as well. Awesome little pink gadget.

The pink camera and its blue successor were my trusty companions on all the trips I took the next 6-7 years. But then I strayed. I bought an iPhone. And the camera mostly stayed home.

I love my iPhone to bits and pieces, and where would I be without Instagram, Snapchat, etc. etc. etc. - but I've never quite mastered taking good pictures on the run (mostly when driving) the way I did with the camera. Or at least, the successrate is remarkably lower.  Also, I'm way better at taking pictures on the sly when I'm using my camera instead of my phone :)

So whilst driving around the Cotswolds in my own terrific company, there were hundreds of pictures I didn't take.

And therefore, you won't see

...the lady who had lunch with her cat in a pub (it had its own plate and everything)
...the man who trimmed the edge of his lawn with scissors (a variety of garden pedantry I invariably associate with the English although it may be more widespread than I realise)
...the impossibly beautiful landscapes that are everywhere
...the pile of horse dung advertised for sale at the edge of the road, and the horse that made a contribution to it the very moment I drove past
...the man who told me he was in room number 4x4 (and no, I didn't go. Not only was I not tempted; I also didn't quite catch whether he said 404 or 414 and with my luck there is no doubt I would have ended up in the wrong room) (which would have made for a very interesting blog post indeed - but, no. Just no)
...the Indian family who had dinner at one of the hotels I stayed at. Never have I seen such gorgeous saris; never have I had a heartburn so bad as the extremely spicy curry they shared with me resulted in. Hot food and me clearly don't mesh well.

But you do get to see the gorgeous market hall (1627) in Chipping Campden





And the NatWest bank in Evesham (now, why doesn't my bank live in a building like this??)

You can see the canal in Lower Slaughter...

And one of the houses I might buy there

This WWI memorial totally reminds me of Downton Abbey.  I have no idea where it is - downside to driving around without an actual plan or route is that you tend to forget where you've been :/

....and ze family butcher (which always makes me want to pop my head round the door and ask, "how much to do mine?"   (please tell me I'm not the only one with such a bad sense of humour)  (hello??) 

Postcard from England, part I (subtitled:because I'm worth it)

I don't usually travel much during the summer months. Something to do with the garden being too lovely to leave, something to do with being intoxicated by the very thought of three whole weeks with absolutely zero schedule to adhere to, and something to do with every man Jack and his extended family also being on vacation and crowding hotels, flights, and any sights I may want to see.

But not so this year. Related mostly to the previous post's "hearts broken:1 and hearts mended: .25"; the latter hovering more around .05 at the time, I felt very much in a shampoo commercial because I'm worth it frame of mind and decided to cash in some miles for a ticket to London.

A similar train of thought had me on a hellbent I'll show him  myself the whole world I can do whatever I put my mind to mission and with that particular thought in mind I abandoned my trustworthy (ahem) ally British Rail and rented a car.

It isn't so much the whole driving on the left thing. I've done that before - albeit ten years ago, and in New Zealand. But I've spent more than my fair share of hours in the passenger seat in Britain and I know that many of their roads (at least, the ones I like to explore) date back eons. Well before anyone had thought of cars, much less two cars passing. What they had thought of was hedgerows. Tall, beautiful hedgerows, hugging the side of the roads snugly.  In other words; English country lanes are NARROW.

....so I went out and rented the least narrow car I could get my grubby little hands on. But of course.

And now that I'm safely home, I can say with total confidence and more than a smidgeon of pride (possibly a dash of arrogance as well): aced it.

It was an absolute beauty to drive, and boy-oh-boy you should have seen me confidently gliding through rush-hour traffic, roundabouts, roundabouts with traffic lights in the middle, and double-roundabouts (because that's how the British roll - you can't really have enough of a good thing).

Of course, sticking mostly to aforementioned country lanes, I didn't have to worry too much about keeping to the right (left!) side of the road, there only being space for one car.

(So when I came up to this farm vehicle which had blown a tyre and dropped hay bales all over the road, I graciously told the farmer I had all the time in the world and did not at all mind waiting while they crawled back to the farm at snail's pace.  Well, it was either waiting or reversing a quarter of a mile down a winding lane, so not a difficult choice ;-)

First real stop was the teeny tiny village of Slad. Mostly because I liked the name and also because it was the home of the writer Laurie Lee whose book "Cider with Rosie" I read many many years ago and don't really remember anything much from, except the inexplicable longing for England it awoke in me.

I had lunch at The Woolpack (don't you just love the names of British pubs!), caught a glimpse of a lady sharing her lunch with a kitten, and chatted to a man who used to live on a house boat but now owned a tiny cottage in the middle of nowhere and kept chickens (instant friend!) and did odd jobs for a living. And then I drove on, with the sat nav off.

'

This area, the Cotswolds, is awash with rolling hills - decoratingly dotted with flocks of sheep -, cottages built in Cotswold stone which has a certain yellow-ish hue to it so that even on a rainy day they seem to radiate a quiet sort of glowing coziness, and village after village with enchanting names. Broughton Poggs. Great Rollright. Shipton under Wychwood. Lower Slaughter. (And Upper Slaughter of course)

My travels took me fairly close to the Welsh border and I was thus able to enjoy the melodious tunes of BBC Cymru. Very delightful; of course I didn't understand a word of it but it was thoroughly fascinating all the same (I have fond memories of Wales. One time I climbed Mt Snowdon wearing sandals. Not 100% sure why I'd embark on something so foolish, but someone told me it would be an easy stroll and that I might be able to catch a glimpse of Ireland from the summit. Of course, it was so foggy at the top that I couldn't even see the path, nevermind Ireland, but I made it. Then I caught a tiny, rattling train back down again, went to the station where a drunken Welshman I'd met earlier was loitering (with intent). He snogged me and made a number of interesting suggestions not suitable for mentioning here -or in fact anywhere-, whereupon I caught the first train out and ended up in a very rainy Birmingham. As I said, I like Wales)

It's been said that if you have a garden and a library, you'll want for nothing more. I would submit that a passport should be added to that list. But then I reckon you'll be just about covered.

