Tag Archives: countryside

A little wobble

A wibbly wobbly mess…..

Making a mad dash from London to Hampshire for a meeting at Primrose’s new school one evening last week, I had one precious hour in the car to contemplate life, the universe and new kitchens. Having sold our house in the Big Smoke, we are waiting for solicitors to let us know when all is set with the new ‘cottage’. Moving is tantalisingly close now yet still we are in limbo. Patience I know, dear Reader, is required…. However, I am ready to get packing and start carving up kitchen cabinets and fitting an Everhot! Bombing down the M3 with music blaring, I was lost in these very thoughts as I passed field upon field of glorious oil seed rape all sunshine and dayglow yellow in the evening light.

Turning off the motorway, driving through windy lanes and then up the long school driveway, I wondered what Primrose’s new school might have in store for me that evening. Stepping into a room filled with exceptionally well turned out mummies, I quickly breathed a sigh of relief that I had decided to leave my Barbour in the car. Thank goodness I had also dusted the cobwebs off my Portobello Market ‘Mulberry‘ handbag. Where were the ladies in wellies and tweed? This was, after all, a countryside school. A sea of double barrelled surnames rather than shotguns….I felt cheated, dear Reader. Talk turned to our relocation, choice of village and profession and I felt instantly sidelined – a ‘townie’ in their midst. What was I doing? I was never going to fit in in the countryside if these über-mums were anything to go by. Everyone seemed to live within ten minutes of the school and they all knew each other in that rather annoying “Do you remember when little Johnny did such and such at the May day fair?“. It was like being on the set of Mean Girls. Where was the industrial sized gin when I needed it?! Suddenly I could see that our school run of 25mins each way would probably result in no one wanting to come and play with Primrose after school. Too late to do anything about it now though…..as we were about to exchange on our new house and Jerry was set on living a 15 minute drive away from the best commuter station. I drove back to London and went straight to bed, convinced that moving to the countryside was all a massive mistake.

‘Walking is Man’s best medicine’ – Hippocrates

To make matters worse, Primrose had her own wobble the following morning and decided that she wasn’t going to move. Tears and wailing ensued and cries of “You and Daddy are very mean taking me from all my friends…” Our usual morning chit-chat was replaced with sniffs and blowing of noses as I tried gallantly to save the situation and talk up the advantages of having a bigger garden. Neither of us were convinced to be honest, dear Reader. Nursery drop off completed (tears at the door for the first time), I armed myself with strong coffee and the advice of some very sweet friends and headed off to the park with Poppy and the pup. Woodpeckers, bluebells, a serene herd of deer, giggly toddler and a happy hound…..amazing how a good walk and the sights and sounds of nature at its best can restore a troubled soul. Just enjoying moments looking, listening and being able to marvel at all the things which somehow the hustle and bustle doesn’t allow time for. The countryside makes you want to slow down, take stock and enjoy the simpler things in life, like a good walk. With that mantra firmly in hand, I decided that I was not going to let a little wobble about moving stand in our way, nor the cast of Mean Schoolmums either! Turned out that Primrose had had a change of heart too as she skipped out of the nursery doors with a drawing of our new house in Hampshire in her hand………and despite our little wobbles, we are both smiling about our new life in the countryside.

A little glimpse of how Primrose sees our future.

Primrose’s little glimpse into our future in the countryside!

Spots, feathers and fowl!

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Our indoory springtime!

