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The grass is always greener

The green green grass of town – best patch I could find!

To be honest dear Reader, I hate to admit it but I have felt a little blue this week. With the sale on the cottage moving forward, leaving London has actually become a reality. One would have thought that I would be leaping from The Shard (well metaphorically speaking of course) and I am….but….the prospect of moving, both thrills and terrifies me all at the same time. I can honestly say that I will be sad to say goodbye to our little home. I am an awful creature of habit and lately have been wondering how on earth I might do without all the things that I have become so accustomed to and are readily available to me, living in the Big Smoke. Sitting in a rather fashionable tapas bar in South Ken. with my oldest chum, Perdy, I was instantly reminded of some of the things that I would be giving up moving to the sticks. For example, where else but in Kensington can one wear a fur without looking conspicuous?! Sans children (a rarity these days) and talking of the old haunts of our youth with Perdy over a glass of fizz, bottle of red and several cocktails, I felt a strong magnetic force attracting me to the pavements of town. Cheered by the memory of London times past, I skipped into the cottage at midnight just before the black cab turned into a pumpkin and my dress back into a housecoat.

Waking the next day, Jerry expressed concerns that perhaps I was not ready to change my townie habits and live a quieter life in the countryside. I pondered this for a moment with a pounding head. Not ready for the countryside – what?! I already own the ubiquitous Barbour, mud-blotched wellies, stylish country hat and was about to book a day’s shooting (and cake eating!) with the lovely club of Ladies Shooting (@LadiesShooting) for my birthday! I have made passable chutney and even learned how to bake a loaf of bread! Cranford could not hope for a better arrival in the village! What on earth did Jerry mean I wasn’t ready for the good life?! Outraged, I rang my dear Mamma and the same sentiment was echoed by my darling parents who both thought that my love of handbag boutiques, journeys in black cabs and late night suppers in swanky restaurants would not be compatible with a life in the countryside. I have no idea how this impression might have been formed….and anyway, one might apportion some of the blame to one’s parents for instilling such levels of luxury expectation!

Sadly, I have to confess that my love affair with town and all things luxury began some time ago. Jerry and I are spoilt in our little corner of suburbia with all kinds of treats available on our doorstep: wine, cheese, bread, a wonderful little bookshop, baby boutiques, a designer shoe emporium, delicatessens galore and even a French traiteur. Guaranteed, it also has the one and only Londis in the country to sell artisanal produce and truffle oil! I can remember that when Primrose arrived, I spent the first few months pushing her in a bouncy Silver Cross number, heading to local yummy mummy meccas and tea salons, developing a rather expensive taste for honey lattés and cashmere babygros. Only in SW London would children be offered ‘babyccinos’…….

Primrose’s morning tipple

The ease of life in the suburbs of London had enveloped me with the comforting embrace of a downy duvet and I had taken to it like a duck to water. Maybe Jerry was right? How would I manage? Dashing out for a pint of milk or a loaf of bread in the future, might well mean ten minutes wrestling the girls into the car before driving to the nearest village shop or supermarket a few miles away. Weekday impromptu suppers with dear friends shall become a thing of the past and no doubt, I will have to trade in all pairs of heels and French Sole pumps for gumboots in various colours. Gone too, will be trips to the local library and morning walks to nursery school. Child-friendly gastropubs will be exchanged for sitting in village pub beer gardens, watching the girls clambering over rusty climbing frames and diving into mudpies. Perhaps one of the most catastrophic losses in the move (the very mention of this one brings on hyperventilation) will be my beloved hairdresser. Dear Reader, I do not have to tell YOU the importance of the perfect hairdresser who cuts and styles one’s hair just so. It took me 4 years of bad haircuts and seriously dreadful layering before I found the holy grail of hairdressing. Even now, I am loathe to give the name and number of said hair cutting fairy godmother to friends, lest they steal precious appointments! Living with the loss of my coiffeuse, thank goodness Jerry saw fit to give me the gift of a coffee machine so that I can still indulge in my daily caffeine habit and swoosh my own skinny ‘cappu’ in the mornings once we live beyond the outer edges of café civilisation.

All hail new kitchen gadget!

