A moment on the lips...

.....a lifetime on the hips. This was not a size zero situation.

Rarely has so much whipped cream been seen in the same place at any one time - the tables at Marton Village Hall bowed under the weight of puddings of every description. Fruit and chocolate nestled 'midst cake and pastry. And cream, lashings of it; piped, plastered and poured. No room for dairy intolerance here. A cookery demonstration was the latest Village Hall fund raising effort. Chef Peter Gartell from the Sun Inn in Marton cooked pigeon breast, venison and a number of accompanying sauces - plum, cherry, chestnut and shallot. All of which, I'm delighted to say, we could run up at home. They tasted delicious too.

The audience were keen to taste everything Peter prepared. I was surprised how many of these country women, many of them wives of farmers, gamekeepers and shots were unfamiliar with game and more than a little suspicious of the humble pigeon. It's good and lean - what's more it's abundant and cheap.

The cooking over, and with lips licked the audience could get interactive with the puddings - for some surely the highpoint of the evening. Bowls were piled high, try one or two or more - there's room for a profiterole on top. In true Village Hall fashion cups of tea were available but Maureen on the Bar seemed to be doing a roaring trade too. Belts were eased out a notch as we made our way home. Plenty of time to detox and diet tomorrow.

PS We're so lucky to have a chef like Peter almost on our doorstep. Don't all rush at once to get a table.......

The Currant

Come on, how many of you ever give more than a passing thought to the humble currant? Very few I imagine. The eager beavers at the Currant Marketing Board obviously have their work cut out to raise the profile of this most inconspicuous of dried fruits.

But what's this? A book in praise of the currant, that's what. Apparently it was something of a latter day super food and recommended by eminent physicians and analysts. The late Sir WM Gull, the great Physician always advised his patients when on a long journey to carry with them a Plum Pudding, and no less an authority than Sir Francis Laking the (late) King's Physician noted that 'many are the ways in which currants can enter into daily use in the household, with great advantage to health and pocket.'

















The virtues of this little dried grape are extolled and a tour through Greek Currant country recommended. It is a trip not to be despised by travellers - not least because of the light-hearted, picturesquely-garbed Grecian peasantry, to whom the currant harvest is is the crowning of the year, and whose cheerfulness and courtesy is legendary. Don't even think for one moment that those cheery smiles might be sniggers of derision at a whey-faced, Plum Pudding toting Englishman abroad....

This little treasure fetched up in a pile of papers at Harry Tuffin's Car Boot Sale at Churchstoke this morning. As Car Boots go it must be one of the best - amongst the obilgatory plastic tat, old board games and gimcrackery nestle some real finds.

I'm off now to knock together a Nelson Pudding (requires currants) which I shall serve with currant sauce and a side order of currant fritters. It's 'hello' cleansed, enriched blood and clear, bright complexion and 'goodbye' waistline methinks.

A week on Paxos

Legend has it that around 2,000 years ago an Egyptian sailor, Thamus, when passing the island of Paxos was becalmed. In the ensuing stillness a voice, divine and thunderous, was heard to proclaim 3 times: 'The great god Pan is dead'. This news was greeted with much lamentation and marked the passing of the classical world. The genii of the sacred sites, the nymphs of the wild places, the fauns and satyrs and centaurs,and all wild things fell silent. The Lord of the Wood was dead, and the new king's domain not earth but heaven. Old Pan became Christianity's devil, be-horned half-man, half-goat.
It's a tale which always sends a shiver up my spine - not least because sometimes, in the silence of whichever wilderness, one wonders if these genii are not just waiting in the wings.

Paxos rises out of the blue Ionian, its eastern coastline broken by headlands and bays, while cliffs soar in the west. The island's gentle contours are blanketed with olive trees - a legacy of the occupying Venetians. The olive groves mask an unforgiving rugged and stony terrain which must be back-breakingly coaxed into production. Summer brings heat, drought and tourists. The cold winter months bring the olive harvest and rain to fill the cisterns. And fishing; year in, year out, there is the sea to harvest too.

It's hardly the archetypal playground of the gods but for a 21st century gal it's as fine a place as any to spend a week.

