Category Archives: Country Sense

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!

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!

Walk on the wild side

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Could this be Cock Robin?

Wildlife is not usually something that I boast about in our suburban garden but this week we seem to have taken a leaf out of Lou Reed’s songbook. Foxes scampering along the back wall, sightings of squirrels and then something which has had the girls and I glued to the window for days now. On a grey and dismal January day, Primrose, Poppy and I whooped with delight at the darting flashes of crimson which we spied as we consumed our porridgey breakfast at the kitchen table. A sweet little pair of robins seem to be building a nest in Jerry’s shed. When I say ‘shed’, it could more accurately be described as a garden cupboard – far too close to the house, has to be opened by jimmying a booted foot towards the sky and has a dodgy door with panels which fall forward suddenly and forcefully, giving a mild concussion if one is not wise to their evil plan. One might say that it was a perfect nesting place for our red breasted lovebirds, not least because Jerry uses it but once a year when he makes us all clear the garden ready for firing up his barbecue. Something which he hasn’t done in at least 2 years I might add. However, dear Reader, I am sure you can imagine that Jerry was none to pleased to hear about our feathered friends’ choice of shelter. The phrase “It’s my shed. They should find their own”, was used and comparisons were drawn with recent evictions at Dale Farm. To be honest (and I must confess to never having shown much interest in birds other than as food) the whole thing has been rather fascinating. Primrose has taken to sketching them and Poppy, SW London’s mini Dr Doolittle, stands by the window, talking away and the dear little birds seem to obligingly tweet back. I wonder if she has let them know that her father would rather that they moved on?.. We now have a makeshift hide (Primrose has erected a mini tent by the door) for ‘RobinWatch’ and we observe as both Mr and Mrs R take turns sitting on the back door handle, chirping away and showing us their nesting materials! After rather a hot debate with both Jerry and my dear Mamma, I delved into some research on how to identify male from female. I was ‘surprised’ (and smug as I was almost entirely sure I was right in the first place!) to find out that both Mr and Mrs have a vibrant red breast and according to the RSPB, are almost identical. There was some talk of V shaped breasts for females and U shapes for males but I gave up in the end as the website kept churning out irritating birdcalls. Ooh with all the birdwatching shenanigans, dear Reader, I felt like Michaela Strachan poised to turn to camera and utter commentary in a hushed whisper as Primrose, Poppy and I waited for the daily to-ing and fro-ing from the shed to begin every morning. I half imagined our little cottage garden appearing on ‘SpringWatch’ with Chris Packham’s lispy banter in the background and me in the foreground, sporting my best kaftan……..”and now we turn to a little corner of SW London where Margot, our rather glamourous naturalist, awaits ready to talk us through the daily habits of a pair of robins nesting in her outdoor cupboard, sometimes known as a shed”…. (Dear Reader, as I wrote naturalist, I had to just double check that I wasn’t accidentally misrepresenting myself as one of those nudist fellows. Apparently, they go by the name of ‘naturists’. Very confusing. One can see how an unsuspecting birdwatcher might become entangled in a rather embarrassing scandal if they got that one wrong on the way to a nature reserve).

Primrose’s observational drawing – rather good I think!

Bitten by the birdwatching bug, I took Primrose and Poppy on a little jaunt to the London Wetlands Centre. A Twitchers’ haven – I am reliably informed. This was quickly evidenced by sightings of several anorak types with binoculars, consulting notebooks and wearing those stomping Gore-tex boots. Far too much breathable fabric for my liking. The river and reedbeds did not disappoint, however. I cannot think of the last time I experienced such tranquility outside of the countryside. Not one single distinguishable sound could be detected that would give away the hubbub of daily grind in the Big Smoke from the other side of the river bank. Primrose, Poppy and I sat in a hide, mesmerised and rendered silent. A rarity for all three of us I can assure you, dear Reader. Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows came to mind and I was overcome with the memory of many meandering river walks that were the reason Jerry and I moved to this little corner of suburbia in the first place some 6 years ago.

“By the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.” (The Wind in the Willows, Chp 1 by Kenneth Grahame)

A tiny slice of quiet in a corner of SW London – who would have thought it?

Primrose ended the silence first with “You promised me a hot chocolate, Mummy”, which of course I had (Primrose is never wrong. Wonder where she gets that from?), so off we trotted. Mole and Ratty were not to be found bobbing along the bank but we did manage to catch a glimpse of a family of otters who have a permanent ‘holt’ at the Wetlands Centre.

Messing about on the river…

On the way home, Primrose and I speculated about creatures we might encounter in our new country garden. Primrose is desperate to meet her first ‘hedgepig’ and I have never seen a badger. Poppy delights in all manner of wildlife from a ‘squiggle’ to a ‘tweet’ and will, no doubt, find some way of communing with anything that lives at the bottom of the garden! For now though, we must all be content with watching the robins and their resplendent vermillion. Hating to disappoint my darling girls, I simply couldn’t resist creating a spiky friend for Primrose and Poppy at suppertime. Do not worry dear Reader, I do know how to identify a real hedgehog but everyone knows that the only hedgehogs around these parts look like this!