With all these trappings of the Big Smoke a thing of the past in 5 months’ time, one might be forgiven for thinking that the grass was most definitely not greener in the countryside. Somehow though….moving feels instinctively the right thing to do. Views of farmland, wildlife on the doorstep, game fairs and county shows, farmers’ markets and taking the dog out for a walk in the early morning mists…..I think that I could give up London for all of that. Dragging dear Mamma, Primrose and Poppy to a farmhouse surrounded by fields, only to find that it was damp from top to bottom and had 2ft of water in the cellar, I found that nothing could stifle my overwhelming desire for a country life. Primrose ran round the garden with careless abandon, whooping with delight at the vast expanse of grass and for a moment, I too, was lost in an idyllic rural reverie. I envisaged tending a kitchen garden, cooked imaginary kitchen suppers beside the Aga and basked in the light from the floor to ceiling windows hitting the parquet floor in the dining room. It was only when Mamma pointed out moist wallpaper and mouldy carpets (not to mention a bathroom reminiscent of a Victorian outhouse and farm lorries clattering down the track in front of the farmhouse drive) that I made my apologies to the estate manager. So is the countryside grass greener? Well I for one, am game enough to give it a go! This Margot is definitely ready for a taste of the good life. Now if you could just find me a new home, dear Reader, I would be most grateful! Preferably one that isn’t under water!

I defy anyone, dear Reader, not to want to wake up to this every morning!

Is it me or does this grass look distinctly greener?

Old wives and black cats

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With the cottage having to pose as a show home this week, Poppy, Primrose and I took to hiding out in all sorts of places to avoid hovering outside, watching strangers inspecting our house from top to bottom. Eating sandwiches in a car park in the middle of Richmond Park, driving round and round nearby streets and numerous trips to cafes and our local library have all featured. Primrose reached seriously impressive levels of espionage to work out whether things had been moved in her bedroom and I crossed all fingers and toes in the hope that no one would open cupboard doors, causing all piles of ironing and clutter to spill out on to the floor! It has be said, dear Reader, that crossing one’s fingers and waiting for portents of good luck have been part of our daily rituals as we waited with bated breath for news of a potential buyer for the cottage.

Jerry and I have always been a bit superstitious. When I say a bit, dear Reader….a lone magpie always seems to spell out doom and we have always touched our collars on seeing a hearse drive by. In fact, on moving into the cottage, we found a brass shamrock with ‘Ireland’ boldly stamped on it, hanging on a nail on one of the cottage’s exposed brick walls. Imagining that any quantity of ill luck might strike us, we were far too superstitious to take it down. It is probably one of the most hideous ornaments I have ever laid eyes on but it belongs to the cottage and the golden trefoil has certainly worked its magic for us over the years. Somehow, it only seems right that we leave it for the next owner. Good karma after all.

The luck of the Irish!

Delving into some country wisdom, I discovered that Jerry and I are not alone in crossing our fingers, tipping a cap to a magpie or indeed, throwing salt over our shoulders. It would appear that superstitions are a wonderful glimpse into our countryside past and are at the heart of the British psyche, with rhymes and rituals native to almost every county in the land.

Imagine a couple of old farmers’ wives leaning over this for a gossip!

Here are but a few little snippets for you to enjoy, my dear Reader:

Magpies have long been the old country wives’ favourite superstition and the rhyme ‘One for sorrow, two for joy’ allegedly dates back to the mid 18th century. It is said that those black and white winged omens of misfortune were thought to be the very Devil in disguise! Saluting to Mr Magpie and wishing him a good morrow is commonplace but some of the other rituals are just too wonderful not to be shared! Yorkshire folk believed that the sign of the cross could help ward off the evil brought by a magpie and spitting (how vulgar!) is noted as a deterrent against the lone magpie returning in a couple of Shires. However, one of my absolute favourites has to be the flapping one’s arms (as if a bird) and cawing to imitate the magpie’s errant wife! I can’t say that this method of warding off bad luck would do anything for you other than make those around you think that you had Tourette’s syndrome but one can never tell!