Summer holiday 2016 - crunching the numbers

Bottles consumed: ten, give or take - mostly wine but also a rum that tastes of sugar canes and cabana boys 

Cigarettes smoked: far too many 

Hearts broken: 1

Hearts mended: 0.25 (rough estimate, but making progress)

Handsome men snogged: 1 (not the heartbreaker I hasten to add)

Indecent proposals received: 3-4, depending on definition 

Kilos shed: maybe 4, not sure as I don't own a pair of scales (and I haven't been dieting) but let's just say a certain pair of jeans now fit me again 

Nights spent sleeping outside: 2, plus a couple of all-nighters with no sleep 

Cleaning rampages: 2; still recovering from the last one

Trips taken: 1, and I must say that large cars and business class travel really suit me rather well

Resolutions made: more travel to be done in autumn; I bloody well deserve it

Massages had: 2, and more are in the calendar 

Haircuts: 1

Eyebrows plucked: 2, obviously- it still astonishes me that I pay good money to have pain inflicted on myself but it looks much better than my DIY attempts 

Cups of coffee consumed: not many; I ran out at the beginning of summer and only just got round to replenishing stocks 

Flower bouquets received: 1, and it came at just the right time (thank you, S)

The bearded lady (or, portrait of a chicken)

Meet Lille Pi - the lady with the Santa Claus beard :-)

Despite being named after mathematics, she isn't the cleverest of the bunch. This is the hen who will stand in the corner of the coop desperately wanting to join the others who are on the outside of the fence enjoying a bit of freedom - totally oblivious to the fact that the door to the coop is about two feet to her right. 

Her favourite pastime is digging for earthworms, preferably in the company of her bossy older sister Hønesigne (who is never in any doubt about where the gate to freedom is). 

Lille Pi is sometimes to be found napping in the shade under the hedge. She is the most adorable little hen and although a bit shy will sometimes let you pick her up for a bit of cuddling. 

Gardening with chickens - a beginner's guide to (moderate) success

Spring is here - at long last!!  I'm chitting potatoes in my windowsill (well aware that other gardeners did that months ago and will be eating new potatoes not long after I got mine into the soil) and have spent my pocket money on seed packets.

Today I got the kitchen garden kinda-sort of ready.  It was sloooow work - partly because I twisted my knee the other day and can't really bend it. Or put much weight on it. Or climb stairs. 

But I digress (which is all too easy to do when you're wallowing in self pity). The other reason why it took a bit longer than usual was my feathered assistants.  So here are a few nuggets of wisdom, should you ever decide to employ chickens on your little plot of land.

Go to your kitchen garden and survey your plot. If you're a lazy gardener like me, you mulch your garden in winter - basically this means the soil will be covered with hay from your guinea pigs, whatever grass clippings that haven't rotted away, and perhaps bits and pieces of the Christmas tree.  The bonus is that this has blocked out most of the sunlight so there won't be as many weeds as there might have been.  But now the cover needs to go, so you can get the soil ready for planting.

Remove whatever weeds there are.  This may be a challenge.  You must do your best to be one step ahead of your chickens so they don't get in your way.

You will fail at this.

A chicken on an earthworm mission is basically like you, back when you were 16 and smoking cigarettes and riding in cars with boys: convinced it is immortal and totally unwilling to let anything stand in its way.

But try your very best not to, you know, injure it with a hoe or rake over its little feet.

It also helps if you have eyes at the back of your head (people with small kids might have an advantage here), so you don't accidentally trip over your chickens when you take a step backwards...

Gardening with chickens helps you build up a healthy degree of tolerance and patience. It is not uncommon to rake over the same ground several times because your helpers have a slightly different take on the concept "neat pile".

Now it is time to get firm with them.  If you're planning on actually growing things in your kitchen garden, you'll need to find a way of keeping the chooks out for the next few months.  For me, that means that whatever pocket money I don't spend on seed packets, I spend on fencíng.

Your assistants will not appreciate this. You will be at the receiving end of resentful glares. This is something you'll just have to live with.

With the main kitchen garden done(-ish), fenced in, and ready for planting you can move on to the raised beds, assuming you have some.  I do.

Start by removing the winter duvet on the strawberries.  Feel yourself surrounded by eager little helpers, again. Cruelly restrained from working on the main plot, they happily move on to new pastures. Chickens have short memories, bless 'em.

This is the point where you decide not to plant out the new strawberry plants until your helpers have gone home for the day.  Their hind legs would mean a miserably short life for any baby plants that got in their way.  Look at these drumsticks at work:

So you move on to the next raised bed. And are immediately joined by the work force who feel that the most interesting bit of soil is the one you're working on at any given time.

You may also want to discard your gardening tools altogether. At the end of the day, tiny rakes are for amateurs. No one can comb your soil more professionally than a motivated chicken.

So if you're wondering what I've been up to since my last post, it's this. Looking after my chickens. (Also I've squeezed in a trip to Hamburg, a long weekend in London, work-work-work, fun nights out, and plenty of Viggo cuddles)

"If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need" (quote: Cicero). "And if you add chickens, you have endless entertainment" (quote: The Blogless Sister)