We arrived safely, with luggage intact despite Servisair's very best efforts to separate me from my suitcase. Yes, the case lying forlornly on the tarmac where it had fallen from the laden baggage truck as it hurtled towards the plane was mine. How our bus-load laughed as we came across it as we too hurtled plane-ward. We agreed it was a good job I'd not packed any eggs. Laugh? Liverpudlian humour is quite special isn't it?

Paxos had had rain earlier in the day - the first for many months - after a summer which has experienced heatwave after heatwave. The Paxiots were understandably quite pleased at this much needed contribution to the island's reservoir. We were less enthusiastic but decided it was good to be there anyway and pulled on sweaters. Cats' paws slapped on the dark sea, the sky was hung with cloud and over to the east the mountains of the mainland were in sharp relief. 24 hours later the storm had passed and all was well with our holiday world again.

We sat and basked in the sun. We sat and watched the world go by, met old friends and acknowledged small changes. The island bus took us from Loggos to Gaios and brought us back again. Small zephyrs flicked the pages of our holiday reading. Sigh.

We ate shaded by olive trees - lunch of calamari, whitebait and Greek Salad at Spiros' Kantina on Levrechio beach - surrounded by cats and an assortment of kittens. Erasmus, at 'Taverna o Gios', cooks a robust dinner: a chunk of octopus - to be dressed with a flick of vinegar, seasoning and the fragrant local oil - accompanied by chewy bread, crisp of crust, from the village oven. This might be followed by a slab of grilled meat or fish, or something 'from the oven' - a hearty 'stifado' or 'pie' more suited to a winter's day. Good island cooking this. Elsewhere may be daintier dishes but here is food to fuel body and soul.

In the 20 years we've known it, the island has changed. Of course it has. It is busier now, more prosperous. The donkey's have gone. More cars and scooters and visitors are in evidence. The old brightly painted fishing boats are gradually being replaced. Smart craft anchor in their place in the small harbour at Loggos. Land now changes hands for staggering sums of money and prestigious villas rise amongst the olives. Roads and facilities are better and, one suspects, so is the quality of life for the people of Paxos and who would deny them the right to enjoy the comforts and conveniences we take for granted? God forbid this place should turn into some Grecian themepark.

It is evolving gradually and if not gracefully, then very Greek-ly. The sunsets and sunrises are still, and ever will be, breathtakingly beautiful; the Paxiots and their landscape warm and welcoming. A week was just perfect. We'll be back.

Trek

Hands up anyone who, on hearing the words 'Beam me up Scotty'* didn't think, 'Hmm, good idea'?

As I thought - looks like a vote in favour.

I do travel hopefully and I am looking forward immensely to a week on a Greek island - but faced with the contents of the wardrobe, a suitcase straining at the seams and a flight leaving in the early hours, find myself wholeheartedly in favour of more R and D in the field of teleportation. Oh, the joy of finding myself in an instant on the picturesque quayside in Loggos, watching the sun go down over the Ionian, cool G and T to hand and lip. Dream on. The long and winding queue at Liverpool airport is a more realistic proposition.

Hens have been moved to fresh grass - in the hope they will concentrate on pecking the green sward and not each other. Plants watered, tomatoes picked, neighbours briefed. I've wiped, dusted and swept - even behind the dogs' beds - though gawd knows why, there's no one to appreciate my labours. Knickers and t shirts counted and cases packed. Dogs have gone to kennels - the brown one with a backward glance to break a husband's heart apparently. (Remember, he's a dog. Kennels is what dogs do. Don't even contemplate a dog on a Greek island - too many cats for a start...)

All being well, at this time tomorrow night we shall be tucked up in our Ionian apartment. I won't say 'comfortably' as Greek beds seem too closely related to planks of wood for that description, but we'll sleep well enough. Outside the sky will be clear, its blackness pierced by millions of twinkling stars. We will hear the suck and flow of the flat but restless sea through the open window. Tomorrow there will be olive groves to trail through, kalimari to nibble at Spiros' kantina on Levrechio beach and the prospect of a week's idleness ahead.