Mango anyone?

Margot’s New Year’s resolutions

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Not burning the candle at both ends…..

Happy New Year to you dear Reader! Rather unlike the whizz bang kaleidoscope of colour that was the spectacular fireworks display in London, 2013 limped in with a little whimper for dear Jerry and I. Our New Year jaunt to Tom and Barbara’s ended with illness and midnight arrived with all of us (plus 3 small babes) in bed asleep with various ailments. Sadly, on this occasion, I can’t even blame the sloe gin fizzes for my lack of stamina! Jerry agreed that maybe with 2 children in tow, we were just getting too old to ring in the New Year with the same alacrity as seen in previous years. I spent the wee small hours of 2013 trying to console a snotty and very teary Poppy before lying awake thinking of how much I had to get on with this year! Find job, sell house, up sticks and move to rural idyll……..

In true Margot style, I thought that the only way to prepare myself for all this change was to write a list. A list of things to do in 2013…resolutions of sorts. I found the perfect starting point for the forthcoming year. Thank you dear Country Life! Yet again, you saved my bacon, so to speak! Originally published as Country Life’s pick of essential skills for our nation’s youth, the full list of Country Life’s 39 steps to a Better Life can be found here. Indeed, I was very surprised to see that I had accomplished a few already! Although, I am not sure I would call my completion of no.24 a 10 shot rally…more Margot struggling to keep a volley going! Here are some of the rejects which didn’t make it onto my list of 2013 to-dos!

~~1. Cook three different dinner party menus~~ (Margot’s weekly kitchen rituals are all about dinner parties – so this one is too easy peasy to add to the list)
~~3. Play a musical instrument, even if it’s just the tom-toms or a mouth organ~~ (I can strike this one off as I can tinkle the ivories in a passable fashion and I did once play the cello reasonably well)
~~6. Talk about five classics of English literature with authority and passion~~ (I could bore you to death, dear Reader, with my love of Milton’s Paradise Lost, Forster’s Howards End, Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden, Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway and of course, almost anything by Jilly Cooper…)
~~12. Taste the difference between Sauvignon Blanc and Chardonnay and know how to mix a mojito or margarita~~ (This formed part of Margot’s basic training years ago)
~~17. Sail a boat across the Solent~~ (Accomplished with several layers of sailing gear and the help of Jerry’s family)
~~19. Tell the difference between Gothic, Baroque and Palladian architecture~~ (Thank you National Trust. Without you, I might have had to delve into Architecture for Dummies)
~~24. Sustain a 10-shot rally at tennis~~ (as I said more terror at missing a shot than rally)
~~26. Perform three good card tricks~~ (I’m not sure cheating at Gin Rummy should count for this)
~~30. Uncork and pour a bottle of Champagne~~ (Oh dear Reader, if one hasn’t managed this one by 32, then one hasn’t lived)!
~~32. Amuse small children for at least an hour with magic tricks and storytelling~~ (That is precisely what I went into teaching to do)

After much debating, some help from Jerry and taking into account the splendid advice from Country Life, here is Margot’s top 20 list of things to do in 2013:

One of Margot’s top views for 2013!

Ride a horse
Grow my own vegetables from seed and dig a vegetable garden from scratch
Identify a hawthorn from a hazel and try not to poison the family when selecting edible flowers/plants using my new River Cottage Hedgerow book
Learn how to handle a shotgun, shoot a clay, skin a rabbit and go hunting with hawks
Cycle 5 miles along a river, repair a bicycle puncture and fix the chain (might help to learn how to ride a bicycle FIRST! Yes, I really can’t ride a bicycle…)
Attempt basic DIY skills such as putting up a shelf and changing a plug
Learn how to light an AGA and cook on it
Build a bonfire
Use sewing machine to make a dress
Go glamping with Poppy and Primrose
Walk MY OWN dog
Attend a henkeeping course
Make my own cheese
Brew a pint of homemade beer with Jerry (Jerry’s secret desire is to run his own micro brewery)
Meet a real farmer
Catch a fish
Bake a decent loaf of bread (I am now armed with a very good recipe from dear Mr Blackbird of Blackbird Bread)
Knit a tea cosy
Procure a stylish country hat
FINALLY move into my own farmhouse complete with Aga, log fires, beams (and prerequisite spiders), HUGE garden and views of open fields.

Jerry wouldn’t let me add: ’21. Rear pigs and make my own bacon’. Disappointing. I thought that I might be quite good at keeping livestock. I had also mentioned chickens and ducks – both of which were given the big veto by Jerry. Spoilsport. In the meantime, I have already made a start on the list….dear Mamma bought me a knitting kit for children aged 8 years and up. Well dear Reader, I had to start somewhere……

Tea cosy anyone?

Margot Tries the Good Life

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

Category Archives: Country Sense

The grass is always greener

Old wives and black cats

Out with the old….

Walk on the wild side

Margot’s New Year’s resolutions