Well what a week it has been! Just when I thought that things were settling back down to normal, Primrose, after weeks and weeks of exposure at nursery, finally contracted chickenpox! Spotty blisters all over her forced lockdown at the cottage and the girls and I tried to keep ourselves busy to help distract Primrose from feeling too itchy! A whole week in quarantine was not easy and we were on the verge of madness on several occasions. The girls and I painted, made egg box daffodils, constructed sets of Playmobil, baked and used a great deal of glitter and shiny sequins from Primrose’s Mister Maker box despite my innate control freakiness! Most strange……we are never THAT crafty in our house! Watching Primrose and Poppy playing really nicely together when they are usually at loggerheads over toys, I started to think that chickenpox had also delivered some sort of weird spell over the cottage. It was at this moment that I had a brainwave…. Perhaps it was listening to too much of Bob the Builder’s mantra (brainwashing as Jerry likes to call it) of ‘Reduce, Reuse, Recycle’ or perhaps I was having one of those Jack Nicholson in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest kind of moments, BUT I suddenly decided to test out my upholstery skills. I know, I know, dear Reader, upholstery skills! This, coming from the woman who was flummaxed for an hour when trying to set up her sewing machine, the same woman who made sewing on name tapes look like a marathon. To cut a long story short, my Chesterfield sofa has been losing feathers at an alarming rate and more than one dinner party guest has received an unwelcome pinch of the bottom so something had to be done and sooner rather than later! The plan: to make a new inside cover to stop the feathers from spilling it. A challenge but I thought that with my dear Mamma’s help, I might just be able to have a good go at it. Apparently it is never a good idea to attempt such things unless one has experience……..

I promise no chickens, ducks or geese were harmed in the mending of this cushion!

I don’t think that I have seen my lovely Mamma laugh for that long in some time! I have to admit it was very funny, dear Reader. The kitchen looked more like a chicken plucking factory than an upholsterers and at some point whilst I was sewing the seams on the new inside covers, my mother did question why I hadn’t paid the £80 to have them done professionally! I blame the Great British Sewing Bee for encouraging one and all to sew……let’s face it some of us just do not cut the mustard! A few hours later, some wonky lines of sewing courtesy of the machine (a bad workmen always blames his tools) and a lot of wheezing (turns out I had inhaled rather a lot of dander), my cushions were all sewn up and the cushions could go back on. Mission accomplished but I do think that if they go again, I might just take them to the shop up the road to have them properly upholstered! I can’t see the stitches holding for long…

Luckily for all at Margot and Jerry HQ, a phonecall from Barbara saved the house from further making do and mending inspired Margot moments! An offer to save us from chickenpox chaos, swapping spots for real chickens, freshly baked scones, scrumptious kitchen suppers and a dose of good old countryside air! Heaven! Weekends with Tom, Barbara and their darling boy are as restorative as a delicious cup of tea…..made in a teapot of course. (Barbara and I berrated Tom over breakfast for using a single teabag in a cup to make the morning brew – not at all the same!) Having introduced us to her new brood of hens, a rather attractive set of ladies, Primrose, Poppy and I were talking of henkeeping all the way home, much to Jerry’s bemusement! A wonderful way to end the Easter holidays.

Not a poxy spot in sight….

Primrose firmly on the mend, it turns out that Poppy has now caught the pox…. Another week of quarantine but at least we have the prospect of our new little chap to keep us going. Only another 3 more days until we bring him home! (Not at all overexcited, dear Reader….)!

Our sweet little Monty…counting down the hours now!

The grass is always greener

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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!

O Christmas tree, O Christmas tree

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Mr Tree!