I'll be back before you know it. In the words of some Trekkie or other:
'things must come to an end!
May the Great Bird of the Galaxy bless your planet..."
Can't say fairer than that.

*For the sake of accuracy, Captain Kirk never actually said those immortal words - but that's another story.

From the Stiperstones

If you look long and hard - and it may help to do the click-click thingy on the image to enlarge it - it's just about possible to see where we live. (Should you want to of course.) About half way down the picture and running from the right hand side to about the centre is the Long Mountain, its eastern slopes basking in the afternoon sunshine. About halfway along this slope is the dark outline of Badnage Wood and nestled in its leftmost trees the little black and white St Mary's Church. Follow the hedge line down - imagine it continues from where it stops and you will find yourself, well, in our garden. I hope that's clear.

We found ourselves today with an eager 7 year old who can see the Stiperstones from his bedroom window, looking back from that ridge to see if we could see his bedroom. Great in theory but very hard to put into practice. From our vantage point on Manstone Rock we did our best to point out landmarks to him and guide his inexperienced eye along contours, woods and shapes to the place we call home. I'm not sure we succeeded but he seemed happy enough with the notion that 'here', in its boulder strewn vastness could be seen from 'there' - and that 'there' was over in the distance.

Such a wonderful day to be clambering over the Stiperstones - the craggy outcrop that runs roughly north to south between the Long Mountain and the Long Mynd - above us a clear blue sky with a handful of cartoon clouds. England spread below us to the east, and Wales to the west where today both Cader Idris and Snowdon were visible on the horizon. We scrambled along the rocky trail that links the massive quartzite tors; Nipstone, Cranberry, Manstone and Shepherds Rocks and the Devil's Chair. This trail is an ancient routeway and this is an ancient place. We looked down on other sites where man had made his mark in former times, leaving forts, cairns and circles - the enigmatic Mitchells Fold - and goodness knows what else beneath the soil in his wake. The 19th century's miners have come and gone, their predations now disguised by fields and trees. The landscape below is restored and pastoral once more.

We ate our picnic lunch - a jam sandwich (most yummy) and an apple, lodged amongst the stones, lounging in the sunshine and curiously comfortable. Our boy leapt and sprang amongst the heather and the rocks to emerge jammy faced and happy. It's back to school for him tomorrow so today was something of an end of holiday treat. For us all.

Here's my souvenir, a sprig of heather and a couple of stray feathers.

Send them Victoria's*

This tree came to us as a slim twiggy stick. I think we planted it sometime last spring. It's a Victoria Plum on a dwarf rootstock.

It is probably about as tall as I am - and like me won't get any taller. It is hung about with fruit - pounds - kilos, call the quantity what you will, there is a lot of it. This little tree looks like an illustration from a horticultural catalogue where the fruit has been added in Photoshop. This is for real. Trust me.


























Plums for tea. Sweet and juicy. Clafouti, jam, pickle and chutney. Suggestions please.

*Dilemma: Does Victoria's need an apostrophe or not? They are definitely plural but they don't necessarily belong to Victoria. But the plural of Victoria - 'Victorias' looked very odd. I suppose this is greengrocer territory so my bewilderment is understandable.....

Dottin' the T's and crossin' the I's.....

The dust's settled now. The display boards are back with their rightful owners and I've a pile of very informative panels looking for a home. We're looking back at a successful few days. The carrier bag of notes and assorted coinage has been counted (several times) and distributed (thank goodness). It no longer hides, furtively in the drawer of our dresser. We raised an astonishing sum of money - and as this was not the ambition we are both a bit dumbfounded. Expenses have been paid to everyone's satisfaction and we've given a donation to the organisers of the Flower Festival which ran at the same time - I guess this will go towards the on-going costs of maintaining the little church in the centre of the village - so next time you're driving through and spot a new bit of coping stone or slate, think on about the lung-fulls of spray mount I inhaled for the cause.

Food for Free

I've noticed that exhibitions come down with a good deal more speed than they go up. All the work's up front. Come closing time panels are demounted with a quick unzip of velcro. A clatter of boards folded, stacked and a-bundled into a trailer - which disappears with a squeal of tyres. The door's locked. The money is counted. Done and dusted.