On Valentine’s Day, to see a robin meant that one would marry a sailor, to see a sparrow brought a happy but poor marriage and a goldfinch, well, marrying into endless riches for the lady so lucky to see one of those! A very limited chance of seeing a real goldfinch in the Big Smoke, I would have thought. One might be better off loitering outside one of London’s many banks in the hopes of ‘netting’ another sort of gold-feathered friend! Although, all birds in the City seem to have fallen on hard times these days…

‘Red sky at night, Shepherd’s delight’ is a well-known ditty but did you know, dear Reader, that ‘If Candlemas Day be fair and bright, then Winter shall have another fight’? Candlemas Day, marks the middle of winter, halfway between the shortest day and the spring equinox and this year fell on 2nd February. If memory serves correctly, then I think that this year, it was a gloriously sunny day. A forecast of more cold weather if the superstition is to be believed.

‘Two must never pour from the same pot’ – This made me instantly think of my dear friend, Barbara! She and I have been known to both pour from the same teapot on numerous occasions. According to Steve Roud’s A pocket guide to Superstitions of the British Isles, this particular superstition was recorded in 1885 and heralds from near Barbara’s neck of the woods in the county of Worcestershire. The fate of those who pour from said same pot…..the birth of ginger-haired twins! Dear Barbara, you had better watch out! One never knows what the stork might bring next…..

In the midst of this rather delightful sojourn into countryside superstitions, I had an awful dream about my tooth falling out and woke next morning in a panic. Dreaming of teeth….the interpretations that go hand in hand with this are unpleasant to say the least! Jerry put it down to anxiety over our fate and that of the cottage. Unfortunately for me, it turned out to be more than a little prophetic as the next day whilst eating a piece of toast, one of my teeth crumbled entirely, leaving a somewhat piratey looking stump and a wailing Margot. Primrose was sympathetic to a point but in the end, suggested I find a set of wind-up chattering teeth instead as there was no way that the tooth fairy was going to replace it!

Superstitions, old wives’ tales, single magpies and falling teeth aside, it turns out that Lady Luck might just be on our side though, dear Reader. Maybe just maybe….Jerry and I might have some good news about the cottage but superstitious as we are, to write it would be to jinx it! Perhaps, I should just put it all down to the velvety black beauty that crosses my path every morning?….

My dearest Lily, a little bit of homegrown luck!

Dearest Lily, our little bit of homegrown luck!

Off to find a farmhouse…

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Stevie. Uncle 'Money' you have a lot to answer for.

Stevie. Uncle ‘M’ – you have a lot to answer for.

February at last! I thought January and its dreary dank days would never disappear. Evicted from the cottage on a blissfully sunny but cold day, Jerry, Primrose, Poppy and I decided to start the search for our new home at long last. Having spent all week tidying and laying fires for estate agents to value our little house, we then had to decamp as viewings were organised within a few hours of instructing the agent. I filled the cottage with flowers, baked some croissants, lit a fire and hoovered and dusted furniture within an inch of its life. I have to admit that the dear old bricks and mortar looked rather wonderful and Jerry and I were almost ready to call the whole selling thing off. Sensing our indecision, Primrose promptly reminded us of the garden she is looking forward to having and the fact that we had promised her a bike and a puppy. It is amazing how one can be persuaded into giving a child anything in return for stopping what they are doing/listening to what one is saying/doing as they are told. Primrose has already talked me into parting with all my jewellery in some Faustian-style pact to stop her from singing (more like shouting) into the microphone on her electric keyboard (named Stevie, after Mr Wonder himself) as the demo track struts its jazzy/bluesy/pop/latino stuff in the background. No doubt, her lawyer-like negotiating skills will also see Jerry promising her a pony before long!