Poppy turned 1 last week despite all of us muttering disbelief of how the time has flown by! Our little seedling has grown up and is blossoming into quite a feisty young flower! (Dear Reader, it would be quite unfair of you to even mutter quietly that perhaps she takes after her mother. A ridiculous notion! It is all down to her auburn locks)! With birthday festivities over, Jerry finally allowed me to open the doors to Christmas. Until now, it had been incredibly hard to resist eating mince pies and glugging back the mulled wine but with all the crumbs from the second birthday cake gone (carrot – and not too much of a disaster this time, although, I did burn my hand whilst pouring over the hot honey) we could turn our attentions to the most important job of all. The Tree! In celebration of our ‘better late than never’ embracing of Christmas, we all traipsed off to our greengrocer which doubles up as a provider of Nordman firs this time of year. I will confess, dear Reader, that I adore Christmas trees. The smell, the lights, the drinking of sloe gin whilst dressing it with decorations… What could be more festive than the smell of the dear old fir tree! Evergreens are part of the fabric of Christmas as we know it now but it wasn’t always so. Made fashionable by Queen Victoria, it was good old Albert who introduced the idea from his native Germany. The Germans had been decorating trees for years before we started! Our traditional English Christmas staple, the kissing bush, was the fir’s precursor and was created with mistletoe and decorated with lit candles. Of course, the ever faithful holly and ivy also adorned the balustrades of country homes long before the humble Christmas tree ever became a la mode. With this image of country house Christmases in mind, I set to work on creating the perfect Mr Tree! A darling little tree chosen, paved the way for the age old debate of the lights, which dear Reader, you may remember that I have already mentioned: flashing coloured lights (Jerry’s particular tacky penchant) or tasteful tiny white globes twinkling in the low level light of the cottage (Margot’s choice). Needless to say I actually won the battle this year! Ha! My success all came down to Primrose, who was desperate to take over the reins of the delicate art of tree dressing. I soon realised that there could only be one master of Mr Tree! I had to physically restrain myself as Primrose set about lavishing baubles and trinkets on the tree with no particular theme in mind, other than MORE is MORE. Usually, I decorate the tree with fascisti tendencies, approving the placement of each one. Not this year…Primrose bulldozed right through my control freak decoration placement and even added her own homemade touches so that Mr Tree was complete with a homemade bell made from a sawn off litre bottle (I struggled with the tastefulness of that one). I noticed, with some glee I might add, that my tree decorating fascism had definitely not skipped a generation as I listened to Primrose berating Poppy for moving one of her carefully placed birds! I love rediscovering all the boxes with neatly packed trinkets. 1 new decoration each year ensures that we have always have a story to impart about how it was found and that particular Christmas. Primrose and I love our Christmas quest. My old favourite is a little boy with a bobbled hat (press the bobble and he pokes out his tongue)! He belongs to a Christmas in the ’80s spent in Cologne and is on loan from my Mamma. This year’s additions are a rather wonderful couple, the Sugar Plum Fairy and Soldier doll from the Nutcracker. I found them hiding in a corner of the Royal Ballet’s shop when my lovely friend, Jasper, and I were at the Opera and I simply couldn’t resist!

Our Sugar Plum fairy

The family tree dressing ceremony over, I set off to find some holly for the cottage staircase. Countryside tradition dictates that holly is hung in farmhouses and cowsheds alike to bring good luck. An age old tradition, the Romans used to give sprigs to signify lasting friendship and blessings for the year to come. You can just imagine the face of the Roman nobleman who received a prickly offering as his Secret Santa rather than an amphora of wine at the Forum’s annual Saturnalia shindig. One of the best countryside traditions I stumbled across this week, was indeed about the marriage of holly and ivy. Holly with its prickly edges and robust berries was thought to be a sign of masculinity and ivy with its ability to entwine other plants and cling to things was thought to represent femininity. Together they were brought into a farmhouse on Christmas Eve (and not before) to symbolise the coming together of kin and to ensure a happy family life for the new year. All the earlier talk of Sugar Plum fairies had given me an idea on how best to welcome in the good luck with touches of evergreen. Thumbing through some old culinary tomes, I found an excellent way to give those prickly leaves that snowy Christmas look for our Christmas cake! Ever resourceful Mrs Beeton (Book of Household Management, 1851) suggests that one ‘frosts’ the leaves: dry out any moisture, coat with ‘oiled butter’ (I used a smattering of melted butter for this one) and ‘coarse powdered sugar’ (granulated will do. Although caster did look better). Leave to dry by the fire.

Adding one last touch to our beautifully dressed fir, Primrose made me promise that I would leave a shoe under Mr Tree. She told me that Father Christmas will see my shoe, know I am a girl and leave the right presents behind. So…..never one to part with tradition, I followed her instructions to the letter and have placed a festive green velvet number from LK Bennett under the tree. Father Christmas will definitely make his judgement on what sort of girl I am with that one! That in mind, he may just leave me the keys to my very own Georgian rectory complete with holly adorned balustrades and a 12 ft Christmas tree in the Hall. Wishful thinking I know, dear Reader but I had had a large snip of sloe gin by that point and had been pouring over the glossy pages of this year’s Christmas double issue of Country Life. I may also have been just a wee bit tinky tonk too…..but don’t tell Father Christmas!

Please leave something fabulous Father Christmas! Margot has been very good this year.

Margot Tries the Good Life

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