Time on hands now. Ho hum, twiddling of thumbs....What to do next?

Well, with that time on my hands and little ambition, I went out in search of blackberries - brambles (call them what you will). This will be a good season for fruit - a benevolent spring, plenty of water and now a mellow autumn. Hawthorn, Hip, Rowan, Crab-apple and even Sloe are already much in evidence. There for the taking. Food for free.

A walk along our lane yielded 4lbs or so of fruit - that's 2kgs - with very little effort. The picking was slow and easy - with other pleasures, and time to think along the way. The sun shone and insects buzzed in the hedgerow. Overhead, and occasionally, a buzzard would mew or a raven 'gronk'. A scruffy flock of sheep grazed alongside the lane. Such solitude. A wonderful opportunity to see late summer flowers still colourful - honeysuckle creamy and pink, hard-heads and willow herb. Nettles now at their most fierce. Where brambles twine through the hedge, nettles stand guard below - the one to rip your elbow and the other to assault ankle and knee. And don't forget the briar roses too - if one thorn doesn't snag you, another one will. How like life is that?

The berries are now dripping through a jelly-bag - tomorrow I'll add sugar and boil up the fruity juice until the syrup turns to jelly. Three or four jars will be my reward - a taste of summer on the pantry shelf to spread on toast on a winter's day.

Marton Memories

Tomorrow we get the key to the Village Hall and tomorrow we make merry with display boards, pins and velcro. The working title 'Marton Memories' has been cast aside and 'Marton, the story of a Shropshire Village' opens the following day at 10.00am. All welcome. Please visit the Flower Festival at St Mark's Church, Marton, too.

I finished the mammoth task of mounting our material yesterday. Doreen has been chiefly responsible for ferreting out information - she has haunted the County Archives and cajoled anyone with a tale to tell. I have been the side-kick; Tonto to her Lone Ranger. Lewis/Morse. Something like that. We have gathered a fantastic amount of stuff - and even at the last minute it continued to pour in. 'Too late, too late' I cried, as drowning in a miasma of spray glue became a real possibility. We're both aware that there are a lot of areas left uncovered, things not done - but then, we do need something to move on to next....

Today has been the calm before the storm - R 'n R in the garden. And such a beautiful day it was too. A taste of summer at last.

At the end of the day picked the last of the peas to eat at supper. (Our veggies have been a dead loss this year - with the exception of the peas which we are still enjoying.) Alongside the edible peas are 3 wigwams of Sweet Peas, finally in bloom - probably only 6 weeks late. The air in that corner of the garden is filled with their scent.

On a whim I gather a huge bunch - they need picking to keep flowering I believe. I have fond memories of Sweet Peas in my childhood home. The same pastel colours - longer stemmed and arranged in a curious old pot - with catmint - nepetia. I still think it the perfect combination. I see them now on the glass-topped revolving bookcase that my mother put so much store by.

Sweet Peas were a favourite of my father, to be grown up canes as if for exhibition. My job was to pinch out tendrils and side shoots to encourage long stems and more blooms - if I were good I might put the rings round pea and cane. Such a responsible job for a small child. Then came the magic moment when, the plants having reached the top of the cane, they were released and brought down to lay along the ground so that the leading shoot could start up all over again. I'm not disciplined enough to do all that and my sweet peas grow sweet and higgledy-piggledy over whatever canes I've bound together. I love them so and none-the-less.

Fast-forward thirty years. We have all moved around a bit. I am now a wife and mother. My father is a widower. He still grows sweet peas. He lives in a little Yorkshire village, near Pickering. It's called Marton too. On visits to us across the Pennines he would, on arrival, pull from his bag a crumpled posy of sweet peas, picked that morning from the garden, still fragrant. For old times sake perhaps, a father's gift to his child. Because I loved them so.

Those are my other Marton memories.

What a beautiful day

Blue skies and butterflies.

Fig

Here grows grass and herbage in variety. Tender exotics favour more sheltered crannies - here on the top, trees adopt a braced posture against the winds that holler in from up the valley.