Setting off in the car, Jerry and I were excited at the prospect of discovering our dream house in the countryside. Nancy (sat nav) switched on and armed with particulars and addresses, we left the Big Smoke in our wellies and wax jackets. Dreams of Cranford, village pub lock-ins and helping out with the church flower arranging filled my head as we hurtled down the M3. Jerry contemplated his necessary commuter car purchase. To Land Rover Defender or not? That was the question. Nearing our destination yet miles from the nearest station, we soon realised that we were going to be visiting properties in completely the wrong place. Jerry’s daily commute would be ridiculously long and there was not a decent village in sight. At the brow of the hill, there it was. The farmhouse from the glossy brochure. Only one problem, it looked more akin to Cold Comfort Farm than delightful family home. Amazing what a wide-angled lens and some estate agent speak can do for a property. I imagined that at any point, a smouldering Seth Starkadder would walk out of the outbuildings, shirt half unbuttoned, hair ruffled and chewing a bit of straw. Second surprise: the land (2.2acres to be exact!) adjacent to the farmhouse seemed to populated with some rather hairy looking creatures which turned out to be llamas. Llamas…I ask you, dear Reader, who owns llamas and what on earth would one do with them? I know that their wool has graced many a jumper but honestly, why else would you keep them? Do they make good pets? They hardly seem the most affectionate of creatures. Had I missed something I wondered? Perhaps the secret to eternal youth was not the milk of asses after all as Cleopatra led us to believe. Perhaps those in the know, have been busy sipping cold glasses of llamas’ milk to keep their wrinkles at bay all this time? Whatever the answer, Jerry and I quickly dismissed the farmhouse out of hand, not even bothering to get out of the car and ringing the agent with a pathetic excuse. Our conclusions: too close to the road, an odd walk-through arrangement with bedrooms on the floorplan and in the middle of nowhere.

Our next viewing was a barn. Jerry and I have never been particularly keen on barn conversions as they tend to be too modern for our tastes and this one was no exception. I have to confess, dear Reader, that it did feel awfully strange poking around someone else’s home. I could imagine viewings being the ideal pastime for those with a penchant for nosiness! The barn reeked and seemed to be inhabited by a collector of old sewing machines, kitchen gadgets and Glade plug-ins. Oh dear, I thought. Another disappointment. At this rate, we would never find a house! We got back in the car, where Jerry spent the next half an hour testing out mobile phone signals as we drove along, talking of boosters and broadband dead zones.

Spring is coming!

The rest of the day passed with Jerry and I on tenterhooks, waiting for a call to tell us about the buyers who had been snooping around our cottage! Turned out that the viewings went rather well which left us in a state somewhere between panic and happiness! We decided on a walk in Morgaston Woods (one of favourite spots) to clear our heads. It sounds silly but a walk never fails to make us all feel uplifted. The first sighting of snowdrops filled me with cheer and the chilly air carried the promise of spring on its way. Everyone we passed smiled and wished us a good afternoon….unheard of in London and reminding us why we are turning our lives upside down to move! (I did wonder if they had taken one look at the matching Barbours, tweed and country hats and thought to themselves, “Typical blooming Londoners!” and were smiling in amusement rather than country friendliness)! We did stumble upon a fantastic den in the woods too. Primrose and Poppy were all set to move in! You never know dear Reader, we may need to….

Home sweet home?

No new dwelling to call home on the horizon, the only thing left was for the four of us to return home. We found that our dear little cottage was well and truly on the market when we came home – a ‘For Sale’ board had been put up in our absence! We did manage to lighten the mood though. What with, dear Reader?……..why a Farmhouse cake of course!

A farmhouse of sorts…!

Should you wish to bake your own farmhouse, here is the recipe! It was given to me by my dear godmother who is a whizz at all things teatime and makes the most amazing pork pies too!

12oz self raising flour

1 level tsp salt

2 tsp mixed spice

8oz caster sugar

12oz mixed dried fruit (glace cherries are fantastic as part of the mix)

grated rind and juice of 1 lemon

6oz margarine (Flora works best for this as it is easy to mix in: this is an occasion when butter won’t do!)

1/4 pint of milk

3 eggs (I use Burford Browns from Clarence Court as the yolks are very yellow and creamy)

Sieve together the dry ingredients first, except the fruit. Add all the others and mix together, first with a beater (you could put it all into the food processor) until thoroughly mixed then finish mixing lightly by hand. Pour into an 8inch cake tin which has been greased and lined. Bake on middle shelf at 150 degrees C for about 2 hours. Cool in the tin, then turn out onto a wire rack. Never lasts long in our house!

Out with the old….

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Enough books to start our own library!

What a week it has been, dear Reader. There has been so much to do in the cottage. Estate agents are descending on us for valuations and Jerry and I have been frantically trying to tidy and declutter so that the agents value the dear old building at more than 5p for lock, stock and barrel. 6 years we have lived here. Moving from the hustle, bustle and gritty urban life of an SE London post code to the serenity and predictably middle class suburbia on the edge of Richmond Park. In that time, the cottage has weathered many storms: Jerry’s beginner DIY skills, my obsession with green paint and not least the arrival of our fluffy prince Bertie, followed by our two little darlings, Primrose and Poppy. Its four walls have been the source of both great joy and terrible woe as one thing after another ceased to function as it was supposed to. Yet through all of that, it has remained one of my greatest loves. Indeed, it was love in the first place, Dear Reader, that caused me to purchase the ramshackle bricks and mortar we now call home. In a fit of impetuousness, I decided on first viewing to buy it. Jerry was on a stag weekend at the time and was ‘delighted’ when he received a phonecall from his wife saying that she had purchased a house! I saw the cottage, fell in love and made a foolish decision that left Jerry and I to pay the asking price even though the house was in need of considerable modernisation. When asked by the estate agent (and the vendor) whether I wanted to wait until my husband returned to make a formal offer, I glibly said “No, Jerry won’t mind!” Jerry has never let me forget that moment of rashness in the entire 6 years we have lived here! I have lived and breathed the house ever since from sourcing Victorian wallpapers to underpinning chimneys, converting the attic into a third bedroom, ripping out the 70s decor, installing a new kitchen (with a newborn Primrose in tow) and weeping every time the roof leaked and water poured through the ceiling and down the walls in the middle of the night. One can only say that the cottage has been a true labour of love. Jerry has, on numerous occasions, told me (through gritted teeth) that I would not be allowed to look at or buy houses alone in the future and that the only house he would consider living in now, would be a modern box. Interesting…as only a few days ago, I caught him trawling through properties on Rightmove which boasted period features and oak beams. However, I do feel an immense responsibility to prove to Jerry that all the time and effort spent on the cottage has been worth it and that someone as mad as Margot will fall in love with it, want to move straight in and make us a ludicrous offer!

Wondering if I could ever be parted from my beloved cottage, Jerry rather glibly imparted, “Buyers might not love your wallpaper as much as you do.” What a simply ridiculous notion! Well if they don’t love the wonders of Lewis&Wood wallpaper then they clearly do not have an eye for vintage beauty and I won’t be selling the house to them! Hmm. With all the tidying I missed the whooping excitement of a crisp clean blanket of snow. I felt a perfect winter Grinch as I watched others sledging down hills in the park, whilst I gave myself white blindness of a slightly different sort, painting the bay window. DIY capers continued into the weekend when Jerry and I used some tester pots to retouch areas in the kitchen and bathroom. Sadly for us (we saw the funny side only much later on) it turned out that the Farrow and Ball paint we thought we had used in the first place, did not match the little pots. Too late to do anything about it when one has painted a great big patch and could only tell the difference in pantones when newly painted area is bone dry….. Jerry and I spent a few hours mixing different F&B pots together until we finally reached the desired shade and then had to repaint the section all over again! More grumbling ensued.

Margot’s Lewis&Wood joy!

Onwards to the decluttering…… I have to confess to liking a little clutter so I knew that this part of the operation was going to be a challenge. Clean lines have never appealed and I hoard books as if I shall never see another again. Advice from the lovely Kirstie Allsop’s friend, Phil, on selling a property says that the key to a sale is to ‘declutter’ and ‘de-personalise’. Buyers want to imagine themselves in your house. Oh dear, I thought. Might have to box up most of our things in that case! “Don’t you like any of your things anymore, Mummy?”, asked a rather outraged Primrose, our resident magpie and lover of shiny pretty things, as she watched me taking things out of cupboards and ramming once loved items into black bin bags ready for the charity shop. Halfway through, even Jerry was concerned that I seemed to have cleared out half of my wardrobe and had decimated my herculean handbag collection. (I have always maintained that one needs a good handbag for every possible occasion! At last count, I had managed to collect in the region of fifty something…). Nevertheless, I was an unstoppable machine and in one weekend, 6 years of cottage life was streamlined and decluttered. Poppy did her very best to prevent the proceedings by throwing Primrose’s Mister Maker box onto the floor. Sequins, googly eyes and heaps of glitter spilled out onto the floor just as the vacuum cleaner had been returned to the under-stairs dungeon. I can’t repeat the language used but I am sure you can imagine, dear Reader!