Today the top of a (low) Welsh mountain yielded a fig. Soft and ripe, ready to be photographed as lasting proof of its existence - or even eaten perhaps. Now what did it taste like? I can't be certain. This was the last I saw of it:
















That dog will eat almost anything.

The Fallen. And the Demolished

I think I am under influence of spray glue. It hangs heavily in the air.

The project proceeds. The village has progressed from boggy hollow with attendant Iron Age finds, via tithes and enclosures, railways and dams that never were, to 'Within Living Memory'.

I'm just compiling a sheet entitled 'Lest We Forget' as someone has been industrious enough to research the names on the village war memorial. All is neatly aligned; the names and details of the 9 who fell in the conflict (WAR damn it) of 1914-18 and the 1 man who lost his life in 1940. Euphemisms. All euphemisms.

I have 2 fading photographs to place, tenderly, alongside these names. Such handsome young men sent marching from the shires, caught forever by the camera's eye. Harry Oliver the shopkeepers' son and 22 years later, John Evans from Woodmoor - 20 years old when he died - 'missing in action'. Boys, both of them, really.






'Had he the choice of his end - he would have chosen - as he has done - that of giving all for his country.' Here I quote from the commanding officer's letter of consolation to the grieving Mr and Mrs Evans. How I wish I believed that: 'The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori.'



I'm going to move on now, as the world moves on - and with only a slightly moistened eye - to make sense of a jumble of information about the Lowfield Pub which has made its mark in the story of Marton by being demolished.











As I write it is rising again, phoenix-like in its old footprint and pretty soon it'll be business as usual....plus ça change.

Apart

Weaning. Doesn't it sound like the most peaceful of things? All part of growing up for man and beast. Memories stir of sweet mush; love, licks and cuddles proffered.........

Tell that to the sheep which until yesterday grazed peacefully on the rag-end of pasture hereabouts.

Suddenly, a whoop, a whistle and a dog had ewes to the left and lambs to the right. The lane which held the divided flock apart was loud with the anguished bleats and bawls that marked their separation. Ewes, shorn and run-ragged stood stamping on the little hill beyond while their great bewildered woolly lambs clustered in a gate a field away. The noise. The terrible heart rending sound of yearning. That's it. Apart. Forever.

They'll gradually drift away up the fields, ewes and lambs - milk will be but a memory. A few days grace and those stocky, and now independent, lambs will be on the way to our tables.

It doesn't do to dwell on on all this too much. I am a mother and it will break my heart if I let it.

'It's got to be done' says Heather. 'It's got to be done.'

And yes, I think I agree.

How to explain?

If I imagine my brain is like a bit of skirting board (bear with me on this one...) then the bit over there by the door has got an annoying itsy Tom 'n Gerryesque mousehole in it - and the most annoying thing is, it's getting bigger by the day. Not satisfactory. Keeping with the same analogy I think the rest of the skirting board is fine - the bit behind the sideboard has a cosy layer of dust and dross and most of the bits on show are wiped and clean. Ce la vie n'est ce pas?

This blog is in need of a little light relief - so here are 'The Happy Snappy Girls'.
Who were they? I don't know. You tell me.

This 'mousehole' is the village history project. It is to be an exhibition and it has a deadline. It will not be a grand thing, more a work in progress - but this does not stop me from hauling out rusty graphic skills to make it coherant, visually interesting and professional looking. My co-conspirator, Doreen has been the driving force in retrieving information - of which we have reams, tapes, files and albums. I am slowly working my way through presenting them - remembering that people like pictures, line lengths should not be too long and Always Check Facts. So far so good.

However, daily, essential extra facts and pictures come winging my way. Small and vital in the scheme of things, but where will they go, this rushing tide of 'faces and places and things'?

That said, a large chunk of the village's history is now neatly displayed and today, because it was a tidy package, I moved on to more recent times and organised 'The Fallen'. If I look over my shoulder I see much more waiting in the wings.....so much information, pictures and words...still to do. It is slightly worrying. I am not panicking yet.

Just a slight frisson of unease........eeek!