For sale: One cottage covered in sequins and googly eyes. Toddler thrown in with purhcase.

For sale: One cottage covered in sequins and googly eyes. Toddler to be thrown in with purchase.

Hours of cleaning duty later and Jerry and I were more than ready for Gin o’clock! The realisation that we are selling up has set in. Surveying our handiwork, Jerry and I felt like our dear little cottage had been stripped bare. I wondered how on earth I was going to be able to keep the clutter at bay. Not least because in a fit of impatience, Jerry stuffed the last of the unhomed items (precariously balanced no doubt) behind a few cupboard doors! Let’s hope any potential buyers don’t feel the need to check out the storage…..

Snow now melted away, a new week dawns and for now, dear Reader, the sun is shining. The cottage is looking pristine. You will be pleased to hear that amidst all the clearing out, I did manage to find room for ONE new little purchase. A country hat. Well…..it was winking at me from its lonely spot in a shop window and I couldn’t possibly leave it behind. It was clearly a sign. Out with the old, in with the new as they say!

No19 on the list : Procure a stylish country hat. DONE!

A little ‘Tea’LC

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Winter blues? Margot puts the kettle on!

With ‘Blue Monday’ on 21st January fast approaching (allegedly the most depressing day in the calendar), I felt the need to gee myself up. ‘Blue Monday’, dreamed up by inventive holiday company marketers, is ‘thought’ to be the day that we all mourn the end of Christmas and New Year, realise that summer is oh so far away and start dreaming about booking a holiday! No such dreams in the cottage this week. Instead, a severe lack of sleep has plagued us. Poppy has been ill with tonsilitis and up most nights and to add to that, I have been overcome with anxiety over the enormity of organising our move to the countryside. Thoughts of finding a new job, selling the cottage and securing a new rural home have now become a priority and brought with them oppressive insomnia and bouts of furious midnight list scribbling! Worried that if I wasn’t careful with my evening nightcaps, I might have to change my name to ‘Ginny’, I sought solace in some old-fashioned herbal remedies.

Herbal remedies? I hear you ask. Really, Margot? I know dear Reader, sounds a little wacky. However, in my youth, I dabbled in all sorts including a range of unusual interests. I can only put this down to a furtive imagination and a tendency to become carried away with things. It is a well kept secret, dear Reader, that in my younger days, I was a little on the hippy side. I once encouraged Jerry to join me on a ‘pilgrimage’ to Tintagel Castle, a ruin on a craggy cliffside reported to be the legendary birthplace of King Arthur. Our ‘tour’ in a clapped out B reg VWPolo (Jemima, may she rest in car scrap peace) also took in the the tor and sights of Glastonbury on the way back. The idea was to explore the various mythical places linked to King Arthur and the isle of Avalon en route and immerse ourselves (just Margot on this one) in the mysticism of druidery. It didn’t sound quite as ‘mad as a bag of frogs’ at the time but it certainly does now, writing it. Tasselled flowery skirts and sheepskin jackets also featured heavily, with Tori Amos (the artist of choice for teenage girls), blasting from my ‘boom’box as I smoked cherry tobacco ‘rollies’. I seem to remember that around the same time I genuinely believed that I had a gift for reading tarot cards! It is at this point that I feel I should hang my grown up head in shame but I have to add that I wasn’t the only one to indulge in some retro hippy chic. Jerry did too! He had long hair, wore flares, played in a band (they were actually rather good) and read the bizarre poetry of The Doors’ rock god, Jim Morrison. Sporting a ‘City’ haircut and in his Savile Row suit, no one would EVER believe of it Jerry now! Photographic evidence of Jerry’s misspent youth remains hidden until such a time when it may be required for ransom or blackmail! Well, alongside wishing I was the reincarnation of a priestess of Avalon, all these efforts to be a teenage misfit happened to coincide with a curiosity in herbal remedies, which leads us back to the present day…..

Culpeper’s beautiful illustrations are such a treat.

Decluttering the cottage in preparation for estate agents, I uncovered a copy of the ancient herbal bible, Culpeper’s Complete Herbal written by the seventeeth century apothecary and physician, Thomas Culpeper, languishing half-forgotten on a bookshelf. Aside from cures for dropsy (hideous) and torments of the bowels (equally vile sounding), it does serve as a reminder of just how many modern remedies and medicines are based on old countryside knowledge of plants, herbs and hedgerows. The book houses the most wonderful illustrations of plants too. Funny how it has almost been forgotten that herbal remedies were once staple countryside medicines. How many times has one heard of using dock leaves to relieve nettle stings? The more I read old Culpeper though, the more I was completely sure that I should not put him to the test as concocting one of his tinctures with talk of ‘balancing humours’, felt a bit like dabbling in the black arts and a cauldron most certainly would be required for authenticity. Jerry would definitely not sanction the purchasing of a cauldron. Rather than reaching for a bottle of Nytol, I persevered with the herbal burble….where better to start than tea I thought? I adore the amber liquid and am a strictly black tea drinker. (Why would anyone want to add essence of cow to such a delightfully delicate tipple?) Surely, there must be a ‘tea’ out there that would serve as a ‘nerve tonic’? The benefits of some common garden herbs are already widely known: camomile (soothing, sleep inducing), lavender (antibacterial, relaxing, good for burns) and mint (eases stomach pain, good for digestion and can be used to perk up the senses). Teas or ’tisanes’ have been made to combat all manner of ailments for centuries so there must be some remedy out there to soothe my nerves and help me sleep!

So after some painstaking research and procurement of ingredients….here you are, dear Reader: Margot’s top 3 herbal tips for banishing those wintry blues!

Deliciously lemony and soothing

Lemon verbena tea

Lemon verbena has long been known for its soporific properties and thus aids a good night’s sleep. Good for indigestion and bloatedness too. To make a decent brew, use three to four leaves in a cup. Bruise the leaves with your fingers a little before pouring hot water over them. Leave to steep for a few minutes. The smell is deliciously heady with lemon and it tastes green and sharp. It is also the perfect cuppa for banishing winter blues as it is reported to be a natural antidepressant.

(I do have lemon verbena in the garden but sadly the plant was looking a little sorrowful under the recent blanket of white stuff – I turned to some dried leaves from Neal’s Yard Remedies for my evening cup instead. I am reliably informed that any reputable purveyor of teas will sell the leaves or indeed filled tea bags).

Warming and fragrant

Ginger tea

Not strictly a herb but definitely worth adding as its warming properties can heal a multitude of ailments from travel sickness to lifting one’s mood and banishing negative feelings. Packed with antioxidants, it makes the ideal thing for fighting winter bugs and boosting one’s immune system. To make ginger tea, cut a piece of ginger roughly the size of a couple of centimentres. Chop the ginger into fine slices or give it a bit of a bash with a pestle and mortar before adding to your pot or cup. Then boil over boiled water and allow to steep. Honey can be added to sweeten and a pinch of cinnamon can really make this tea zing with extra spice too.

Bath ‘tea’ bag

A good old-fashioned bath. Truly, this is cheating on the ‘tea’ front but it really works if one is feeling a little frazzled. The latest Country Life, steaming hot water and a bath ‘tea’ bag can have you feeling ready for Bedfordshire in no time. To make your bath tea bag, take a piece of muslin cloth and cut into a smallish square. Fill the square with some oats (porridge oats are fine for this), add a teaspoon of lavender flowers to this (a couple of drops of lavender essential oil onto the oats will do the job just as well) and tie up the bag with a little string. Hang over the tap so that the hot water passes through the bag as the bath is drawn. The oats are moisturising and will soothe dry, irritated skin whilst the lavender relaxes and calms the nerves.

All this talk of tea prompted me to pop the kettle on and pour myself a restorative cup. Whilst I was at it, I thought of another old countryside pastime I could take up: reading tea leaves. Now where did I put that sheepskin jacket….?

I wonder what the future holds…….

Margot Tries the Good Life

A chronicle of the transformation from self-confessed townie to country bumpkin

Author Archives: admin

The grass is always greener

Old wives and black cats

Off to find a farmhouse…

Out with the old….

A little ‘Tea’LC